Devil of the Moon: Rex Dalton.
Natasha Romanoff had never heard that name before. She didn't know what it meant. But honestly, none of it mattered now.
Because at this very moment, she was the only one still breathing in a scene straight out of a nightmare.
Around her, everything was carnage. Some S.H.I.E.L.D. agents had been blown apart in an instant, their bodies reduced to nothing more than mangled flesh. Others had been flung into the air as if by invisible hands, their screams cut off as they vanished into the sky. If Natasha had to guess, they were now in low orbit, floating around with the U.S. satellites, never to return.
And the one responsible for it all?
He was standing there with perfect composure, not a drop of blood on him, his breathing calm, his face expressionless. Shawn didn't even seem mildly annoyed—he appeared almost bored. And that made him all the more terrifying.
The truth was, Shawn never sought out trouble. He was a demon, yes, but not one who thrived on chaos. His instincts leaned more toward self-preservation and peace. If nobody bothered him, he wouldn't lift a finger. Unfortunately for everyone involved, that peace was shattered the moment one agent dared to mutter something that struck a nerve:
"Zhongguo guy..."
Shawn's expression hadn't changed, but his heart hardened. That one remark was enough. Had that man kept his mouth shut, perhaps he would still be alive. Perhaps all of them would. But as fate would have it, the moment that slur left the agent's mouth, death followed swiftly behind it.
And death came not with a roar, but a thought.
With a single command from Shawn's mind, gravity twisted to his will. That was the ability he wielded—an absurd, absolute control over gravitational forces. He was the Devil of the Moon, and the head of the eight ancient demons, each more dangerous than the last. If he wished, he could call down the moon to crush the Earth in an instant.
Thankfully, he hadn't reached that level of irritation—yet.
Shawn turned his gaze to Natasha Romanoff, standing not far away. Moments earlier, she had been on his list of targets. She was part of the agency that had dared confront him. By all logic, she should be dead along with the rest. But Shawn didn't act purely on impulse. And when he looked at her, he saw more than just a spy.
He saw an opportunity.
Natasha wasn't just a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent. She was one of their top operatives, and a key member of the Avengers. While Shawn had little love for either group, he recognized the value in having someone like her under his control. If he wanted to continue living his peaceful life, free of interference, he needed insight—eyes and ears inside the organizations that loved meddling in the supernatural.
And Natasha Romanoff? She was perfect for the role.
Of course, that didn't mean she was going to cooperate. Which brought things to the next phase.
BANG!
Gunfire suddenly echoed across the empty lot.
Shawn didn't even blink. He looked casually at the air in front of him where the bullet now hovered, frozen mid-flight, completely neutralized. His eyes then drifted toward Natasha, who was shaking like a leaf, the smoking gun still trembling in her hand.
Terror gripped her features. She was a professional, trained in espionage, assassination, interrogation—but this was beyond anything she had ever encountered. She wasn't fighting a man. She was facing something ancient, monstrous... divine.
Shawn exhaled slowly and extended a hand. Without touching her, he pulled her forward, and Natasha flew toward him as if jerked by a massive invisible hook. She hovered, suspended mid-air, mere inches from his face.
And then he smiled.
"Don't worry," he said softly, but with a sinister calm. "I'm not going to kill you. You're far more useful alive."
His eyes changed—red and glowing like blood-soaked moons.
"Natasha Romanoff... from this moment on, I am your master."
"You will obey every command I give without question. You will live for me, act for me, and your every thought will revolve around serving me."
"Your life, your body, your soul... everything belongs to me now."
"I am your only master—" he leaned closer, voice a whisper of doom, "Devil of the Moon: Rex Dalton."
As his words settled into the air like a curse, Natasha's pupils dilated. Her irises flooded red, and her mind unraveled. Resistance faded. Her training, her memories, her allegiance—all submerged beneath an ocean of darkness. Her body went limp, her breathing slowed. She was no longer herself.
When her eyes cleared and turned back to their normal shade, the Natasha that once was—was gone. What remained was a puppet. A vessel. A spy no longer for S.H.I.E.L.D., but for her new master.
Shawn released her gently.
"Clean up this mess. Make sure no one from S.H.I.E.L.D. comes sniffing around the Mafia again."
His voice held no emotion. No gratitude. This was simply her task now. An order from her master.
Without another glance, Shawn turned and vanished.
By the time he returned to Gotham, it was deep into the night. The chaotic city, cloaked in its familiar shadows and choking smoke, felt almost like a breath of fresh air. For all its filth and crime, Gotham didn't pretend to be something it wasn't. Unlike the polished lies of S.H.I.E.L.D., Gotham was honest in its darkness.
Back at his modest psychiatric clinic, Shawn removed his coat and let the exhaustion from the day slip away. A new day waited, and with it came the same routine.
The next morning...
Wearing his white coat, Shawn resumed his identity as Dr. Shawn, Gotham's most unconventional psychiatrist. He had built a strange but loyal client base over the years—ranging from troubled teens to off-duty mobsters—and he took a strange pride in his work.
Today, though, business was quiet. A few walk-ins, nothing serious. Some depression here, some mild delusion there. Shawn let Harley handle them. She had studied under him long enough and was more than capable of handling the day-to-day head cases.
As the sun dipped low in the afternoon sky, Shawn glanced at the clock and considered knocking off early. Maybe take a stroll down Crime Alley for nostalgia's sake.
Just then, a car rolled up and parked quietly in front of the clinic.
A moment later, the door creaked open, and a man stumbled in. He was middle-aged, wearing a weathered trench coat and a wide-brimmed hat that obscured most of his face.
"Excuse me," the man called out in a gravelly voice, "Is Dr. Shawn here?"
Selina, who was handling the front desk, didn't even look up.
"Sorry. Dr. Shawn isn't seeing patients today. If it's urgent, Dr. Harley is available."
But the man shook his head frantically.
"No, no—I'm not here for her. I need Dr. Shawn. Only he can help me. Please… it's a matter of life and death."
The desperation in his voice caught Harley's attention as she stepped out from the backroom. She frowned, arms crossed.
She wasn't exactly pleased.
She might not have had Shawn's powers or experience, but she'd earned her reputation in Gotham. To be so blatantly dismissed?
Rude.
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