SHADOWS OF CURSES: A DC FANFIC

The dim streets of Gotham felt like home in a way Metropolis never had. It was a city that thrived on chaos and darkness, and he understood that now. Here, there were no illusions of hope, no shining symbols like Superman or Wonder Woman to promise protection. Here, survival was all that mattered.

But even in a city like Gotham, his power felt out of place.

He had spent the last few weeks lying low, keeping to the shadows, but every night the pull of Sukuna's power grew stronger. Cleave was reliable now, the precision of his slashes more controlled, but the deeper he tapped into the power, the more restless he became. He needed to unlock more. The tattoos on his body throbbed with potential, teasing at the abilities just out of his reach. Dismantle was close, he could feel it, but every time he tried to grasp it, the technique slipped through his fingers like smoke.

It was frustrating. Infuriating.

One night, after an especially exhausting run-in with some street-level thugs, he found himself standing on the rooftop of a rundown apartment building, looking out over the city. The wind was cold, biting at his skin, but he didn't care. His mind was consumed with the thought of power—how to harness it, control it, and, more importantly, how to unlock it.

"I need more," he muttered under his breath, clenching his fists as the black markings along his arms pulsed faintly in response. There's more to this. I know there is.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a scuffle below. A group of masked men—mercenaries by the looks of it—were dragging someone into an alley. Their captive was kicking and thrashing, desperately trying to break free, but there were too many of them.

His first instinct was to ignore it. Gotham was full of people like that—criminals, low-lifes, and the people unlucky enough to get caught up in their games. It wasn't his problem.

But something made him pause.

He couldn't shake the feeling—the same feeling he'd had the day Doomsday tore through that bus. The helplessness. The rage. The need to do something.

With a resigned sigh, he jumped from the rooftop, landing silently in the shadows of the alley. The mercenaries were too focused on their prey to notice him at first, but he made sure they wouldn't stay unaware for long.

"Let him go," he called out, stepping into the dim light of the alley.

The men turned, weapons drawn, confusion quickly turning to amusement when they saw him.

"You want to play hero, kid? You picked the wrong city for that," one of them growled, brandishing a knife.

Hero? That word grated on him. He wasn't a hero. He wasn't like Superman or Batman, or any of them. He was something else. Something far more dangerous.

Without a word, he called upon Cleave.

The moment he focused, the tattoos flared to life, and with a flick of his wrist, the invisible slash cut through the air. The mercenary's knife shattered, the clean cut severing the blade from the hilt in an instant. The man blinked, staring dumbfounded at the broken weapon in his hand.

"Wha—what the hell?"

Before he could react, Cleave struck again, this time aiming for his arm. A precise slash tore through the man's sleeve, cutting into his skin and taking the limb along with it. The mercenary screamed, dropping to his knees as he clutched the wound.

The others hesitated, looking between their injured comrade and the figure standing calmly in the alley.

"What are you?!" one of them demanded, fear creeping into his voice.

He didn't respond. Instead, he let the power simmer beneath his skin, keeping it just under control. He could feel it now—the next step. Dismantle. It was there, tantalizingly close, but still locked away, waiting for the right moment.

One of the mercenaries drew a gun, pointing it shakily in his direction.

"Bad move," he muttered under his breath.

The tattoos flared again, and this time he aimed Cleave at the gun. Another invisible slash, and the barrel of the weapon was sliced cleanly in half. The mercenary yelped in shock, dropping the ruined firearm.

"Run," he said coldly, his voice barely above a whisper. "Before I change my mind."

They didn't need to be told twice. Within seconds, the alley was empty, save for the man they had been dragging. He groaned, pushing himself up from the ground, his face bloodied and bruised.

"Thank you," the man rasped, wincing as he tried to stand. "I thought… I thought I was dead for sure."

He stared at the man, the glow of his tattoos fading as the power receded. He wasn't sure why he had intervened. Maybe it was the reminder of his sister—how helpless he had felt in that moment when the world came crashing down around him. Or maybe it was something else. Maybe this was the start of something bigger.

"I'm not a hero," he said, more to himself than to the man. "But this city… it needs something different."

The man didn't respond, too busy trying to catch his breath.

As he turned to leave, the weight of his next steps hung heavily on his mind. Cleave was powerful, but it wasn't enough. He needed more. He needed to unlock the other techniques, to control them. And that meant training—learning how to harness the full extent of the cursed energy inside him.

Gotham was full of darkness, but he wasn't afraid of it. If anything, he would use it to his advantage.