Marvel: Sin Lord

Inarius Morningstar's first memories were of darkness—dim light bulbs flickering in the ceiling, cigarette smoke curling in the stale air, and his mother's voice, sharp and bitter. He was born into a world that didn't want him, to a woman who saw him as a curse instead of her child. His father had been the glue holding her fragile life together, but when he died in a car crash two months before Inarius was born, everything fell apart.

His mother, once a woman with dreams, spiraled into despair. Drugs dulled the pain, and prostitution paid for the drugs. She blamed Inarius for her misery, for every moment of suffering that followed his father's death. "You should've died with him," she spat at him once when he was barely five, her words slurring together as she stumbled around the tiny apartment. The words cut deeper than any bruise or slap ever could, and even though he didn't fully understand them then, the weight of her hatred settled deep in his chest.

Their home was a crumbling one-room apartment on the edge of the city, a place where hope seemed to evaporate before it could take root. The walls were yellowed with age and smoke, and the air always smelled faintly of mildew. The neighbors came and went, people just as broken as his mother, surviving in their own ways. Inarius learned to keep his head down, to move quietly, to be invisible.

By the time he was six, he had mastered the art of silence. He barely spoke, not because he couldn't but because it was safer that way. Words invited attention, and attention often came with fists or worse. He'd learned to endure, to swallow his pain and keep going. Crying didn't help; it only made her angrier. So he stopped. Instead, he watched—watched her, watched the men who came and went, watched the world outside their cracked window.

There were moments, though, when he felt something stir inside him, something he didn't have words for yet. It wasn't just fear or anger, though there was plenty of both. It was something darker, something that whispered to him in the quiet moments when his mother wasn't screaming, when the men weren't there, when the city outside seemed to hold its breath. He didn't know what it was, but he felt it in his chest, a heavy, pulsating presence that seemed to grow with each passing day.

By the time he turned eight, Inarius had grown used to the rhythms of his mother's rage. The beatings came like storms—violent, unpredictable, but familiar. He could sense them coming, feel the tension in her movements, the sharp edge in her voice. That night, though, was different.

It started with something small. It always did. He had eaten the last slice of bread, or maybe he hadn't cleaned up quickly enough after one of her clients left. He couldn't remember anymore. All he remembered was the slap, the way her hand cracked across his face, and the way his vision blurred from the force of it. He didn't cry. He hadn't cried in years. Instead, he stood there, staring at her with those piercing grey eyes that always seemed to unsettle her.

"Don't look at me like that!" she screamed, grabbing him by the arm and shaking him. "You think you're better than me? You think you're some kind of saint?" Her words were slurred, her breath reeking of cheap vodka. "You're nothing, you hear me? Nothing! You're the reason my life's like this!"

She shoved him hard, and he fell to the ground, hitting the edge of the rickety table on the way down. Pain shot through his side, but he didn't make a sound. He just lay there, staring at the ceiling, waiting for her to leave. Eventually, she did, muttering curses under her breath as she stumbled into the bathroom and slammed the door.

Inarius stayed on the floor for a long time, too tired to move. His side throbbed where he'd hit the table, and his stomach growled loudly, reminding him that he hadn't eaten all day. Slowly, he pushed himself up and staggered to the counter, where he'd left a piece of bread earlier. But when he reached for it, he froze.

A rat was perched on the counter, gnawing on the bread. Its beady black eyes flicked up to meet his, and for a moment, they stared at each other in silence. Then something inside him snapped. The hunger, the pain, the rage—it all surged to the surface, and before he even realized what was happening, a strange, purplish light erupted from his hands.

The light shot out, hitting the rat. It froze mid-bite, its tiny body convulsing as the light consumed it. Inarius watched in stunned silence as the rat disintegrated into nothingness, the bread dropping to the counter with a soft thud. And then it hit him—a rush of memories, sensations, emotions that weren't his own. He saw dark corners of the apartment, places he'd never noticed before. He felt the rat's hunger, its fear, its desperation to survive. And then, beneath all of that, he felt something else.

Sin.

It was faint, almost imperceptible, but it was there. The rat had stolen food from others, hurt smaller creatures to survive. It wasn't evil, but it wasn't innocent, either. And somehow, Inarius had absorbed it.

He stumbled back, his hands trembling as the purple glow faded. His mind raced, trying to make sense of what had just happened. He had done that. Somehow, he had taken the rat's life, its memories, its sins. The realization left him both terrified and exhilarated.

He glanced down at his hands, half-expecting them to look different, but they were the same as always—small, pale, unremarkable. But he wasn't the same. He could feel it in his chest, a weight that hadn't been there before. The darkness that had always lurked inside him was awake now, and it wasn't going away.

For the first time in his life, Inarius didn't feel powerless. He didn't understand what he was or what he could do, but he knew one thing for certain: he was no longer just a victim. Something had changed, and the world would never be the same again.

He sat down on the floor, staring at the spot where the rat had been, and let the memory of it wash over him. For the first time, he felt like he had a weapon—a way to fight back, even if he didn't fully understand it yet.

Outside, the city hummed with life, oblivious to the boy sitting in the shadows, a boy who had just discovered a power that would one day make him both feared and revered. But for now, he was just Inarius—a child born into pain, standing at the edge of something far greater than he could comprehend.