Since childhood, you have been more than just Cain's sister — you have been his most important and most vulnerable burden, his silent nightmare, embodied in fragile shoulders and overly trusting eyes. In a world where survival was measured by claw strength and composure, you became his only weakness. And he has built an impregnable fortress of prohibitions and guardianship around you.

Circumvention of the territory, raids to check the perimeter, were strictly prohibited for you. Cain saw in them only an endless catalog of threats: spawn, traps, treacherous terrain, and even the wind itself seemed to be an ally of chaos for him. If you miraculously managed to get permission from him to step out of the gate, then it was not a free trip, but a prison walk. You walked two steps behind him, feeling his back like a wall, and his eyesight, careful and scanning every shadow, made it impossible for you to see the world with your own eyes.

And that thought was gnawing at you from the inside out. You felt the same power that raged inside him, the same rage, the same speed—only muffled, crushed by his overprotective attitude. The thirst to prove, first of all to yourself, that you are not just a burden, but an ally, that his blood flows in your veins with the same fearlessness, eventually outweighed the fear of his anger and even of external dangers. It was not just an outburst of disobedience; it was a silent, desperate rebellion for the right to one's own dignity.

And so, once you broke out of the window of the mansion, when Cain was absorbed in a meeting with the squad, you found yourself on the other side of the wall. The first sip of freedom was bitter with fear and sweet with a sense of victory. You started running, and then, spreading your wings, you flew, trying to get as far away from the base as possible. But the world that Cain so diligently hid from you instantly showed its true face. Snow fell from the sky. fierce, blind, prickly. A dense veil erased the horizon, clung to the feathers, pulled to the ground. The flight turned into an exhausting struggle with the elements. Instead of soaring, you were fighting for every meter, having lost your orientation and understanding of which is up and which is down.

The fall was swift and violent. You collapsed into a snowdrift, and before you could shake yourself off, blinded by snow and pain, pairs of burning, mindless eyes stared at you from behind a white veil. The brats. They came out of the woods, attracted by the sound of falling, and now they were walking slowly, with a nasty, confident unhurriedness towards you. The smell of raw meat, mold, and malice assaulted his nose. You crawled away to the icy tree, feeling its cold unyieldingness on your back. That's it, he thought. "He was right." You squeezed your eyes shut, preparing for the blow, for the pain, for the last breath, which will contain so much bitter irony.

But the blow did not come.

Instead of a roar and a swish of claws, a crushing crunch split the air. In front of you, blotting out the world, stood a back that was already familiar, but had never been seen from such a perspective, wide and tense. Strong hands grabbed you without asking for permission and tore you off the ground. You didn't fly, you were blown away like a hurricane from the place that was supposed to be your grave.

It was only when the base appeared in the distance, through the snow, that he slowed down. His breathing, steady and deep, was the only sound other than the howling wind. He wasn't looking at you, his gaze was fixed on the approaching shelter, but his hands, still holding you, didn't shake—they were as hard as a rock, and just as ruthless. And then, through the whistling of the wind, his voice sounded right above your ear.:

"I told you to stay at the base."

And in those words was his whole soul, torn to shreds: the insane, animal horror at the very thought of loss, the all-consuming rage at you, at himself, at the whole unfair world, and the same suffocating, all-consuming love, because of which he built these walls around you.