The Shadow Leech, Vesper

The first memories he had were of darkness. Of hunger.

Born in the forgotten streets of Chicago's South Side, he never had a real name.

He was just another nameless kid in a city that didn't care whether he lived or died. His earliest years were spent in crumbling tenement buildings, huddled under stairwells, stealing to survive. His mother had abandoned him when he was five—or maybe she overdosed. He never knew. Never asked. By the time he understood the world, he was already alone.

The only people who mattered in Chicago were the ones who had power. The rich, the untouchable, the corrupt. Politicians and crime lords weren't that different—they built their empires on the backs of people like him.

At eight, he learned just how disposable he was.

Winter in Englewood was brutal, and food was scarce. After days without eating, he made the mistake of trying to steal from the wrong place—a high-end restaurant downtown, where men in thousand-dollar suits laughed over meals bigger than anything he'd ever seen.

He barely made it through the front door before a security guard grabbed him. They dragged him into an alley, beat him senseless, then left him there in the snow.

"You think you matter?" one of them sneered, slamming a boot into his ribs. "You're nothing. A rat in the dark."

That night, something inside him broke.

The world didn't have mercy. So why should he?

By the time he was twelve, he had learned how to survive—not just with quick hands, but with sharper instincts.

Then the hunger began.

At first, he thought he was sick. There was a gnawing emptiness inside him, deeper than hunger for food. It didn't matter how much he ate, or how much he slept—he always felt hollow.

Then, one night, he realized why.

He was running with a gang of street kids in Bronzeville, hiding out in abandoned buildings, pulling small-time jobs for gangsters who paid them in scraps. One of the older boys, Marcus, was stronger, and crueler—he took more food, and more space, and treated the younger ones like they were beneath him.

"You're weak," Marcus said one night, shoving him against a wall. "You only survive 'cause we let you."

Something snapped inside him.

The world dimmed.

The air around him shifted.

And suddenly, Marcus staggered back, his skin turning pale, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He clutched his chest like something was being ripped from him.

His strength—his energy—was flowing into the boy.

Marcus collapsed.

For the first time in his life, the boy felt full.

He ran before the others could understand what had happened.

By sixteen, he wasn't just another street rat anymore. He was a predator.

He didn't just survive—he fed.

He learned that proximity was enough. He could drain a person's life force, their essence, just by standing close. If they were metahuman, even better—he could take their abilities, and wear them like second skin before discarding them like broken toys.

People weren't people anymore.

They were prey.

Then he met Cipher.

Cipher was a rogue metahuman operating out of Los Angeles—a telepath who could craft illusions so real they could break a person's mind. He had built a reputation in the underworld, twisting reality itself to torment those who crossed him.

Vesper—though he didn't have that name yet—found him fascinating.

Cipher found him terrifying.

They fought—not with fists, but with their minds.

Cipher tried to drag him into a maze of illusions, but Vesper adapted. He fed on Cipher's psychic energy, drinking it in, devouring every trick and nightmare until there was nothing left but Cipher's raw, exposed mind.

Then he took everything.

The next morning, Cipher's body was found in an abandoned warehouse near Boyle Heights, curled in a fetal position, his brain hollowed out.

No one ever discovered what happened to him.

By the time The Harbingers of Doom took notice, Vesper had already made himself a ghost in the underworld.

Whispers spread of a being who could steal power and twist reality itself. Metahumans vanished without a trace. Heroes and villains alike feared the name Vesper.

It was Mr. Magnetic who approached him first.

"You don't strike me as the type to care about causes," Mr. Magnetic had said, watching him with those unnerving, unreadable eyes. "You take what you want when you want. No loyalty. No restraint."

Vesper had smirked. "And?"

"And that's exactly why we want you."

The Harbingers weren't about morality. They weren't about justice or chaos. They were about power.

And to Vesper, power was all that mattered.

He agreed to join, not because he believed in their mission—but because he was curious. Curious to see what would happen when the world collapsed under the weight of its weakness.

And if the Harbingers thought they could control him?

They would learn soon enough.

Vesper only played by one rule.

The strongest survives.

Now, he is no longer the nameless street rat. No longer the starving boy in the gutter.

He is a hunter—a specter that lurks in the minds of those who cross his path.

His illusions can shatter reality. His power leeching can steal the very essence of a metahuman. His patience is endless.

And now, in the heart of The Harbingers, he watches the world teetering on the edge of destruction.

It is only a matter of time before he finds his next prey.

And right now?

His sights are set on power.

Because power has something Vesper wants.

And when Vesper wants something?

He takes it.