AN: This is the sequel to my story "The Chameleon". Please go and read that one first. It is not very long, just 3 chapters but it gives you all the backstory to this one.

If you've already done so: Welcome back! I've debated with myself for a while whether to even post this. Moon Knight is a young fandom, at least for those not following comics, only the MCU and I have literally zero readers/reviews on "The Chameleon". Everyone seems to only use AO3 these days (where I have also posted this and reached more people). I can understand why, has been kinda swarmed with bots... On that note, please don't PM me for art commissions, and don't fall for scams if you've received those messages either!

Reviews make me very happy but it is thoroughly disappointing to see a message pop up about a new review only to find someone is after my money. So please only comment if you've actually read my story.

Enough of me, now off we go!

Summary:

David is one of four alters that make up the Moon Knight system, lead my Marc Spector. David is still stuck in his fantasy of everything around him being a virtual reality game and no matter what he does, Jake can't convince him otherwise. And he really does need David's help to hide himself from Marc and Steven, especially now, post-Ammit mission, when he is the only one still wearing the cape of Moon Knight. At the same time, after moving to New York City, Marc is trying to rebuild his relationship with Layla. Steven has got it in his head that he deserves a dating life of his own and is developing a budding romance with one Maybelle Parker. And Jake has to discover that New York is teeming with other heroes, such as the annoying Spider-Man, who takes offense at all the dead bodies he leaves lying around. Throw in yet another evil Egyptian god trying to make the zombie apocalypse a thing and David and his boys have their work cut out for them!

XxX

Prolog

Grayson Blackwell stood at the wide, polished windows of his penthouse study, staring down at the city below. New York stretched out in an endless maze of steel and glass, bathed in the soft orange glow of the setting sun. His sleek black suit clung to his broad frame, his silver hair neatly combed, and his sharp features etched with the kind of cold calculation that had earned him both reverence and fear in boardrooms around the world. A rich man—an empire builder—who'd clawed his way to the top, fuelled by a relentless drive and a ruthlessness that had broken more than a few people in his wake.

The study reflected his success. It was a space that oozed wealth and power. High-end leather chairs sat before a grand desk made from polished mahogany, with expensive art adorning the walls, some modern, some ancient. Floor-to-ceiling shelves lined the walls, filled with books on geopolitics, economics and history, with a few curiosities from his travels sprinkled in. In one corner, a globe rested on a solid marble base, next to a velvet chair where he occasionally entertained the rare visitor who was allowed into his world. But tonight, there was no one. Only the quiet hum of the city below and the clinking of ice as he stirred his glass of scotch.

A knock at the door disrupted his thoughts.

He didn't look up immediately, but the air in the room seemed to shift as two large men entered, dressed in black suits, their faces blank, their eyes hard. The men were a part of the world Grayson had long grown accustomed to—muscle for hire, nothing more. They held a thin wooden box between them, and Grayson's pulse quickened, despite himself.

"It has arrived?" he asked, his voice low and steady, with a trace of impatience.

One of the goons nodded and placed the box on the desk with deliberate care. It was unadorned, nothing special about it at all, except for the aura it carried—a sense of mystery, of dread. Grayson's fingers trembled as he reached for it, feeling the months of years of obsession that had brought him here. The box was surprisingly light, but the moment he touched it, it felt like a conduit of power, like something older than the world itself.

The men stood, watching silently. One of them spoke, his tone flat.

"Payment?"

Grayson didn't hesitate. He reached into the drawer of his desk and pulled out a thick envelope, handing it over. The men didn't count it; they didn't need to. They were paid well enough to know that Grayson Blackwell didn't deal in small sums. He dealt in things far bigger than money. They took the envelope, nodded, and left without another word, leaving Grayson alone once again with the box.

His hands shook slightly as he opened it. Inside, nestled in velvet lining, lay the Staff of Anubis. It was a thing of ancient beauty, a tall, slender artefact made from pure gold. Its shaft was adorned with intricate hieroglyphs, worn smooth with age, but still legible to those who knew how to read them. At the top, an elaborate figure of a jackal-headed god rose from the staff, its eyes inset with tiny sapphires, a glint of blue flickering under the dim study lights.

He could feel the power in it, vibrating beneath his skin, calling to him.

Grayson closed his eyes for a moment, steadying himself. He had come this far. He had betrayed and blackmailed and hired murderers. All of it, for this one moment. And now, the staff was in his hands.

XxX

Downstairs, deep beneath the penthouse, was the hidden part of his world. Below the garage, hidden behind thick steel doors, was a cold chamber. Grayson descended the stairs slowly, his hand gripping the rail, his mind focused, his heart thundering with anticipation. He passed through a series of security measures, each more advanced than the last, and finally arrived at the chamber door.

The room inside was stark, clinical, and sterile. White walls, harsh fluorescent lights, and an icy chill that numbed the bones. On a steel table in the center lay his daughter: her small, fragile body still and pale under the cold light. She had been barely five years old when she died of leukemia. Her once rich, brown curls had fallen out, and the bright spark in her eyes had faded long ago. Little icy crystals adorned her eyelids. The room was her tomb, a silent, frozen memorial to the child he had lost.

Grayson's chest tightened as he approached the table, his hand resting on the cold metal, just inches from her still form. He swallowed hard.

His daughter, Lily. She had been his world, his one remaining tether after the death of his wife during childbirth. He had poured everything he had into saving her, but in the end, the disease had claimed her anyway.

His hand shook as he reached out, brushing her cold cheek. "I'm so sorry, baby," he whispered. "I couldn't save you."

Grief swallowed him whole, as it had for so many months now. But this... this was the last step. With the staff, he had a chance to bring her back. He had to believe it. He couldn't let go.

After a moment, he gathered himself. He pulled back the rug that covered the floor in front of her table and revealed a circle of hieroglyphs he had painted in red ink, with ancient symbols of death and resurrection. His hand brushed over them, tracing the lines as he knelt. His fingers trembled, but he held his composure.

The scrolls he'd translated from ancient Egyptian lay next to him. He retrieved one, reading the chant aloud in a voice barely more than a whisper, his words heavy with desperation. The translation was imperfect, but it didn't matter. Not now. The key was intent.

He raised the Staff of Anubis over the circle, his breath shallow, and slammed it down into the center of the glyphs. The ground trembled, and for a moment, there was only silence, a thick, oppressive silence. Grayson waited, heart pounding in his chest.

Then, with a low groan, the air in the room grew even colder. The lights flickered. Grayson's breath caught in his throat as Lily's body twitched.

For a moment, nothing happened. Then, slowly, almost imperceptibly, her eyes fluttered open. They were glassy, unfocused, a hollow reflection of the child he had lost. Her fingers twitched and clenched, her body jerking upright in a violent motion.

Grayson gasped, his chest swelling with triumph. She was alive. She was back.

But the moment of joy quickly turned to confusion as her mouth opened—though it wasn't her voice that came out. It was deep, gravelly, and somehow wrong.

"You fool…" the voice rumbled, echoing through the cold chamber. "You think you can bring the dead back with that trinket?"

Grayson's heart sank. The child before him was not Lily. Her body was still too stiff, her skin too cold, and the voice that came from her mouth was not his daughter's.

Anubis grinned, his eyes glowing in the dim light, the ancient god's cruel, mocking smile stretching across Lily's face.

"The staff is a tool, but it is not enough,"Anubis sneered, his voice dripping with malice. "You cannot command death without paying the true price."

Grayson's throat tightened. "I… I'll do anything. Please. Just give her back to me."

Anubis laughed, the sound a hollow, bone-chilling echo that filled the room. "To bring her back, you must release me from my prison," he said. "Only then will I grant you the resurrection you seek."

Grayson's eyes burned with desperation, but he nodded, the weight of his promise settling deep in his bones.

"I will do it. Whatever it takes."

Anubis's grin deepened, wicked and knowing, as he locked eyes with the broken man before him. "Good," he purred. "Then prepare yourself for what is to come…"

And in that moment, Grayson realized he had made a deal with something far darker than he could have ever imagined.