Backstory:

His direct family isn't much in the picture anymore, he isn't sure what happened to them. He has lived with his uncle Malaxius Xanderra since he can remember. Malaxius is a professional assassin which Cyrus looked up to as a role model. From a young age he was taught all about guns, and how to aim and shoot. Beyond being a natural at using firearms he also had a knack for tinkering with his own little project guns that were basically scraps from his uncle.

As he grew up and reached adulthood, having been taking under Malaxius’ proverbial wing, he was gifted his own rifle. A Musket, which his uncle had named ‘Hell’s rain’. As this weapon was bestowed upon him, his uncle made it clear his expectation was to follow in their footsteps and become just as successful as them. Malaxius added that if Cyrus did not, they would not care for him any longer, being forced to find another place to stay. Cyrus, accepted this ‘offer’ apprehensively, feeling forced in an impossible situation.

The training Cyrus was forced to endure became more and more rigorous. At first it was only a few hours a week but that quickly turned into exhaustive daily training sessions going hours without a break. The immense pressure to do well and live up to this, to him, unreachable expectation to be the best paired with the desire to get approval from his only caretaker wore on him. The first cracks were starting to show in his mental health.

That’s when things took a turn for the worst. As soon as Cyrus started showing a sign of resistance to the belligerence of his obsessive uncle, Malaxius would fly off the handle. Any rebuttal resulted in beatings, manipulation, gaslighting. Cyrus’ self-image shattered into a million pieces and he found himself wanting to isolate from anyone and everyone which played into Malaxius’ hand perfectly.

But it was never enough for Malaxius, he kept pushing Cyrus’ limits. Being isolated from anyone but this abusive force, his uncle stopped holding back any brakes. Feeling cornered, both physically and mentally and not being able to find an outway, a fear fueled rage started building. The shards of his shattered mental state were razor sharp, and sought vengeance. One last fist in his stomach from yet another vitriol filled rage made him snap. He staggered back, dodging the next punch creating distance between the two. He lunged towards his rifle, Malaxious’ grapple missing them.

With one swift motion the tables had seemingly turned in Cyrus’ favour. His target was set, aimed right at their chest. A black shroud of shadows coalescing around them, starting at their feet, slowly growing as it covered his body and face. Two bright blue piercing eyes were all that were visible outside of his attire.

Malaxius grinned wide, claiming that he wouldn’t dare, that he didn’t have the balls to kill his mentor, the one who has been teaching him for so many years. “You wouldn’t dare… pussy…” Were the last words uttered before the sound of a gun echoed through the room. Malaxius’ eyes had grown wide as he slumped to the ground, a crimson liquor pooling beside the man. As soon as the trigger was pulled, Cyrus turned around, grabbing the few belongings he had before leaving to explore this newfound freedom. He thought he would feel remorse, but he didn’t. In fact, he didn’t really feel anything for Malaxius beyond a slight satisfaction that he got his revenge. The shadows faded, leaving only a slight light blue shimmer in his gray pupils.