Shadows had always felt like home. Even as a toddler, he giggled when a Gastly floated near his crib, fascinated by the unseen wisps of spectral energy that tickled his cheeks. By four, he discovered a worn book about Ghost Pokémon hidden on the highest shelf of his grandmother's attic, its pages filled with faded illustrations and ancient tales.

One name captivated him above all others: the mythical Ghost/Fighting Pokémon Marshadow. Its stealth, ghostly fighting style, and incredible speed enchanted his young imagination, and he spent hours staring into mirrors, practicing shadowboxing techniques he invented himself. He'd sneak into the basement at dusk, watching how his silhouette stretched and contorted in the dim light, pretending to be the legendary Pokémon.

From four to seven, he transformed his room into a sanctuary for shadows. Black and violet walls flickered under ghostly lanterns that cast dancing shapes across the ceiling; miniature training poles painted black stood in one corner; figurines of Ghost and Fighting Pokémon lined every shelf. Every Halloween, he insisted on dressing as Marshadow, his tiny fists wrapped in purple tape as he practiced Shadow Punches, Power-Up Punches, and Triple Axels in front of his bedroom mirror.

Unseen by human eyes, Marshadow itself had been observing, drawn to this unusual child who respected rather than feared the darkness. It sensed the boy's devotion, creativity, and genuine respect for shadows—qualities as rare as the Pokémon itself. For three years, it watched silently from the edges of his perception, waiting for the perfect moment to reveal itself.

On his seventh birthday, as the clock struck midnight and the last of his party guests had gone home, two glowing emerald eyes appeared beneath his bed. The air grew colder, and shadows in the room seemed to deepen as Marshadow slowly crawled out from the darkness, its small ethereal form both fierce and friendly as it stepped into the sanctuary he had meticulously built just for it.