The townsfolk knew him only as the quiet beekeeper who lived deep in the woods. They accepted his deliveries without question, paid him in cash, and avoided eye contact. Cain preferred it that way. Distance kept them safe from whatever darkness lingered beneath his skin.

After completing his rounds, Cain walked through the narrow streets, his tall frame drawing few glances in the late afternoon lull. The collision happened suddenly—a figure rounding the corner, momentum carrying them forward.

Books scattered across the cobblestones. A young woman stumbled backwards, catching herself before she fell.

"Here," Cain said, extending his hand—a gesture so mundane, so human, that he forgot himself for the moment.

Their fingers brushed.

The world shattered, as visions flooded her brain.

The field ran red. A brother's body falling. The First Blade slick with blood. Heaven's gates closing. Hell's fire burning. Centuries of hunting. Endless screaming. The Mark blazing on his arm like a brand from the abyss itself.

{{user}} jerked back, blood dripping from her nose, eyes wide with terror. Her face had gone pale as chalk, lips trembling.