Marvel: Sin Lord

It had been a week since Inarius Morningstar killed his mother and the man she'd sold him to. A week since the purple light had consumed them, leaving behind nothing but silence and a bitter sense of finality. In that time, he hadn't left the apartment. He didn't eat much—just stale bread or canned soup when his body couldn't take the hunger anymore. Mostly, he sat on the floor, knees pulled to his chest, staring into the dark corners of the room and trying to figure out what came next.

The memories of his mother and the man were still fresh in his mind, as if they were his own. Every horrible thing they'd done, every moment of selfishness, anger, and cruelty, played on a loop. But the worst part wasn't what he'd absorbed from them—it was the emptiness they left behind. For so long, his mother's presence, as awful as it was, had been a constant in his life. Now, the silence in the apartment felt heavier than any of her screams ever had.

He didn't know what to do. He was just a kid—a kid with a power he barely understood, alone in a world that had never wanted him. The city outside the cracked window seemed so vast, so overwhelming, and he felt small in comparison.

One morning, as he sat in the corner of the room, the sound of the front door slamming open jolted him out of his thoughts. Heavy footsteps echoed through the apartment, and a man's voice called out, rough and angry.

"Anna! You in here?"

Inarius froze. He knew that voice. It was the landlord, a big, sweaty man with greasy hair and a temper to match. His mother had always dealt with him in her own way—trading her body for rent when the money ran out. Inarius had never liked the man, but he had learned to stay out of his way.

When no answer came, the landlord stepped further into the apartment, his eyes scanning the room until they landed on Inarius.

"Where's your mom?" he demanded, his tone sharp.

"She's gone," Inarius said, his voice flat.

"Gone?" The landlord frowned, then his expression darkened. "You mean she skipped out on me? Owes me three months' rent!" He stepped closer, his face twisting with anger. "You think you can just squat here, kid? Huh? Someone's gonna pay, and if it's not her, it's gonna be you."

Inarius stood up slowly, his grey eyes locked on the man. "We don't owe you anything," he said, his voice calm but firm.

The landlord sneered. "That so? Well, I ain't running a charity. You either pay up or get out."

"I said we don't owe you anything."

The man's face flushed with rage, and he lunged forward, grabbing Inarius by the arm. "Listen here, you little—"

Before he could finish, Inarius moved. He didn't even think about it—his body just reacted. He twisted out of the man's grip with speed that startled even himself, then shoved the landlord back with more force than he intended. The man stumbled, crashing into the table and knocking over an empty beer can.

"What the hell?" the landlord muttered, staring at Inarius in shock.

"Get out," Inarius said, his voice low and dangerous.

The landlord hesitated, but something in Inarius's gaze made him take a step back. There was a darkness there, a cold, unrelenting power that seemed far too much for a ten-year-old boy. Without another word, the landlord turned and left, slamming the door behind him.

Inarius stood there for a moment, his chest heaving as the adrenaline coursed through him. He hadn't used his power, but he had been ready to. The thought both frightened and thrilled him.

He couldn't stay here anymore. The apartment wasn't a home—it was a prison, a reminder of everything he wanted to forget. And now that his mother was gone, there was nothing keeping him here.

That night, as the city outside buzzed with distant noise, Inarius began to pack. There wasn't much to take—just a few clothes, some canned food, and the one thing he cared about: his father's ring. It was a simple, silver band, worn smooth over the years. His mother had pawned or sold almost everything else of his father's, but for some reason, she had kept the ring.

Inarius held it in his hand, staring at it for a long time. He didn't remember his father—he had died before Inarius was even born—but this ring was a piece of him, a connection to a man who, in his imagination, was everything his mother wasn't.

He slipped the ring onto his finger, feeling its cool weight. "I don't know if you'd be proud of me," he murmured, his voice barely audible. "But I'm getting out of here. I have to."

When he was ready, he slung his bag over his shoulder and stepped out into the night. The air was cold, biting against his skin, but he barely noticed. He didn't know exactly where he was going, but he had an idea.

The streets and sewers of the city called to him. They were full of sin, full of people and places he could feel pulling at him like a magnet. He had seen it in the memories he had absorbed—the desperation, the fear, the darkness that lurked in every corner. He didn't know why, but he was drawn to it.

As he walked, the city seemed to open up before him, every street and alley familiar thanks to the memories he carried. He moved like a shadow, unnoticed and unseen, his mind racing with possibilities.

He wasn't just running away from his old life. He was running toward something—something he didn't fully understand yet. But for the first time, he felt like he was in control. And as he disappeared into the night, he couldn't help but wonder what kind of person he would become in the shadows.