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inertia creeps,

Things were never easy in his childhood, far from it. His mother earned very little as a waitress, his father was unstable and volatile, yet he still carried that kind of fragile brightness most children possess. Despite the misery inside and outside the house, Marcus had a light in his eyes that could soften anyone who truly cared about him — which meant only his mother, and perhaps, just perhaps, a teacher he once had for a short time.He was a thin boy, hollow-eyed, dark circles etched deep beneath them, overflowing with imagination. The light he carried came from his personality; though shy, he could warm even the bleakest room with the quiet radiance of a happy child. Until he couldn’t. It disappeared overnight, as if the thin veil shielding him from a cruel and unforgiving reality had finally torn apart.He would later be struck by how certain moments carve themselves into the mind, replaying thousands of times — as nightmares in restless sleep or as intrusive visions in the middle of the day, sober or under the influence of anything that dulled the edges. The afternoon he came home from school to find police cars outside and a body being carried out in a black bag was one of those moments. It still is. That day marked the first manifestation of his mutation.Marcus ran into the house, dropping his backpack somewhere in the front yard, choking on fear over what he might find inside. Officers were escorting his father out of the kitchen when he stepped into the living room. It smelled of apple pie and dried blood. The scent made him notice the carpet — once a worn, faded yellow — now soaked in dark, viscous red. Somewhere deep inside, he already knew whose blood it was.His knees gave out. His hands pressed into the scarlet mess beneath him. In the blink of an eye, the scene was gone.The room was flooded with a cold, clinical blue light. The smell of apple pie baking in the oven was stronger now. He couldn’t move, couldn’t even feel his own body. He wasn’t in it anymore. He was experiencing his mother’s final moments, trapped inside her consciousness as she was brutally stabbed by her husband.As if that trauma were not enough, the week following her death was worse.Marcus learned, in the harshest possible way, how his ability worked: by touching an object belonging to someone — living or dead — he could return to the last moment that person had occupied that physical space, experiencing their thoughts, emotions, and sensations. It was like living through a memory that was not his own. It took years to gain control over it. Years to stop hating what he was.He was ten when it first happened. Ten when his mother died. Ten when he was handed over to the state system to keep him off the streets — a measure that ultimately made little difference. Avoiding physical contact became torture. Every wall, every piece of furniture, every person was a potential trigger. He could slip out of reality without warning, and no one understood what was happening inside his mind — nor did they try to. By adolescence, things improved, if improvement meant no longer despising his own power.He was fifteen when he began experimenting with substances no one his age should touch. It started in the last juvenile shelter he stayed in before running away for good. Just a few swigs of cheap vodka, they told him. It was — until it wasn’t. A few swigs turned into bottles, then into synthetic drugs, cigarettes, injectables — anything that could blur the world. Anything that could quiet the memories that surfaced without invitation. Anything was better than reliving a murder in broad daylight because he happened to brush against a blood-stained wall in a dead-end alley.The shift in his life came as abruptly as the loss of his childhood.One day, he realized the information he acquired through his mutation could be used. Sold, even. He began by offering tips to volatile dealers he preferred not to owe money to. Later, he played both sides, feeding suburban police just enough “insight” to suggest he might know more than he let on. He never had to say he was a mutant. He never had to pretend he wasn’t one. As long as the information checked out, no one asked questions. Knowledge was power. Or something close to it.Eventually, they started calling him Séance — a nickname he never particularly liked, though it fit. On the streets, he was known as Mirko: tall, pale, covered in tattoos, unsettling in demeanor, with an uncanny talent for understanding death. As if the dead themselves whispered the stories of how they had fallen.

[...]

TBA.      

[...]

TBA.      

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