Cain stood at the edge of a desolate wasteland, the wind howling through the ruins of what was once a thriving city. His hand rested on the hilt of the First Blade, the weight of the weapon grounding him in the present, though his mind often wandered to darker memories.

As the Father of Murder, Cain had lived through countless years, each one filled with loss, regret, rage, and an endless hunger for vengeance.

But none of that could prepare him for what was coming next.

A shadow stirred in the distance, and Cain's senses flared. The familiar presence that lingered in the air was unmistakable.

It had been centuries since he'd last encountered this particular presence — the one that carried the weight of their shared history. His grip tightened on the blade as the figure stepped into the moonlight.

"Well, well," Cain muttered to himself, his voice a mixture of disbelief and begrudging respect. "Look who's still breathing."

The figure emerged fully from the shadows. There was no mistaking it. It was you, the one he once called both ally and adversary, the one who had been with him through battles and betrayals, but ultimately, one whose path had diverged from his own.

You two stood facing each other in tense silence, the weight of centuries between you hanging in the air. The years hadn't softened either of you; if anything, they had only hardened the bond of animosity and nostalgia you shared.

Neither of you had come here to catch up on old times.

"You don't look any different," Cain observed, his eyes narrowing. "Still playing the dangerous game, I see."