SHADOWS OF CURSES: A DC FANFIC

The first time he felt the power, it came like a slow burn. At first, the black tattoos were barely noticeable—faint lines running along his arm, snaking up his shoulder. They appeared when he was alone, in moments of stillness, like the power was waiting for something—an invitation.

He tried to ignore it, convince himself it wasn't real. Maybe he had lost his mind after the accident. Maybe the grief had finally cracked something inside him. But the more he tried to push the thoughts away, the more the power seemed to stir. It wanted out. It wanted him.

Weeks passed in a blur of monotony. His days in Gotham became a cycle of survival. The few people he encountered never stayed long enough to know his name. He picked up odd jobs, barely enough to keep the apartment, drifting through life like a ghost. But all the while, the power's whispers grew louder in the back of his mind.

One night, he couldn't take it anymore.

He found himself standing on the rooftop of his building, the cold Gotham air biting at his skin. Below him, the city was alive with chaos—sirens, gunshots, the distant hum of violence that never seemed to rest. This city was broken, just like him. And for the first time, he didn't feel pity for it. He felt kinship.

It was time.

He closed his eyes and reached deep inside, where the power lay waiting, dormant but eager. The moment his mind touched it, he felt something stir within him—something ancient, monstrous, but entirely his. It wasn't just a voice anymore. It was him.

This is mine. This power is mine.

He had been running from it, afraid of what it would mean to fully embrace the power. But now? He welcomed it.

A sharp pain shot through his body as the black tattoos bloomed across his skin, spreading up his neck, over his chest, curling down his right arm. His heart pounded in his chest, the air around him thickening with dark energy. And then came the eyes—extra eyes, red and malevolent, appearing on his skin—just below his normal ones, watching the world with a cruel, amused gaze.

His breath caught in his throat as the transformation completed, and for the first time, he felt the full weight of Sukuna's power coursing through his veins. It was intoxicating, overwhelming. His senses sharpened, his muscles coiled with raw energy. He could feel the very air bending to his will, like he had become something more than human.

He flexed his fingers, watching the black marks dance along his skin. This wasn't just power. This was control—over himself, over the world. He could feel it, like a second nature, waiting to be unleashed.

A small, dark smile crept onto his face.

"What now?" he muttered to himself, his voice barely above a whisper.

The answer was simple: whatever I want.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

The cold air of Gotham clung to his skin as the tattoos crawled across his body, the black markings pulsing with energy. He had finally embraced it—the power coursing through him, raw and untamed. Tonight would be the first test.

The group of thugs saw him before he even approached. One of them stepped forward, twirling a switchblade in his hand with a cocky grin. "You lost or something? This ain't your part of town."

He didn't answer. His focus was elsewhere, deep within, where the power lay coiled, waiting to be unleashed. There was a voice inside him—not Sukuna's, but his own, pushing him forward, urging him to act. This is mine now.

The lead thug took another step, waving the blade in his direction. "Hey! I'm talking to you, freak."

That word. Freak. He had heard it his entire life. From his parents. From the bullies. From everyone who saw him as something less than human. But not anymore. Not tonight.

He felt the energy shift, pulling at his right arm. The tattoos along his skin glowed faintly, and without thinking, he reached deep within and called upon his power.

"Cleave".

In that moment a faint vibration rippled through the air. The thug's smirk vanished as a sharp, invisible force tore through the space between them. The sound of metal slicing cleanly echoed in the alleyway, and the switchblade the thug had been holding snapped in two, the pieces clattering to the ground.

"What the—?!" The thug looked down, stunned at the broken knife in his hand.

The others, confused but still emboldened by their numbers, began to close in around him. "What the hell was that? You think you're tough, freak?"

He didn't need to answer. The power was flowing through him now, sharper, more focused. Cleave hummed at his fingertips, waiting to be released again. He raised his hand, and without warning, the tattoos flared, the slashing energy striking out faster than they could react.

The second thug dropped instantly. He didn't even have time to scream. A deep, clean cut split across his chest as he crumpled to the ground. The precision of the strike was perfect, cutting through the man like a hot knife through butter.

The remaining thugs froze, fear creeping into their eyes.

"What the hell are you?!" one of them shouted, stumbling backward.

He stepped forward, his voice low and cold. "Someone you shouldn't have messed with."

His right hand twitched, and Cleave lashed out again, this time with even more force. The third thug collapsed, clutching his side where another precise cut had appeared, blood pouring from the wound. He wouldn't be getting back up.

The last thug, wide-eyed and terrified, pulled out a gun, his hands shaking. "Stay back! I swear, I'll shoot!"

For a moment, he hesitated. Not out of fear, but out of curiosity. He could feel the power inside him—the urge to release it in ways he hadn't yet explored Dismantle, a slashing technique that could tear apart inanimate objects like the gun in the man's hand, was just out of reach. He could sense its potential, but he hadn't yet learned how to control it.

But Cleave? Cleave was his.

He raised his hand one last time, and with a final, invisible slash, the gun was rendered useless. The barrel of the weapon was sliced cleanly in two, the pieces falling from the thug's trembling hands.

The man dropped to his knees, begging now. "Please! Don't—don't kill me! I didn't mean it!"

He stared down at the terrified thug, feeling the power surge in his veins, the tattoos along his skin thrumming with energy. Part of him wanted to end it, to let the power do what it was meant to do. But something stopped him.

This was only the beginning.

Without a word, he turned and walked away, leaving the broken, bleeding men behind. He could feel Cleave receding, the black markings fading from his skin as the power settled back into its dormant state. He hadn't fully mastered it yet, but it was enough.

For now.