In a crumbling neighborhood swamped with rotting piles of trash, scurrying rats, and the heavy stench of decay, Lucky scraped by. An eighteen-year-old Black guy, life had beaten him down hard. At ten, a truck barreled over his feet in a brutal, out-of-nowhere accident. No one thought he'd pull through. Rescuers, drenched in sweat and grime, worked frantically to free him from the twisted wreckage, his body torn and bleeding out on the asphalt. Against all odds, he survived—barely, clinging to life by a thread—but his feet were crushed beyond repair, reduced to useless clumps of flesh and shattered bone. From that day on, walking became a distant memory, a ghost haunting his sleepless nights.
That accident kicked off a long, grueling nightmare. School was hell. The other kids' taunts were relentless, a daily torture that ate away at him. Every day was a gauntlet: they'd point and laugh, mocking his limp or calling him "the crawler" or "wheelie trash." His twisted, bandaged feet were the butt of their cruelest jokes. So-called friends betrayed him, spilling his secrets in the halls, leaving him alone during recess to watch others run and play with a gut-wrenching ache. Insults stung like poisoned darts, sometimes paired with sneaky shoves or fake trips, and the teachers—overwhelmed or just apathetic—looked the other way, letting the kids' cruelty run wild. Lucky learned to tune out the stares, swallow the words that cut deeper than knives, and fade into the shadows of the courtyard to avoid notice. But deep down, every mocking laugh, every public humiliation drove shards of pain into his heart, carving out a hollow void that grew with each passing day. By fourteen, he couldn't take it anymore and dropped out, unable to face the torment. His parents didn't step up. His dad just muttered it was "probably for the best," and his mom, eyes averted, gave a silent nod, offering no comfort.
Home wasn't any better. His parents never soothed his pain, acting like his hurt didn't exist. His father, a cold, hardened man worn down by years of dead-end work, saw him as a useless burden, a living reminder of their failures. "You're just dead weight," he'd growl during tense dinners, where silence weighed heavier than words. His mother, though she had some buried flicker of love, didn't know how to show it; her gestures were clumsy, her words scarce, and she often avoided his gaze, as if looking at him brought the fragility of life too close. Lucky felt abandoned, rejected by the people who should've been his safe haven, as if the whole world was conspiring to crush him under his disability. Loneliness became his constant shadow, amplifying his loss of freedom and hope. He'd spend hours staring at the ceiling, dreaming of a life where he could run, fight, and just be.
At eighteen, fed up with the suffocating atmosphere, Lucky begged his dad to cover rent for a small place where he could live alone, somewhere he could breathe without judgment. The old man agreed—not out of love or care, but to ditch what he saw as a useless burden, a living symbol of his own frustrations. Each month, he sent a measly transfer, just enough to cover cheap food and basic bills, nothing more, as if to remind Lucky he was worth only the bare minimum.
His apartment, a ratty third-floor hole in a decaying building, was a perfect mirror of his inner turmoil: pure chaos and neglect. The walls were cracked, yellowed by seeping dampness that left dark, tear-like stains. The floor was sticky in patches, littered with crumpled fast-food wrappers, rusty cans, and torn trash bags reeking of rot. Dirty clothes piled up in dark corners, and the smell of mold mixed with decaying leftovers, creating a heavy, cloying air that clung to the skin. A single bare bulb dangled from the ceiling, flickering and buzzing, casting a sickly yellow glow that made the room feel almost haunted, like ghosts lurked in the dancing shadows. Only his balcony—a cracked slab of concrete overlooking the street—offered a sliver of relief, a place where the breeze could touch his face and he could dream of a world beyond his chains.
That night, Lucky was slumped in his worn-out wheelchair, a cold, greasy burger in hand, while an old gangster flick crackled on his busted TV. His dark eyes burned with a feverish intensity, a spark of buried dreams.
"If I wasn't stuck like this… maybe I'd have some real strength," he muttered through gritted teeth, his voice rough with pent-up frustration.
Since he was a kid, he'd been obsessed with the mafia, drawn to its raw, unapologetic power. His old friends, the ones who ditched him, dreamed of being heroes, saving the world with capes and lofty ideals. Lucky? He wanted to dive into the chaos, command respect through fear and strength, and leave a mark on a world that had stomped on him. But life had sentenced him to be a bystander, trapped in a broken body, watching the world move on without him.
In this strange world, some people were born with superhuman strength—powers that were real but shrouded in mystery. Everyone knew they existed, but how they came to be was a secret locked tight by the heroes who wielded them, leaving regular folks like Lucky to dream or stew in envy.
Tonight, though, he had something to look forward to: his first solar eclipse, a rare spectacle. He switched off the apartment's lights, grabbed a bowl of stale popcorn from a dusty cupboard, and rolled toward the balcony, his chair creaking on the uneven floor. Before settling in, he pulled out his beat-up phone and dialed a familiar number, hoping for some company.
"Yo, Jack?"
"Lucky, what's good?"
"Chillin'. Wanna come watch the eclipse with me?"
A heavy pause hung on the line, followed by an awkward, hesitant voice.
"Sorry, man… I've got plans with my crew. Would've been a hassle anyway, you know, with your chair."
A crushing weight slammed into Lucky's chest—a bitter mix of anger, sadness, and familiar rejection.
"Yeah… you're right. Have fun."
"Catch you later."
Jack hung up fast. Lucky sat frozen, heart splintered, fingers clenched around the phone. He knew why Jack kept up this "friendship": it looked good for a wannabe hero to have a disabled buddy, a cheap way to polish his image. Nothing but a front, a checked box on a list of good deeds.
Forcing a tight smile despite the tears stinging like salt in a wound, he tilted his head toward the darkening sky. The solar eclipse began, the sun's light slowly devoured by the moon's shadow, plunging the world into heavy darkness.
Suddenly, a searing pain erupted in Lucky, white-hot and overwhelming, as if every fiber of his body was being torn apart from within by an unseen force. His veins felt like they were boiling with molten metal, his heart pounding so hard it might burst. A raw, guttural scream ripped from his throat as he collapsed from his chair, body convulsing. He spat a stream of warm, coppery blood, clawing at the floor with broken nails, each cell screaming for air, wracked with unbearable pain.
Amid the torment, painful memories flooded in like ghosts: the endless taunts at school, humiliating nicknames that haunted his nightmares, sneaky punches in the halls, and the scornful looks from kids who made him feel like a freak. Fake friends who bailed at the first sign of trouble, his cold, distant parents who saw him as a failure, a burden. But instead of breaking him, these memories sparked a primal rage, a raw strength he'd never known. He'd survived the worst—his accident, years of isolation—and nothing would stop him now. Not this pain, not this cursed fate.
His legs, trembling and weak at first, began to move with hesitant determination. He dragged himself upright, gasping, his face twisted in a mix of raw fear—eyes wide, sweat beading on his brow, mouth locked in a horrified grimace—and a flicker of wild excitement. He crawled to the balcony, every inch a battle against the pain. In a final surge of despair and fury, he tipped over the railing, the wind whipping his face as he fell.
Three stories down, his body slammed into the cold concrete with a sickening thud, the sound echoing in the night. A deafening silence followed, as if time itself had paused. Yet, impossibly, Lucky was still breathing, his pulse faint but stubborn. The world had granted him a second chance, a miraculous reprieve.
"Wait… I'm not dead?" he whispered, voice hoarse and disbelieving.
Around him, the air was thick with a strange, heavy energy. Ethereal creatures drifted in the shadows—ghostly, shapeless forms, half-mist, half-monster, their edges swirling with hints of claws and glowing eyes that stared with eerie curiosity. Fear gripped him first, a cold shiver racing up his spine, his face pale and tense, pupils blown wide with terror at these nightmarish visions. But soon, a wild joy surged through him, lighting up his features: a shaky smile stretched across his lips, his eyes widening not with fear but with awe, tears of pure relief streaming down his dark cheeks.
Almost no one knew that these rare solar eclipses, hitting every 25 to 30 years and swallowing the world in total darkness for two or three endless minutes, carried a hidden danger. Unknown to the public, some were struck by a mysterious affliction called the Eclipse Soul—a secret phenomenon barely whispered about even among those in the know. It was the most excruciating thing a human could endure, almost always fatal. It felt like your entire body—cells, tissues, brain—was disintegrating from the inside, a rapid necrosis that melted flesh and shattered minds in unbearable agony. But the rare few who survived emerged transformed, their genes enhanced with extraordinary powers: heightened senses like night vision or superhuman hearing, insane strength, and even extended lifespans, as if their bodies were forged anew. This was how powers were born, but the truth was hidden from the world, and Lucky, like most, had no clue about it.
Lucky had no idea he'd survived the Eclipse Soul, the hidden affliction that transformed survivors. He only knew his body was healed—his feet worked again—but he was clueless about the latent powers now stirring inside him, waiting to be unleashed. The miracle of the Eclipse Soul had rebuilt him, turning his broken body into something unbreakable.
His feet, crushed since childhood, twitched with electric tingles. His legs held him up, strong and alive. Tears poured down his face, a mix of explosive joy and deep relief, his features glowing with raw excitement, as if years of shackles had just shattered. He stood slowly, testing his balance, then broke into a run—running—toward the building's stairs, each step a triumph. Charging up the steps two at a time, heart pounding with adrenaline, his face shone with manic joy: eyes sparkling, cheeks flushed from effort, a choked laugh escaping with every stride, as if the world was finally his.
He burst through his apartment door and froze, breath catching. A woman was waiting, lounging casually on his messy bed, surrounded by the usual chaos: torn clothes scattered, crumpled papers, empty bottles rolling on the floor, and small piles of trash in the corners. Half her head was shaved, the other half draped in blonde hair with vibrant purple tips cascading like a rebellious waterfall. A dark crow tattoo with a bold "1" marked her neck. Her eyes gleamed with a predatory madness, a mix of sharp intelligence and wild danger that made the air crackle.
Lucky's throat tightened, a rush of instinctive fear—his heart racing, cold sweat on his brow—mixing with growing excitement. He knew that face. Everyone did: Gwen Onyx, the Fury of Chaos, the world's most wanted criminal. Her name alone sent cities trembling, her bounty set at 500 gold pieces—roughly 800 billion dollars. Known for her wild unpredictability and brutal violence, she'd reduced entire gangs and neighborhoods to ashes, just for the thrill.
"Who… who are you?" he stammered, voice shaking despite knowing the answer, eyes wide with a mix of terror and fascination.
She let out a sharp, icy laugh, cutting through the silence like a blade.
"For real? You're asking me that when you've got my posters plastered all over your room?"
Lucky paled, breath hitching, his face a whirlwind of emotions: raw fear of this living legend and a budding thrill at what this could mean.
"I'm Gwen Onyx," she said, her lips curling into a deranged grin. "And since I found you first… you're joining my crew. We're gonna tear shit up!"
Her laugh thundered through the cramped room, shaking the cracked walls.
Lucky, frozen with fear at first—body tense, hands trembling—felt a monstrous wave of joy crash over him, washing away everything else. His legs shook not from weakness but from excitement; he jumped in place, testing his newfound mobility, tears flooding his beaming face. He burst into a wild, freeing laugh.
"This… this is the best day of my life!"
Gwen's laughter roared louder, infectious and chaotic, filling the room.
"Damn, you're crazier than me!"
At those words, Lucky paused, his laughter turning into a flood of words, like a dam breaking. He spilled his past, the words pouring out in a raw, cathartic rush. "You don't know what I've been through… School was a nightmare, every single day. They called me a freak, shoved me, stole my stuff just to laugh. I dropped out at fourteen because I couldn't take it, coming home in tears, hiding in my room. My parents? My dad thought I was a failure, a deadweight; he gave me just enough to scrape by, to get me out of his sight. My mom tried a little, but she was scared of me, of my disability, like it was catching. And my so-called friends, like Jack, only stuck around to look good, ditching me the second it got inconvenient. I spent years hating myself, dreaming of revenge, of strength… But now, with this miracle, this new life, I don't care anymore! I'm free, finally free!"
And together, they screamed, ran, jumped, laughing like maniacs in the apartment, each shout carrying away years of pain and sorrow. The chaos was their freedom, and the madness their joy.