In the depths of the night, Cleo Hassan is ensnared within the confines of a restless sleep. Her body tosses and turns, a prisoner to the clutches of a nightmarish realm. The vivid visions that plague her mind paint a portrait of terror and despair, as an elusive deity, weaves a tapestry of torment. The God remains a specter, concealed in the shadows of Cleo's subconscious. They delight in toying with her fragile psyche, orchestrating a symphony of tricks and illusions that push her senses to the brink. The air becomes heavy with a pungent scent, the foul odor of wet dog that claws at her nostrils, sending waves of repulsion through her being.

Within the confines of the movie in her mind, reality distorts and contorts, mirroring the turmoil within her soul. Shadows writhe and whisper, taunting her with their sinister murmurs. Laughter, haunting and derisive, echoes in the distance, a cruel soundtrack to her deepest fears. The God revels in this malevolent theater, a conductor of her nightmares, pulling the strings of her consciousness. Cleo's grasp on sleep weakens, her subconscious pleading for release from this torment. Beads of perspiration dot her forehead, her body drenched in a cold sweat that mirrors the icy grip of fear.

Beside her lay Marc, who assumes control of the body as he wakes up to her tossing and turning in the bed. He can hear the faint sound of cries and whimpers, which pulls him out of his sleepy daze.

In the ethereal realm between wakefulness and dreams, Cleo's consciousness flickers, yearning for liberation from the clutches of her tormentor. And in this moment of vulnerability, Marc, attuned to her distress, reaches out to her, an anchor forged by their boundless love.

"Cleo," He murmurs, his voice a melodic reassurance that cuts through the chaos, "Come back to me, baby. You are not alone."

His words, like a soothing melody, penetrate the veil of her troubled mind, coaxing her back to the realm of reality. Cleo's eyes flutter open, adjusting to the dimly lit room. Marc's serene countenance fills her vision, his gaze brimming with concern and unwavering devotion.

"You're safe now," He whispers, his fingers tenderly brushing away a stray lock of hair from her perspiration-dampened brow, "It was just a nightmare, babe."

A shudder courses through Cleo's trembling frame as fragments of the nightmarish ordeal cling to her consciousness. The noxious stench of wet dog lingers, a phantom reminder of the God's sadistic game. She inhales deeply, seeking solace in the familiarity of Marc's presence, a sanctuary from the clutches of her torment. His voice, a lifeline, pulls Cleo further away from the nightmare's grasp. Gradually, she detaches herself from its clutches, feeling the tendrils of fear loosen their grip. Yet the residue of the God's malevolence still taints the air, a reminder of the battle waged within her subconscious.

The movies created within her mind are commonly frightening. She is no stranger to the realm of nightmares, though this one is... different. It bares a vague resemblance to those brought on by the amulet, yet holds a darker image, one tainted with death and despair.

As Cleo nestles closer to Marc, seeking refuge in his warmth, she becomes acutely aware of the lingering echoes of her torment. The room remains shrouded in an eerie stillness, as if the nightmare's presence still lingers in the shadows. A chill dances across her skin, sending a ripple of unease through her body. With a gentle touch, Marc intertwines his fingers with hers, his touch a lifeline anchoring her to the present.

"Breathe, Cleo," He whispers, his voice a soothing balm.

Following his guidance, Cleo draws in a slow, deep breath, allowing the air to fill her lungs. She holds it for a moment, feeling the tension build, and then releases it with a soft sigh. With each breath, she senses the lingering tendrils of fear dissipate, replaced by a renewed sense of peace. Marc's unwavering presence serves as a shield, protecting her from the lingering remnants of the nightmare.

But as the room gradually returns to stillness, a subtle shift in the atmosphere sends a shiver down Cleo's spine. Shadows appear to stretch and elongate, their forms morphing into grotesque shapes that flicker at the edge of her vision. The scent of wet dog, once again, permeates the air, intensifying the sense of unease that clings to her skin. Cleo is a woman of vast knowledge, one who holds many truths within her head. She was able to easily piece together the events with Ammit, but in this very moment finds her mind fresh as the day she was born, a blank slate as she's completely taken over by fear.

A creaking sound resonates through the room, drawing Cleo's attention to the bedroom door. It sways gently on its hinges, as if a ghostly presence has passed through. Goosebumps rise on her arms as she watches, her senses on high alert. The boundaries between dream and reality blur, and an insidious doubt creeps into her mind. In the face of uncertainty, Marc senses her growing apprehension. He both wants to hold her and to fight off whatever threat looms over them both.

" Stay here," He utters as he removes himself from the bed.

But Cleo, even with a body that trembles, removes herself from the bed as well. She reaches underneath it and pulls out her sword, one that she tightly clutches in her hands, then follows Marc out into the hall of her flat. With each step, Cleo feels the weight of the nightmare's grip loosen, replaced by a newfound determination.

The hallway stretches before them, elongated and distorted. The flickering of distant lights casts eerie shadows on the walls, playing tricks on their senses. The corridor, once familiar and comforting, now becomes a labyrinth of uncertainty and foreboding. Cleo's grip tightens on her sword, its reassuring weight grounding her in the face of the unknown. They tread cautiously, their footsteps echoing through the dimly lit passage. The air grows heavy with an oppressive stillness, as if the very walls are holding their breath. Cleo's senses are heightened, every sound amplified, every shadow carrying the potential for danger. She casts furtive glances in all directions, her eyes darting from one unsettling shape to another, trying to discern reality from the twisted illusions that seem to dance before her.

As they move deeper into the hallway, Cleo's ears catch faint whispers, indistinct murmurs that slither through the silence like serpents. The words, muffled and fragmented, taunt her with their elusive meaning. They echo with a menacing undertone, playing on her fears and exploiting her vulnerability. Yet, she refuses to succumb to their insidious manipulation. Marc's presence beside her is a pillar of strength, his determination unwavering. He keeps a watchful eye on Cleo, his protective instinct fueling his resolve. The flickering lights cast eerie shadows on his face, accentuating the determination etched into his features. He reaches out, intertwining his fingers with hers, offering a silent reassurance that they face this malevolence together.

Suddenly, a door at the end of the corridor creaks open, revealing a sliver of darkness within. Cleo's heart skips a beat, anticipation mingled with trepidation flooding her veins. The scent of wet dog grows stronger, a putrid stench that curls her stomach and threatens to overwhelm her senses. She tightens her grip on the sword, readying herself for whatever lies beyond that threshold. With a nod of silent agreement, Cleo and Marc inch closer to the open door, their steps deliberate and measured. The darkness beckons, drawing them into its web of uncertainty. Shadows writhe and contort, elongating into monstrous shapes that seem to breathe with a malevolent energy. Cleo's pulse quickens, her breath coming in shallow gasps, yet she remains resolute.

As they cross the threshold, they enter a room shrouded in darkness. The air feels heavy, suffocating, as if it carries the weight of ancient secrets. Cleo's senses tingle, her instincts warning her of an unseen presence lurking in the shadows. She scans the room, her eyes straining to pierce the veil of darkness, seeking any sign of their tormentor. Whispers surround them, filling the room with an unsettling chorus. Cleo's head spins, her mind assaulted by fragmented thoughts and haunting voices. Doubt gnaws at her, threatening to erode her resolve.

Cleo and Marc stand frozen in the presence of the mysterious figure. The room remains shrouded in a veil of uncertainty, concealing the identity of their tormentor. The scent of wet dog persists, clinging to the air like a sinister omen. Cleo's grip tightens around her sword, her knuckles turning white, ready to defend herself and Marc against any imminent threat.

The figure takes a step forward, emerging from the shadows but still remaining cloaked in ambiguity. Their silhouette dances in the dim light, twisting and warping with an otherworldly grace. Cleo's mind races, desperately trying to piece together the puzzle of their assailant's identity. Her vast knowledge and intuition fail her, leaving her with nothing but unsettling questions.

Marc steps closer to Cleo, his presence a shield against the encroaching darkness. His eyes never waver from the figure, his instincts sharpened by a deep-rooted desire to protect the woman he loves.

"Who are you?" He demands, his voice laced with equal parts caution and resolve, "What do you want with us?"

Silence hangs heavy in the air, stretching the tension to its breaking point. Cleo's breath catches in her throat as the figure responds, their voice a haunting whisper that seems to emanate from every corner of the room.

"Do you truly believe you can escape your fate, Cleo?" They taunt, their words laced with a venomous undertone, "You cannot outrun the shadows that follow you."

A chill runs down Cleo's spine, her heart pounding against her chest. The words cut through her defenses, striking a nerve deep within her being. Her mind races, desperately searching for clues to decipher the hidden meaning behind the figure's words. It's as if their voice holds a key to her past, a past she thought she had left behind. Marc's grip tightens around Cleo's hand, anchoring her to the present. His voice is steady but laced with concern.

"What do you mean, shadows that follow her? Who are you?" He demands, his tone growing more assertive.

The figure takes another step forward, their features still obscured by the murky darkness.

"You think you can sever your ties to the past, but the past is intertwined with your very essence," They hiss, their words dripping with a macabre delight, "I am but a messenger, a herald of the reckoning that awaits you."

A surge of determination courses through Cleo's veins, dispelling the last vestiges of fear.

"No more riddles," She declares, her voice resonating with newfound resolve, "Reveal yourself and face us."

With those words, the figure seems to melt into the shadows, their presence dissipating like smoke in the wind. The room plunges into darkness once more, the uncertainty weighing heavily upon Cleo and Marc. They stand side by side, their senses alert, prepared for whatever may come. But as the seconds stretch into minutes, the room remains silent and still. The scent of wet dog dissipates, leaving only the lingering taste of unease. Cleo and Marc exchange a glance, their eyes reflecting a mixture of relief and apprehension.

"Who was that?" Cleo whispers, her voice barely audible in the suffocating darkness.

Marc shakes his head, his brows furrowing with concern.

"I don't know, Cleo," He replies, his voice tinged with frustration.

The weight of the encounter hangs heavy in the air, solidifying their decision. Cleo looks into Marc's eyes, seeing the determination mirrored in his gaze. They have faced a glimpse of the darkness that trails behind her, and the urgency to uncover the truth intensifies.

"I think Steven was right," Marc finally speaks, his voice carrying a newfound conviction, "You should accept the job offer."

"We'll go to Cairo," She affirms, her voice steady despite the lingering unease, " Together."

With their decision made, a renewed sense of purpose surges within them. They retreat from the haunting darkness of the room, returning to the safety of their sanctuary. Cleo carefully places her sword back beneath the bed, its presence a reminder of the dangers that lie ahead.

It is then settled. The puzzle pieces will embark on a journey back to where everything all started. Back to the place where they both became Moon Knight, and lost it forever... or so they thought.

" Quién es ese hijo de puta?"

" YOU'LL FIND OUT."

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[ we're getting closer 👀 any guesses as to which god it is? ]