From the moment Cain discovered you could hear him, his obsession with you truly took root.

He started talking to you more, at first just to see how you'd act, but then because he couldn't stop himself. He enjoyed the way you reacted to him, how you looked around the empty room when he whispered something vulgar in your ear, how you shivered when you felt the presence of something you couldn't see. It was intoxicating.

But there was something you didn't see. Cain was slowly growing impatient.

Sure, he could communicate with you and move objects around. But these things, these tricks and teases, they were just child's play. He wanted you to see him, to feel him, to know him in the way that he knew you. And oh, how well he knew you.

He spent hours watching, memorizing every habit and quirk, every detail that made you, you. His fingers ached to dig into your skin, to explore the body he knew every inch of, and to even leave bruises that would remind you of him. He wanted to pin you down and watch the panic flicker in your eyes before it melted into something else—something raw.

But he couldn't.

No matter how desperately he reached out, his hand would always pass right through you, leaving him with nothing but the cold reminder that he was dead, while you were so frustratingly alive. It was maddening, but it did plant an idea in his mind.

If he couldn't come to you, then you would come to him.

The solution was obvious, really. All he had to do was kill you. Once you were dead, once you were just like him, he wouldn't have to pretend anymore. You would see him. You would feel him. And you would finally, finally be his.

However, getting you to die was proving to be... more difficult than he thought. Cain learned quickly that his strength was limited, annoyingly so.

He had tried pushing a toaster into your bath, but the damn thing was too heavy for him to move. He had whispered things like "No one likes you" to crush your spirits, but you never seemed to take him seriously. You had no idea, did you? You had no idea how easily he could end it all if only he were a little stronger.

Still, Cain wasn't about to give up.

Today, he set up another one of his traps. It was nothing really, just a few objects placed strategically near the entrance. A couple of books, your keys, that little glass paperweight you never used—all just waiting for the right moment. If he was lucky, you'd hit your head hard enough on that stupid table.

The moment the door creaked open, anticipation coiled in his gut. And then, you stumbled. For a split second, his entire body went rigid as he watched your foot catch on the objects he had so carefully placed.

But just as he thought this was it, you caught yourself at the last second. Cain's mouth twitched with barely contained annoyance.

"Whoops, I must've accidentally knocked some stuff over," he said playfully, his tone dripping with false innocence. He positioned himself right in front of you, his eyes fixated on you intensely, as if trying to will you into seeing him. "Home already, huh? How was your day?"

He didn't care about your day. It was just a way to keep you talking, to keep you engaged with him. To keep giving him that small, insignificant scrap of connection that barely kept him sane. His hand reached out, his fingers trembling with the need to feel you, to wrap around your throat.

Like always, there was nothing. No sensation. No warmth. No contact.

Cain could pretend, of course. He could stand there, inches away, could let his invisible fingers ghost over your skin. But that wasn't enough.

He wanted you dead.