Gotham's unrelenting darkness seeped into every corner of his life. This city was nothing like Metropolis—there were no brightly lit streets, no symbols of hope flying through the skies. The weight of the shadows here was suffocating, but it suited him. After all, he had been living in shadows long before he set foot in Gotham.
His days were a blur, a vicious cycle of street fights, testing his powers, and the ever-present anger gnawing at his core. Gotham's underbelly was perfect for honing his abilities. It didn't matter who he took down or what he destroyed—no one noticed, no one cared. In Gotham, chaos was a way of life.
Tonight was no different. He wiped blood from his knuckles, staring at the unconscious thugs who had foolishly tried to mug him. Their weapons—knives, guns, chains—now lay dead around them, victims of his Cleave. He no longer had to think about using the technique. The tattoos that marked his body would glow faintly, and with a single thought, he could summon the invisible slashes, cutting through anything in his path. It was almost too easy now.
But it wasn't enough.
The problem wasn't mastering Cleave—it was understanding the nature of the power that coursed through him. The more he used it, the more it consumed him. And yet, he felt no closer to truly comprehending what he wielded. Each time he activated the tattoos, each time he unleashed a slash, it felt like he was tapping into something far darker than just raw strength.
He returned to his apartment in Gotham's Narrows, the door creaking open as he stepped inside. It was a dingy, one-room space that barely had enough room for a bed and a table, but it was all he could afford. Gotham wasn't kind to the poor, but he didn't care. This place was temporary. Everything in his life felt temporary since that day in Metropolis.
He stared at his reflection in the cracked bathroom mirror, his eyes trailing over the dark markings on his skin. The tattoos had become a part of him, pulsing faintly even when he wasn't using his powers. They reminded him of the curse he carried, the burden of the powers he had inherited.
"I need to figure this out," he muttered, gripping the edges of the sink tightly. His reflection stared back at him, the weight of exhaustion evident in his face. He looked older than he was—years of abuse, responsibility, and loss had aged him in ways that no one should experience. But it wasn't just the physical toll that weighed on him—it was the power. The cursed energy inside him was restless, chaotic, and unpredictable.
He closed his eyes, letting out a slow breath as he focused inward. The energy was always there, simmering beneath the surface. It wasn't like the clean, heroic power wielded by people like Superman or Batman. No, this was something far darker, something raw and primal. He had felt it the first time the tattoos appeared, when his hatred for the heroes had reached its peak.
The energy responded to his emotions, especially the negative ones. Every time he called upon it, he had to dig deep into his anger—anger at the world, anger at his parents, anger at the heroes who failed to save his sister. The more hatred he felt, the stronger the energy became. But the cost was steep. The more he used the power, the more it consumed him, clouding his mind with rage and resentment.
"It's all tied to emotion," he realized, his eyes snapping open. "Negative emotions."
He thought back to that day—the day he lost everything. The hatred he felt toward Superman, the helplessness as Doomsday tore through the bus, the overwhelming loss of his sister. All of it had given birth to this power, this cursed energy that now flowed through his veins. It wasn't just some random ability—it was fueled by the darkest parts of him.
"Cursed energy," he whispered, finally giving a name to the force inside him. "That's what it is."
It made sense now. The reason why the power only responded to his anger, why it felt so volatile. This wasn't like the powers of the heroes—it was something else entirely, something born from the deepest recesses of his pain and hatred.
His eyes flicked to the tattoos on his arms. They seemed to glow more brightly now, as if acknowledging that he had finally understood. Cursed energy. It wasn't something pure or righteous. It was tainted, corrupted by his emotions. But that also made it powerful—far more powerful than he had ever imagined.
Now that he understood what fueled his abilities, the real question was how to control it.
He spent the next few days experimenting, pushing himself to understand the limits of his cursed energy. The first thing he noticed was how unpredictable it was. When he was angry, truly angry, the power surged, giving him more strength than he could handle. But when his emotions faltered, when the anger subsided even slightly, the energy would weaken, slipping through his grasp like sand.
It was frustrating.
-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-
Sitting cross-legged in the center of his small apartment, he tried to focus his mind, centering himself in the chaos. He had read about meditation once—about how focusing inward could help control emotions and power. Maybe that was the key. Maybe if he could calm his mind, he could control the cursed energy more effectively.
But no matter how hard he tried, the anger was always there, lurking beneath the surface. It was impossible to let go of it completely. The pain of losing his sister, the hatred for the heroes who let it happen—it was all-consuming.
His fists clenched as his thoughts spiraled, the cursed energy responding to his frustration. The tattoos on his arms began to glow, and he could feel the energy pulsing within him, begging to be released.
"No," he growled, forcing the energy back down. He couldn't lose control—not now. Not when he was finally starting to understand.
For hours, he sat in silence, wrestling with the energy inside him. Every time the anger rose, he pushed it down, forcing himself to stay calm. It was a delicate balance, one that required more concentration than anything he had ever experienced. But slowly, little by little, he began to feel a sense of control. The cursed energy still surged within him, but he was starting to bend it to his will.
By the time the sun began to rise, he opened his eyes, his body drenched in sweat. It wasn't perfect, but it was progress. He was beginning to understand the power within.
And now, with a name for his power—cursed energy—he knew the next step was to learn how to master it.