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Chapter Text

The scent of stale demon funk and something vaguely resembling singed feathers hung heavy in the air of Sir Pentious's former room. Angel Dust, with a dramatic flair, kicked open the door, only for a small, spring-loaded contraption to snap out and bonk him on the nose.

"Ow! Seriously? Even his door is a trap?" Angel grumbled, rubbing his snout. "Alright, whiskers, this is gonna be fun. Prepare yourself, I've got a feeling we're about to uncover some deeply unsettling serpent secrets."

Husk grunted, eyeing a suspiciously glowing gizmo in the corner. "Just try not to touch anything that looks like it could explode, alright, flapper? I'm not in the mood for another impromptu light show."

They started their excavation. Under a pile of what looked like discarded blueprints for a doomsday device shaped like a top hat, Angel found a rather elaborate, hand-stitched sampler. He held it up, squinting. "'Home is where the evil lair is,'" he read aloud, then snorted. "Who knew the old creep was so sentimental?"

Husk, meanwhile, had opened a dresser drawer and recoiled. "Ugh! Is that… a collection of old eggshells?"

Angel peered over his shoulder. "Oh, honey, those aren't just any old eggshells. Look, they've all got little mustaches drawn on them! And tiny monocles!" He dissolved into a fit of giggles. "He was having tea parties with his fucking unhatched children! No wonder those little demonlings were so weird."

Husk picked up a tiny, tarnished teacup from the drawer, looking utterly disgusted. "This guy was seriously off his rocker. And what's with all the gears? He's got a whole section dedicated to different sizes of gears. Just gears!"

Angel rummaged through a stack of neatly organized scrolls. "Ooh, look at this! 'Ode to My Magnificent Steam-Powered Death Ray.' He wrote poetry about his weapons!" He shuddered dramatically. "And I thought I had issues."

They continued their bizarre archaeological dig, unearthing more oddities: a life-sized portrait of a steam engine, a detailed inventory of every single rivet in his airship, and a very well-used, heavily annotated copy of "Evil Overlord Monthly."

"You know," Angel mused, tossing a miniature, fully functional cannon into a 'donate' pile, "I'm starting to think maybe we were the normal ones here."

Husk just sighed, kicking a discarded coil of copper wire. "Let's just get this done before I start growing scales."

The sounds of hammering, sawing, and demonic singing filled the air of the Hazbin Hotel. Weeks after the dust settled from the extermination – and Adam's rather explosive exit – Charlie, with a determined glint in her eye, was leading the charge to rebuild. The once-grand lobby was a symphony of chaos, with Niffty zipping around at warp speed, somehow cleaning and redecorating simultaneously, and Cherri Bomb occasionally "accidentally" blowing up a wall that needed to be knocked down anyway.

Vaggie found Charlie meticulously painting a new "Welcome" sign, her brow furrowed in concentration. "Charlie," she began, her voice a low rumble, "we need to talk. I know we won that battle, but this war isn't over. Not by a long shot."

Charlie paused, paintbrush hovering mid-air. "Vaggie, I know. Believe me, I know. But right now, my focus is on getting this hotel back in shape. We have a re-opening to prepare for!" She gestured vaguely at the still-crumbling facade. "We can worry about divine retribution after we've got a working toilet on every floor."

Vaggie sighed, rubbing her temples. "They're not going to let Adam's death go unpunished, Charlie. They'll come harder next time. We need to be ready."

Charlie turned, a small, weary smile on her face. "And we will be. But first, let's get our home back in order. Okay?"

Vaggie nodded slowly, her gaze drifting to the broken stained-glass window that used to depict a benevolent Heaven. "I just wonder," she murmured, more to herself than to Charlie, "what Lute's planning. What are they going to do now?"

Meanwhile, in the pristine, golden halls of Heaven, the air crackled with a tension far thicker than any earthly fog. Lute paced back and forth before Sera, her single visible eye narrowed in fury.

"I still say it's a terrible idea, Your Divine Holiness!" Lute spat, her voice a low growl. "Bringing him here? Now? It'll only make things worse! He's unpredictable, chaotic, and frankly, a liability."

Sera, ever composed, sat regally on her throne, her hands clasped in front of her. "Lute, he has a right to know. To see what has transpired. Adam was one of our own, and the circumstances of his... demise... are unprecedented."

"Unprecedented chaos is what it is!" Lute retorted, throwing her arms wide. "We've already lost Adam, lost a battle, and now you want to invite a walking, talking time bomb into our midst? He'll turn this place upside down!"

"He is bound by divine decree," Sera replied, her tone firm. "He has remained in his solitude, as commanded. This is not about inviting chaos, Lute. It is about transparency, and ensuring all relevant parties are aware of the shifting dynamics."

"Transparency?! They murdered Adam! They defiled an angelic weapon! And you think he needs to be coddled with 'transparency'?" Lute scoffed, her anger barely contained. "He'll demand retribution, Sera! And we are not in a position to give it to him on a silver platter right now!"

"His perspective is valuable," Sera insisted, unyielding. "His counsel may even prove insightful during these tumultuous times. He is a part of this, whether you wish to acknowledge it or not."

Lute slammed a fist into her palm. "He's a problem! And bringing him here is just inviting more of them! We need to focus on rebuilding our forces, on preparing for the next extermination, not on appeasing ancient grievances!"

"The decision has been made, Lute," Sera stated, her voice quiet but absolute. "An envoy has already been dispatched to bring him here."

Lute's eye twitched, but she remained silent, a silent, simmering volcano of rage.

Far below, on Earth, in the middle of a desolate, windswept plain, a small, furry silhouette darted through the sky. It was a cherub angel, her form resembling a hare, her long ears twitching nervously, her small wings beating frantically. She scanned the barren landscape below, her expression etched with worry.

Suddenly, her sharp eyes caught sight of him. A man, impossibly still, lounging casually in the branches of a gnarled, ancient tree, as if he hadn't a care in the world. He looked up, a faint smile gracing his lips as he noticed her.

"Eloa!" he called out, his voice carrying easily on the wind. "What are you doing up there? Why do you look so worried?"

Eloa, the little cherub hare, practically crash-landed beside the man, her tiny paws flailing as she skidded to a halt. Her breath came in short, panicked gasps, and her usually bright eyes were wide with a mix of shock and utter terror.

"Th-th-the-they arr-re co-co-coming!" she stammered, so quickly that the words tumbled over each other. Her long ears, usually perked alertly, drooped slightly, and a tiny shiver ran through her fluffy white fur.

The man, who went by the name of Cain, simply raised an eyebrow, a faint, amused smile playing on his lips. He reached out a hand and gently patted the spot beside him on the gnarled tree root. "Whoa there, little one," he said, his voice a calm, deep rumble. "Slow down. Sit. Take a breath. Now, who's coming, and why are you in such a tizzy?"

Eloa plopped down, still panting, her nose twitching rapidly. She took a huge, shuddering breath, filling her little lungs. "Th-th-the... the angels are c-c-coming here... f-for you," she managed to squeak out, her eyes darting nervously around the vast, empty plain.

Cain stroked his beard, a thoughtful expression on his face. He didn't seem particularly surprised, or even impressed, by this news. He turned his gaze to his small, worried companion. "You know, Eloa," he began, his voice a low, contemplative tone, "I've been on this earth for... well, for millennia, haven't I?"

Eloa nodded vigorously, her fluffy head bobbing up and down. "Oh, y-y-yes! I-I was t-t-tasked to be w-w-with you e-e-eons ago! I l-l-lost c-c-count many years ago, t-to be h-h-honest," she confirmed, her small voice a little louder now, though still punctuated by her characteristic stutter.

"And for all those hundreds, if not thousands, of years, no Angel came looking for me," Cain continued, a hint of dry amusement in his voice. "They fucking abandoned me here, didn't they? To live and survive and wander on this earth forever, a little celestial oopsie they'd rather forget." He paused, his gaze fixed on the distant horizon. "And now they decide to come see me? To talk to me, after all this time? It's a bit... weird, isn't it, Eloa?"

Eloa fidgeted, her tiny paws kneading the rough bark of the tree. She didn't want to outright question the angels' actions; it wasn't her place. But her silence, the slight shift in her weight, the way her ears drooped just a fraction more, was enough for Cain. He chuckled softly, a low, rumbling sound that seemed to vibrate through the ground.

"Alright then," he said, scratching his head and finally smiling, a genuine, easy grin. "Let's see what the angels are cooking up for me." He settled back against the tree trunk, crossing his legs with an air of profound nonchalance, as if waiting for a delivery of fresh bread rather than a divine delegation.

Eloa, however, remained hovering nervously beside him, her little hare nose twitching, her big, worried eyes fixed on the empty sky. She kept close, her tiny form vibrating with an almost unbearable cuteness, like a fluffy ball of pure anxiety.

Moments later, both Cain and Eloa heard a loud noise approaching them. Cain looked up and saw a blinding light accompanied by angelic singing. He realized that an angel had come to meet him. While this sight would have overwhelmed any ordinary person, it only bored and annoyed Cain. Eloa, on the other hand, froze in place, terrified for her life.

The blinding light vanished, revealing an angel with short blond hair and a youthful, optimistic angelic face. This was Abel, in his angel form. Unlike his usual positive and joyful energy, he looked hurt and sad.

Cain, unimpressed, slowly stood up, taking another long, scrutinizing look at the person who was once considered his "brother." A slow smile spread across Cain's face, a sarcastic glint in his eye as he looked down at the still-worried Eloa. "Well, Eloa," he drawled, his voice dripping with mock affection, "look who it is. My 'brother.' The one who, apparently, was so much better than me that he ascended to Heaven, while I was left down here, wandering around, trying to survive."

Abel remained silent, his gaze fixed on Cain.

Cain chuckled, a dry, humorless sound. He then gave another half-sarcastic, half-serious comment. "You know, you actually look pretty handsome as an angel, brother. After all these years... I've almost missed you." He extended a hand, offering a brotherly handshake.

Abel looked at Cain's outstretched hand with a flicker of disgust before meeting his eyes. His voice, when he finally spoke, was strained and devoid of his usual lightness. "Adam was murdered."

The information actually made Cain's snarky expression vanish, replaced by a momentary seriousness. He knew Adam was a little obnoxious and annoying, but he never imagined him actually getting killed. Eloa, hearing this, gasped and immediately hid her mouth with her tiny paws, her eyes wide with horror. Cain looked at his cherub hare companion, a question in his eyes. "You knew about this?" he asked, his voice low. Eloa vigorously shook her head, her fluffy ears flopping. "N-n-no! I sw-sw-swear I d-d-didn't k-k-know!" she stammered, her voice muffled by her paws.

Cain then turned back to Abel, his expression grim. "Who killed him?"

"Demons," Abel replied simply, his gaze unwavering.

Cain shook his head slowly, reflecting on this news for a while, a thoughtful silence settling between the brothers.

Finally, Cain looked up at Abel, his eyes piercing. His tone was serious now, devoid of any sarcasm. "I know they didn't send you all the way down here just to tell me this. The angels want something from me. So, what is it?"

Abel remained silent for a moment, his gaze distant. "I... I don't know," he finally admitted, his voice barely a whisper. "But I came here to bring you to Heaven. To see Adam one last time and discuss something with the angels."

Cain stood silent, his eyes fixed on his angelic brother, his mind already churning. What could possibly be waiting for him up there, after all this time? Was this a good thing to do? He weighed the possibilities, the years of abandonment against this sudden, unexpected summons.

Cain's gaze sharpened, his eyes boring into Abel's. "How does it feel now, you little shit?" he snarled, his voice low and laced with a chilling dryness.

Abel's brow furrowed. "What do you mean by that?" he questioned, a hint of confusion in his tone.

Cain's cold smile widened, a predatory gleam in his eyes. "How does it feel," he elaborated, his voice cutting through the air like a razor, "to not be chosen? To not be the 'right' choice? The son they need?"

"That has nothing to do with me,Cain" Abel retorted, his expression hardening.

"But it is, isn't it?" Cain pressed, a guttural, bitter laugh tearing from his throat. "Your very existence, your pathetic virtue, caused me to be cursed! To not leave this fucking earth, while you and Adam went to Heaven, enjoying your pure and heavenly existence! And Lucifer and the sinners? They went to Hell, spending their whole lives there, doing sins, having a purpose! Everyone had a direction! A fucking goal! But not me! Oh no! Never for me to become an angel, or to spend my miserable life in Hell with other sinners! I was cursed to be immortal, to wander this vast, desolate earth and witness the rise and fall of humanity, to be a bare witness to the existence of this stupid, fucking world!"

Abel simply stared at him, his face contorted in an expression of pure disgust. But Cain wasn't finished. He continued, his voice a low, furious growl, almost as if delivering a philosophical treatise to a particularly obtuse stone. "You pathetic, fleeting little gnats! People don't live long enough to truly see how disgustingly complex humanity is! They live for a blink, then they're gone! But me? I've seen it all! Centuries of wars, of peace, of love and hatred, cycles repeating, and honestly?" He paused, his gaze sweeping over the desolate landscape.

"After living all these millennia, after seeing so much, and now after Adam's death... I can see that it's all utterly, hopelessly pointless. Nothing really changes, because I'm not like Adam, or Eve, or even you, Abel. Because I could, and I will, never die!" The last words were spoken with a fierce pride, a triumphant, almost manic smile stretching across his face.

Cain took a deep breath, as if shedding a heavy cloak, the anger still vibrating in the air around him. "I've wanted to spit that in your smug, righteous face for centuries now," he admitted, a sense of dark satisfaction in his voice. "And now that I've got it out of my chest, I'm ready to go now. But," he added, holding up a finger, his eyes narrowing, "on one condition, you self-righteous prick."

Abel looked at him, wary. "What the hell is it?"

Cain gestured towards Eloa, who was still hovering nervously, practically vibrating with anxiety. "Up there," he stated, his voice firm, "she comes with me. She will be with me, and she won't leave my side."

Eloa's eyes widened, and she looked down at her paws, speechless and utterly embarrassed by Cain's unexpected condition.

"She was with me from the beginning, you pious fool," Cain continued, ignoring Eloa's blush. "And if I'm going anywhere, she has to be with me."

For the first time since his arrival, a genuine, soft smile touched Abel's lips, a rare sight amidst the grimness. "That won't be a trouble," he said, his voice surprisingly gentle. "Get ready to go to Heaven, brother."

Chapter Text

A blinding, ethereal light erupted in the desolate plain, coalescing into a swirling vortex of shimmering gold and soft, celestial blues. The air thrummed with a silent, resonating hum. Abel turned, his earlier grimness replaced by a genuine, albeit slightly forced, smile. He looked at Cain, then at the trembling Eloa. "We'll be at the gates of Heaven in no time!" 1 he announced, his voice regaining a touch of its former joyful lilt.

Cain cast a sidelong glance at Eloa, a mischievous glint in his eye. "Well, little hare," he drawled, a teasing smirk playing on his lips, "should we go, or should we just keep enjoying this delightful, dusty scenery?" Eloa, already nodding so vigorously her long ears flopped, began to tremble from sheer anxiety, her little paws clenching and unclenching. She was practically vibrating with a mixture of fear and eager anticipation.

Abel, however, merely sighed, a tired look settling on his angelic features. He was clearly not in the mood for his brother's customary jesting. "We don't have time for this, Cain," he stated, his voice flat.

Cain's smirk widened, a glint of defiance in his eyes. "Oh, trust me, Abel, my brother," he purred, his voice low and laced with an ancient weariness, "time is the only thing I have." 2 With that, he stepped forward, a stride both casual and deliberate, and walked directly into the swirling luminescence of the portal. Eloa, with a tiny, nervous squeak, zipped in immediately after him. Abel followed, a resigned shake of his head accompanying his entry.

The moment Cain crossed the threshold, a sensation unlike anything he'd experienced in millennia washed over him. It wasn't merely the warmth of light, but a profound, almost palpable "Heavenly aura" that permeated everything. The air itself felt cleansed, purified, humming with an almost musical quality. Before him, the majestic Golden Gates of Heaven loomed, impossibly tall and gleaming with a brilliance that was both breathtaking and subtly overwhelming. Intricate carvings, depicting scenes of divine grace and cosmic order, adorned their colossal surface.

He turned to his fluffy companion, who was no longer shaking from fear but rather quivering with an almost unbearable excitement, her little nose twitching frantically as she took in the familiar, comforting glow. "Well, little hare," Cain said, a half-joking, half-genuine admission escaping him, "looks like this truly is your home, after all." He then glanced back at Abel, a wry grin on his face. "And I must admit," he confessed, a rare flicker of genuine surprise in his eyes, "I'm actually impressed. This is... not quite how I imagined it. A little less fire and brimstone, a little more... sparkle."

Standing before the immense gates, their figures dwarfed by the sheer scale of the entrance, was Saint Peter. He was also a cheerful angel, his robes flowing, a kindly but weary expression on his face. As Abel, Cain, and Eloa approached, Peter's gaze fell upon Cain. His eyes widened, his jaw slackened, and the ever-present giant book in his hand wavered precariously.

He instantly recognized the unsettling blend of Eve's features and Abel's angelic visage, twisted by an eternal burden. Peter's lips parted, and a soft, utterly bewildered whisper escaped him: "Oh, fuck me."

Saint Peter coughed—a gentle, papery sound, like ancient pages rustling in an unused library. He adjusted the book in his trembling hands, cleared his throat with forced pomp, and attempted a welcoming smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.

"Ahem… pardon me, but—may I ask for your name?" he inquired, already sweating beneath his divine robes. His gaze kept darting from Cain's bare chest to his tangled mane of hair, as if wondering whether letting in an immortal caveman would count as dereliction of celestial duty.

Cain blinked, tilted his head, and let out a short, incredulous chuckle. "Are you serious?" he said, gesturing lazily toward Abel. "You're really asking for my name? I'm not some lost tourist wandering out of Eden's bus depot."

Peter opened his mouth, then closed it again.

Cain's smirk twisted wider. He turned slightly, pointing a thumb at his brother. "That fine, feathered boy over there is Abel. Ring any bells? One of Heaven's poster boys?" His voice dripped mockery like molasses sliding down a rusted blade. "Now, think really hard. If he's Abel… who the fuck do you think I am?"

Peter visibly paled, though his skin was already porcelain-pure. His mouth worked silently for a moment, as if trying to remember what breathing felt like.

Abel stepped forward, voice steadier now, with the weight of purpose behind each word. "This is Cain," he said, his posture tall. "My brother. He was summoned by the elders themselves. He's expected."

The gatekeeper's lips parted slightly in disbelief. "Summoned…?" he echoed weakly.

"By the High Seraphim," Abel repeated with emphasis, almost daring Peter to question the chain of command.

Cain turned to Eloa with a sideways grin, lowering his voice so only she could hear. "Did you catch that, little hare?" he said with mock grandeur. "Summoned by the High Seraphim. Fancy, huh?"

Eloa, who had been clutching the hem of Cain's tattered pants like they were a lifeline, looked up and tried her best to muster the appropriate amount of excitement. Her whole body shuddered with anxiety as she slowly raised a trembling paw and gave him a tiny, enthusiastic thumbs-up.

Saint Peter tried his best to hold his bright expression, but the cracks were showing. His eyes flitted nervously over Cain's wild appearance—unshaven, half-naked, his presence radiating raw defiance and a complete lack of decorum. This wasn't a soul humbled by death, reborn in grace. This was a creature who'd never died at all. That alone was blasphemy wrapped in skin.

Still, Abel had said he was summoned. That made it official.

Peter opened his mouth, finally ready to voice his concerns, when a sharp voice rang out across the golden courtyard:

"You are finally here."

It wasn't a greeting. It was a reprimand carved from iron.

Cain turned, slowly, as did Eloa—who immediately stiffened at the tone. Abel merely looked down, his shoulders sagging.

Striding toward them in full battle regalia, her single visible eye seething with restrained fury, was Lute. No trumpet accompanied her, no choir sang. Only the sound of her armored boots striking the marble floor echoed through the gates like the promise of war.

Cain blinked. He stared at her a moment, then another, his expression unreadable.

Then he scratched his beard and casually said,

"…And you are… who the fuck, exactly?"

Lute's jaw twitched.

Her posture remained soldier-straight, rigid with righteousness, but her eye—glinting like tempered steel—betrayed the insult. She took a slow breath, as if pulling her fury into the tight confines of her ribcage where it couldn't explode… yet.

"I am Lute," she said, voice clipped and disciplined, though ice clung to every syllable. "Adam's most trusted. His top lieutenant. His sword. His shield. I stood at his side for centuries."

Cain raised an eyebrow.

Then, before she could finish basking in her self-appointed sainthood, he cut in.

"But you did let him die," he said softly, voice curved like a dagger wrapped in velvet. "By a demon, no less. So… are you really that good?"

The air turned to glass.

Abel stiffened as if struck. Saint Peter dropped his book entirely. It hit the marble with a papery clatter that echoed across the courtyard. Eloa let out a squeak so high-pitched only angels and bats could register it. Her paws clutched her cheeks now, her whole fuzzy body trembling as if she were about to vibrate through the floor.

Lute didn't move.

Her sword did.

A soft hum, golden and angry, flared from the hilt as she drew the blade in one motion. The moment it cleared the sheath, Heaven itself seemed to wince.

"What the fuck did you just say to me?" Lute growled, voice guttural with fury, a wrath honed by centuries of combat and mourning.

Cain stood still.

Completely, insultingly still.

His eyes met hers—ancient, patient, and maddeningly unimpressed.

"Rage," he said, voice low and smooth as a slow-turning tide, "is the easiest fire to stoke, and the hardest to control. But it rarely gives light—only smoke."

He took a step forward. Not aggressive. Not fearful. Just… present. Dominant by existence alone.

"You want to be a leader?" he continued, voice gaining weight, not volume. "Then mourn your fallen. Don't hide behind him. Admit you failed. Admit your fury's not about me, but about the part of yourself that let him fall."

He let the silence stretch, let the tension gnaw at the edges of her discipline.

"Or," he added, tilting his head just slightly, "keep throwing tantrums. But you'll never get your job done like that."

Lute's sword trembled—not from fear, but restraint.

Her grip tightened, and her mouth formed a hard line that might've been a snarl before she swallowed it.

Then she stepped back.

"I see," she said coldly, returning the blade to its sheath with an audible click. "Adam was right about you."

The jab hung in the air like smoke after a cannon blast.

Cain merely nodded, calm as death.

"Probably."

Before Lute could unleash another barbed word, the air shimmered again—cooler this time, not burning gold but a gentle, calming radiance. Two figures descended from the upper sanctums like the beginning of a hymn: one with a gleaming smile and laughter in her steps, the other silent and slow-eyed, her presence less like a greeting and more like judgment incarnate.

Emily, dressed in layered silks that danced like light on water, practically skipped toward them. "Oh my stars!" she beamed, "You must be Cain! Look at you! I've heard so many terribly dramatic things—this is so exciting!"

Cain blinked at her in bemusement.

Behind her, Sera followed with measured grace, the folds of her white-gold robe trailing behind her like the edge of a storm. She did not speak at first—just looked at him, her eyes the color of dying starlight. Eyes that saw through lies and into marrow.

Lute clenched her jaw, gave a sharp nod to the newcomers, and without another word, shot into the sky in a streak of frustration, her departure kicking up small ripples in the holy aura around them.

Cain watched her go with mild amusement. "Charming," he muttered.

Abel and Saint Peter immediately bowed their heads as the two angels approached. Even Eloa, shaking like a chihuahua in a thunderstorm, managed a jittery curtsy mid-hover.

Cain, however, stood still. For a long moment. Then, with all the enthusiasm of a bored king indulging peasantry, he gave a curt nod and dipped his head—not out of reverence, but etiquette. A gesture hollowed out by eons.

Sera finally spoke, her voice as smooth and cold as marble left in shadow.

"Cain," she said, her tone not unkind, but distant—like someone reciting a story they did not believe in. "You are not here by courtesy, but necessity. One of Heaven's greatest, most faithful, and most powerful was destroyed. Adam. The first. The mirror of divine purpose placed into flesh."

Her eyes locked on him.

"You are the first-born of man. The living remnant of Earth's first family. You carry the bloodline of every son and every sin that came after. Abel stands beside us in glory. Seth rests in golden halls. And you… you walk still. A relic. A scar."

Cain's face did not change.

"You were summoned," she continued, "because the death of Adam marks a turning point, and it is only fitting—poetically, politically, spiritually—that his sons stand united once more. Not because you were chosen, Cain. But because you are needed."

Emily still smiled beside her, hands clasped in delight, seemingly oblivious to the chill in her superior's words.

Cain glanced at Abel.

His brother's face had shifted—eyes glassy with that familiar, ancient sadness. Not just mourning for his father, but mourning for what Cain had become. Or hadn't.

Cain felt nothing.

Not guilt. Not pain. Not even the ache of resentment that used to follow Abel like a second shadow.

"I wasn't thrilled to be here," Cain said at last, voice low and dry as ash. "But I was bored. And I figured maybe Heaven had better wine than Earth."

He looked at Abel again, and added with a shrug, "Staying alive for too long… it drains you. You don't feel pain anymore. Or joy. Or anger. You just get good at pretending."His words were gentle, but they landed like stones.

Abel said nothing.

Sera didn't flinch, but her jaw tensed ever so slightly. She was already regretting this.

"Abel," she said, tone clipped now, "show him the grounds. His quarters have been prepared. Make sure he doesn't... wander."

Abel gave a mechanical nod and forced a smile. "Of course," he said quietly.

As the radiant pair turned to leave, Cain looked down to see Eloa's wide, twitching eyes staring up at him.

Her little arms crossed.

"H-h-honestly, M-M-Mr. C-Cain," she stammered, voice high and scolding, "c-c-could y-you at least t-try to be n-n-nice?! Or r-r-respectful?! J-j-just a little?!"

Cain grinned and gave her a lazy shrug.

"No promises, little hare."

The great golden gates of Heaven groaned open, not with the grinding of gears or the creak of rusted hinges, but with the serene, harmonious swell of a thousand unseen voices singing in perfect unity. The light beyond was not harsh—it was welcoming. Soft. Endless.

Cain stepped forward, slow at first, as if the ground beneath him might vanish if he dared trust it. Eloa hovered close by, her wings trembling with excitement, while Abel practically bounced ahead like a dog off-leash for the first time in years.

The moment Cain passed the threshold, his breath caught.

He didn't expect it.

No torment, no militant order. No sterile divine minimalism.

Instead, Heaven unfolded like an infinite dream carved in gold and glass. Fields of starlight stretched into the horizon, rivers flowed upward into the clouds and back down again like silk. Trees shimmered with leaves that sang as the wind passed through them. Massive marble towers floated lazily through the sky like drifting thoughts, and the sun—if it could be called that—was everywhere and nowhere at once, warm but weightless.

He said nothing.

Couldn't.

His eyes were wide, for the first time in millennia filled with something that wasn't bitterness or sarcasm—just awe.

Eloa floated beside him, her cheeks puffed up in a smile so wide it nearly swallowed her little face. She looked up at him, twitching nose and all, her expression reading: See? I told you.

Cain gave her a slow, bewildered shake of the head. "…You really did."

Abel, practically glowing now, turned with a beam of excitement, all the pain from earlier seemingly gone from his posture. "Isn't it incredible?" he asked, voice bursting with genuine delight. "No pain here, no disease, no grief. Everyone is free here. Peaceful. It's perfect. It's everything."

Cain couldn't help but smirk—not mockingly, but faintly amused at how bright Abel was now, like a kid giving a tour of his new treehouse. The irony of the angel of innocence acting like this in front of him wasn't lost.

As they strolled deeper into the celestial garden of light, a small cluster of angelic women passed by. Their robes fluttered like cloud wisps, and their laughter tinkled like bells carried on wind.

Cain watched them walk past, then grinned.

With a devil's smoothness, he leaned ever so slightly their way and drawled, "Hello, ladies," with a wink that would've sent nuns running.

The angelic women tittered, whispering to one another, then giggled like celestial schoolgirls before floating onward, wings fluttering a touch faster than before.

Abel's face flushed red instantly, his mouth opening and closing like he'd forgotten how to speak. "C-Cain!" he sputtered. "You can't—!"

Eloa groaned and facepalmed mid-air, her whole body shaking with disapproval. "H-h-he never ch-ch-changes," she muttered.

Cain just shrugged, flashing his usual crooked smirk. "What?" he said with a feigned innocence. "I saw sexy ladies. Figured they deserved to know."

And with that, they continued the tour—Cain grinning, Abel still glowing and stammering, and Eloa hovering just behind with the deeply pained patience of someone who'd been putting up with this for centuries.

After a gentle walk beneath radiant skies and past crystalline gardens that pulsed with quiet holiness, the three arrived at a pristine hillside home carved from ivory stone and golden glass. The structure shimmered under Heaven's light, its design effortless in beauty—arched windows, flowering vines draping the balcony, a glistening pool that reflected the sky like a liquid mirror, and rooms so wide and open they looked more like memories than architecture.

Cain took it all in with a slow nod. "Well… damn," he murmured. "Guess sleeping on a rock bed for two thousand years really lowered my standards."

Abel chuckled, a little awkward, rubbing the back of his neck. "This is where you'll be staying… for now. Just for a few hours. You can settle in, relax, and then…" his voice caught for a beat, "…then we'll go see Adam's body. After that, you'll meet the Elders."

There was a pause, longer than needed.

Abel's hands clenched slightly, and without looking at either of them, he added in a breathless whisper, "Father would… would've wanted that."

The moment the word left his lips, his eyes widened. He stiffened.

"I—sorry. I meant Adam."

Cain's eyes flicked to him.

He didn't comment on the slip. Didn't need to. Abel was already staring at the floor, the soft glow of Heaven unable to wash out the fresh weight behind his eyes.

Cain sighed through his nose.

Then turned to Eloa, who had already begun drifting anxiously by his side again.

"Alright, little hare," he said, softer than usual, "you've earned your first vacation in… what, a few centuries? Go inside. Rest. Maybe float a few laps. I'm gonna walk with Abel for a bit. Just us."

Eloa blinked. Her wings fluttered with uncertainty. "Y-y-you sure?" she asked, wringing her tiny paws together. "I-I-I c-can st-st-stay if—"

He cut her off with a small smirk and a tilt of his head. "I'll try to stay out of trouble," he teased, raising one brow. "No promises, though. Just… don't overuse the pool. I don't want you turning into a wet puffball."

Eloa giggled at that, cheeks pink as she nodded. "F-f-fine. B-but d-d-don't go d-doing anything s-stupid."

Cain gave a lazy salute. "You wound me, bunny."

With a last, cautious glance between the brothers, Eloa drifted toward the grand door, still smiling, her twitching nose betraying her nerves. The door closed behind her with a sound like wind brushing harp strings.

Cain turned toward the path stretching out beside the house—a winding trail of soft stone and golden grass, leading through a grove of tall crystal trees.

He glanced at Abel. "C'mon," he said, starting forward. "Let's walk. Just like the old days. Before blood hit the dirt and Heaven started playing favorites."

Abel hesitated.

Then followed.

Chapter Text

Not the stillness of silence, but the kind born from perfection so total it muffled all imperfections into dust. The breeze didn't rustle—the leaves parted for it. The grass didn't sway—it leaned, reverently. As Cain and Abel strolled side by side along a crystalline path that wound through groves of ivory trees and flowering stardust, not a single creature stirred out of place. Not even a breeze dared interrupt them.

They walked in silence.

Abel didn't know why Cain wanted this. A walk. Alone. It felt too sudden, too unguarded, too much like a trick. His brother was not the sort of man to want company without reason, not after everything, and especially not with him. Cain didn't ask for closeness—he tolerated it. Like the desert tolerates a shadow.

Still… Abel followed. Because no matter how much doubt he buried in his heart, a tiny part still ached for something that looked like brotherhood.

Cain, eyes half-lidded as if trying to memorize every absurd detail of the celestial path, spoke first.

"So... how you holding up, Abel?"

Abel blinked at the question. He hesitated. "I… I'm doing alright," he lied.

Cain glanced at him sidelong, unimpressed. "Mm," he murmured. "Lemme rephrase. How'd it feel, knowing Adam was murdered?"

The question hit like a blade.

Abel's breath caught. His shoulders drew in tight.

"It's still… it's still hard to believe," he said, his voice hushed. "I wake up every cycle and forget. Just for a moment. I think, 'I should go see him.' And then I remember." His steps slowed. "I wasn't even close to him… not really. He was always busy, always somewhere else. But even if we didn't speak much…"

His throat tightened.

"…He was still my father."

Then, realizing what he'd just said, Abel winced. "Sorry. I—I mean… Adam. I shouldn't—"

Cain raised a hand and waved it away, his tone dry and uncaring. "You can call him whatever you want, Abel. You don't need to censor yourself on my account."

Abel looked surprised.

"I made you promise not to call him that… back when I still gave a damn. That was a long time ago," Cain added, tone flat as old stone. "You shouldn't have to bottle your grief just to spare my pride. I don't care anymore."

That landed harder than it should have. Abel felt his lips part, as if some half-formed apology lingered there, but he didn't speak. Instead, his chest trembled, and his hands balled into fists at his side. Tears burned behind his eyes.

And then… a step closer.

He opened his arms.

Cain stopped him with a look.

"Don't," he said quietly, but with weight. "I'm not the person who deserves that hug."

Abel froze.

Cain's gaze was level. Unflinching. Not unkind—but resolute.

"Save it," he said. "For someone who would really appreciate it. Someone who still believes in all this." Then, after a pause: "Dear brother."

Abel lowered his arms slowly. There was no anger—only quiet understanding.

"…Thank you," he whispered, barely audible.

Cain gave a half-nod, and they resumed walking.

After a while, Cain said, "If we're doing this walk, you might as well make it worthwhile. Talk to me. Not the polished choirboy version. What're you really feeling about this whole mess?"

Abel remained quiet for several steps, wrestling the words in his chest. Eventually, he said, "I'm… confused. A little angry, if I'm honest."

Cain raised a brow but said nothing.

"I always looked up to father," Abel went on, voice gentler now. "Even though he was distant. I thought he was the best of us. Strong. Wise. Just. I wanted to be like him."

Cain let out a soft, nearly imperceptible chuckle at that, but didn't interrupt.

Abel continued. "But now I find out he had this… secret life. That he was the one commanding exorcists. That he led the charge into Hell to destroy sinners. And I…" he trailed off, brow furrowed.

"I hate what they do down there. The sins. The cruelty. But I hate killing, too. Always have. And now I'm supposed to believe that Adam—my father—was doing it for the greater good. For us. For me."

His voice cracked.

Cain slowed his pace.

"You want to know what I think?" Cain finally asked, his tone unreadable.

Abel nodded.

Cain gazed at the glowing horizon, as if searching for some distant truth behind it. Then, with a voice worn smooth by centuries, he began:

"The Extermination," he said, "is Heaven's way of remembering it still has teeth."

Abel blinked.

"It's not about justice," Cain went on, "or mercy. Not really. It's about balance. You build a world, then make its mirror. One side full of light. One side full of rot. You let them fester, and then, when the rot gets too loud… you scrape it clean again."

His tone deepened, distant, almost like he was reciting something ancient. "Angels don't see this as evil. They can't. Not truly. Because to them, they aren't capable of it. They don't make mistakes. They carry orders. They are the hand. They don't ask who clenched the fist."

He paused, then turned his gaze to Abel.

"And Hell?" he said. "Hell sees it all as tyranny. Because they think they've escaped judgment. They think they're owed peace, even after corruption twisted them. So when Heaven comes knocking, they don't see balance. They see genocide."

He looked back ahead, eyes sharp now.

"The truth is neither side sees truth. They see only what they're allowed to."

A long silence.

Abel didn't know what to say. His mouth moved, but no words came.

Cain smiled—a slow, cold thing, like ice shifting underfoot.

"You are wondering where I stand?" he said.

Abel nodded cautiously.

Cain kept walking.

"I don't," he said. "Because laws are written by the strong. The weak don't get a say. They just follow—or die trying."

Abel glanced at his brother, something kindling behind his eyes now—curiosity, laced with hesitation. The silence between them had softened, the way old wounds sometimes stop bleeding but never quite stop aching.

"You've seen more than any of us," Abel said, voice cautious but steady. "Lived through more. Felt things we've only read in records or heard in songs."

Cain raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.

"So I have to ask," Abel went on. "What do you think of her? Of Charlie."

Cain's brow twitched faintly.

Abel continued, "The princess of Hell. Daughter of Lucifer and Lilith. She's… trying something new. A redemption hotel. A way for sinners to change—to become better, so they can ascend."

Cain blinked slowly. His expression didn't change.

Abel kept going, eager now. "There's this new arrival too. Some steampunk snake demon, name's Sir Pentious. Apparently, he actually ascended. First known sinner to get through the process. People are saying it's a miracle. Others think it's a fluke. I just…"

He looked at Cain with a vulnerable, searching gaze.

"…What do you think? About redemption. About him. About all of it."

Cain didn't respond at first.

He kept walking, his bare feet scuffing quietly against the marble path. The crystal trees above them shimmered, casting fractured rainbows across the walkway.

Then, without looking at Abel, he spoke.

"Redemption…" he repeated, as if tasting the word. "It's a funny little prayer, isn't it?"

Abel said nothing, letting him go on.

"I've seen it in a thousand forms. In temples carved into mountain faces. In whispered confessions behind bloodstained altars. In hands raised toward suns they couldn't even see. Sometimes they call it salvation. Sometimes enlightenment. Moksha. Nirvana. Even peace." He paused. "But they all mean the same thing."

He finally looked at Abel.

"To be clean."

Abel's eyes stayed locked on him.

Cain continued, his voice deeper now—reflective, slow, as if peeling truth from old wounds. "To redeem is to conquer. Not others. Yourself. It's war waged inward, on the endless parts of you that rot quietly in the dark. Every sin, every selfish urge, every lie told just to keep breathing. Most people don't win that war. Most don't even start it."

His voice sharpened—subtle, but felt.

"And the ones who do? They never ask for Heaven. They just want silence. A moment where the noise stops."

Cain looked away again, toward the sky that didn't shine—it hummed.

"You ask me why Sir Pentious got in? I don't know. Maybe he bled enough in that battle. Maybe Charlie's dream is real. Maybe she cracked open a door we've all been pretending doesn't exist. Or maybe the system's slipping."

He shrugged.

"Redemption is an idea. A direction. But not a promise."

Another pause.

"I'll wait," Cain muttered, almost to himself. "And see how it all turns out."

Abel took a breath, the air of Heaven soft in his lungs but heavy in his chest. His fingers twisted together nervously as he glanced over at his brother—tall, tired, wild-haired, and unreadable.

"Cain," he asked quietly, "would you ever consider… I don't know… redeeming yourself? Just enough to ascend. To be here. With me. With Mother. With—our family?"

It was a simple question.

But the effect was anything but.

Cain stopped walking.

For a moment, he said nothing. His back to Abel. Silent as marble.

Then, from somewhere low in his chest, a sound began to bubble up. A chuckle. Then a snort. Then a bark of laughter that shattered the serenity around them.

And he laughed.

And laughed.

And laughed even more.

It echoed off the crystalline trees and into the sky, a sound not of joy but of something broken so deeply it no longer remembered what mending felt like. It was too loud, too long, and too empty.

Abel stepped back, startled. "Cain?"

But his brother just kept going—until the laugh hit a wall, and broke.

And then Cain turned.

His face was pale and still, expressionless, as if laughter had been a mask he'd torn off mid-joke.

"You think I'm here for that?" he said flatly. "You think I came to Heaven to light a candle and beg for hugs from dead family members?"

Abel opened his mouth to reply, but Cain cut him off.

"The only reason I'm here is to make sure Adam is dead. Truly dead. No holy coma, no waiting in some glowing purgatory garden. I want to see the body, Abel. I want proof. Because if he's gone, then maybe—just maybe—Your friends up here will stop sending their little gold-plated foot soldiers to ruin my fucking cursed existence!"

Cain's voice dropped lower.

"And don't get it twisted," he added, taking a step closer. "You and I? We're not what we used to be. I'm not the older brother who used to carry you on my back through the river mud. I'm not even the man who made you promise to stop calling Adam 'father.' I'm something else now."

He pointed to himself.

"This—" he gestured to his chest, his face, his ancient eyes "—this is still Cain. But older. And wiser. Because I've read more books than any angel in this gilded sky ever has. I've spoken to demons, to kings, to madmen and prophets. I've lived life while you spent eternity sipping clouds."

Abel's eyes filled with a mix of confusion and pain. "I—I didn't choose this either, Cain. I never wanted to be your enemy. I just wanted a moment with my brother."

Cain rolled his eyes. "Whatever."

But Abel's voice sharpened, finally pushed past the boundary.

"No. I'm not done." He stepped forward now, fists clenched. "Why are you always like this? Always angry, always bitter. What happened to you that made you so full of hate? Why can't you ever—just once—let your guard down and be human again?"

Cain's eyes narrowed.

"Oh," he growled, his voice suddenly thunderous, "you want to know why?"

The air around them grew still. Too still.

Cain's voice trembled—not from weakness, but the effort of holding back centuries of venom.

"I was born to suffer."

His words dropped like a stone.

"From the moment I clawed my way out of Eve, I was a reminder. A curse made flesh. Do you think they loved me, Abel? No. They feared me. I was the product of their sin—the firstborn of shame. And then you came along. Sweet little Abel. The golden boy. Perfect smile. Perfect soul. You were everything I wasn't. And I got to watch you take it all—love, attention, Angels' damn favor—while I scraped the dirt for scraps."

His hands trembled as he spoke.

"And then, when I broke—when I killed you—I was cursed. Not with death. No, that would've been mercy. I was cursed with life. Immortality. And worse…" he looked down at his hands, jaw clenching, "I can't be killed. Not by angels nor demons. Nothing and no one can touch me with malicious intent and stay alive…"

Cain's voice cracked.

"But the worst part?"

He looked Abel in the eye.

"I will never know happiness. Not ever. No matter how much I repent. No matter how much I cry, or scream, or bleed. I can't feel salvation. I can't reach it. I walk the earth with all the time in the world and not a single second of peace."

Abel stood frozen, mouth slightly open, breath shallow.

But Cain wasn't finished.

"I've had wives," he said bitterly. "Beautiful, kind, terrifying women who tried to love me. I've had children. Grandchildren. I built cities with my hands. And one by one, I watched them all die. Watched them burn, or fall, or rot. I buried them with these cursed hands. I remember every face."

He sucked in a breath that sounded more like a choke.

"Every time I create something… the world takes it. Because I'm not allowed to build. I'm the cursed one. The marked one. The world only lets me destroy."

He took a step forward, voice low and deadly calm.

"You want to know why I'll never be redeemed?"

Abel swallowed, eyes glossy.

Cain leaned in, his next words a blade under the ribs.

"Because the woman who birthed me ate the fruit of knowledge while I was still inside her. And in that moment, that Original Sin passed to me. I was born knowing. I was born damned. Her mistake was me."

Abel said nothing.

He couldn't.

There were no words for what he'd just heard—only silence, deep and deafening.

Cain exhaled long and slow, the breath like a sigh pulled from the bottom of a cavern.

"I accepted my punishment centuries ago," he said at last, his voice calm—too calm. Each word felt like it had been carved in stone. "My fate was sealed before the first cities rose. Before names mattered. And you, dear brother, would do well to accept that too. Cain—the cursed one, the marked one—will never be forgiven. Not in this life. Not in the next. And I've made peace with that."

The words were spoken with a strange sort of dignity, like a knight swearing loyalty to a cruel king. But deep beneath the marble-smooth delivery, something cracked and flinched. Cain had buried his pain under layers of history, sarcasm, and silence—but it was still there. A dull ember in his chest that never quite went out.

Abel gave a slow, sad nod. His eyes drifted to the shining road ahead, heart heavy with the weight of things left unsaid. "Do you want to keep walking?" he offered gently.

Cain shook his head. "I should check on Eloa. She's probably pretending to nap while snooping through drawers and poking holy artifacts."

He smirked faintly, but it didn't reach his eyes.

"We'll meet again at the funeral," he added. His tone was cool, but his eyes lingered a little longer on his brother. "For Adam."

Abel nodded again, quieter this time. Something twisted in his chest. He remembered what Eve had said before he left to meet Cain. What Seth had warned. Even little Azura's nervous, fidgety concern.

Don't provoke him.

Don't dig into his wounds.

He isn't like us anymore.

And yet—Abel had never feared Cain. Not even after the incident. Not even when his blood soaked the earth.

"I understand," Abel whispered. Then, awkwardly, "We… we prepared some proper clothes for you. For the funeral."

Cain chuckled, that half-bitter, half-charming sound of a man who'd lived too long with too many ghosts. "Worried I'll show up shirtless and barefoot?"

Abel gave a faint smile.

Cain tilted his head, eyes soft for a fleeting moment. "Don't worry about me. I'll be alright."

But then his gaze drifted upward, past the rooftops and glowing spires, toward the highest tower in Heaven. A place gilded in divine secrecy. The light didn't touch it directly—it seemed to radiate from it, unnaturally white and veiled. Whatever the Elders were planning… Cain could feel it coiling in the air like a thunderstorm waiting to break.

He said nothing. Just stared.

"You want a ride?" Abel asked gently, nudging him back to earth. "We've walked a long way. Could summon a transport—chariot, wing-lift, whatever you prefer."

Cain's smile curled. "You forget, Abel."

He rolled his neck, each joint popping like distant drumbeats.

"I'm not an angel."

Crack .

"I'm not a demon either."

Snap .

"But I sure as hell ain't a mere mortal man."

Suddenly, Cain's legs bent just slightly, tension coiling through his body like a bowstring drawn to its limit. The air around him shifted. A whisper of wind curled at his feet.

Then—BOOM.

He shot forward like a cannonblast.

The ground shuddered under the weight of his launch. The roads of Heaven trembled, sending ripples through the glasslike stone. A burst of wind exploded in his wake, sending nearby petals and feathers scattering like a storm of silver leaves. The sonic ripple echoed in every direction as Cain sprinted with unnatural velocity, a blur of flesh and long hair and silent fury.

Every stride cracked the air.

Every footfall left a quake in the marble beneath.

Angels turned to stare. Flashes of wings fluttered in confusion. The breeze howled in his path like the war cry of a forgotten god.

From high above, on a distant balcony shrouded in light, Lute watched.

Her eyes followed the wild blur tearing across Heaven's pristine streets. Her mouth tight. Her mind sharp.

She had seen both sons of Adam now. The soft-spoken, bleeding-hearted Abel.

And the beast that ran like the storm.

She watched Cain vanish into the horizon.

And she thought—Perhaps… we'll need them both.

Cain skidded to a stop in front of the house—stone tiles cracking beneath his heels, his long hair whipping forward from the sheer inertia of his flight. For a moment, all was silent.

Then the wind he'd left behind finally caught up.

It rolled over him like a soft explosion, warm and wild, dragging his clothes against his skin and tousling the already-chaotic mess of his hair. The leaves in the nearby garden trembled in his wake, small cyclones twisting in their beds.

Cain exhaled, chest rising and falling in a long, deliberate breath.

"I really need to work out more," he muttered to himself, rubbing the back of his neck. "I'm losing the edge."

He pushed open the door.

The scent hit him immediately—flowers and vanilla. A comforting sweetness, light and persistent, like something clinging to the memory of a dream.

"Eloa?" he called into the house.

"I-I'm in the shower!" her voice echoed from down the hall, soft and chipper. "I-I'll be out in a minute! G-Go to the kitchen—I-I made you something!"

Cain didn't move at first. He leaned on the frame, eyes scanning the soft glow of the house's interior. He could see the bowl on the table from here—ice cream piled high, colors swirled together like marbled gemstones. His favorites. Always his favorites. Eloa never forgot.

He stepped forward slowly, eyes narrowing as Abel's voice returned to him like a whisper echoing through old cathedral walls:

"Would you ever consider redeeming yourself?"

Cain stared at the ice cream.

"I'm not hungry," he murmured.

Instead, he turned and wandered down the hall, his bare feet silent against the gleaming floors. The next room opened into a bedroom—not gaudy or ostentatious, but warm, high-ceilinged, with morning light spilling through translucent curtains.

And laid out neatly on the bed, folded with a reverence that made his chest tighten, was an outfit.

Black and gold. A tailored fusion of formal suit and angelic robe. Embroidered cuffs, a subtle sigil at the collar. It looked ceremonial. Important. Dignified.

He didn't touch it.

Cain just stood there, eyes fixed, expression unreadable.

Why?

Why go through all this? Why invite the first murderer, the cursed one, into Heaven? Why speak of redemption like it was an option?

He could feel it building—darkness curling around his spine like a slow, cold flame. A memory of old instincts. Suspicion. Rage. The thought that maybe—just maybe—they wanted him here not to honor Adam, but to use him. The Elders' dirty work. The cursed son turned sword.

The shadows in the room lengthened. A quiet hum began in his skull—like pressure mounting behind his temples.

You are a weapon, Cain, the darkness whispered. They'll dress you up in gold and send you to war.

His hands clenched.

That was when he heard it—light footsteps, rushing.

"M-MR. CAIN!"

The door flung open.

Eloa stood there, still damp from the shower, curls of steam trailing from her long ears and shoulders. Her wings were tucked behind her like soft armor, and in her hands was the giant bowl of ice cream—carefully balanced, overstuffed, and already beginning to melt.

She was breathing a little fast, like she'd run straight from the bathroom.

"D-Don't," she said quickly, gently, as she stepped inside. "D-Don't go into that p-place again."

Cain looked at her.

Really looked.

So small. So persistent. So unbearably good.

The darkness pulled back like a tide at her presence. Not banished. Just… held at bay.

She held the bowl up higher. "Y-You should eat. I-I put all your favorite flavors in it—p-peach, blueberry, vanilla b-bean, that w-weird rosewater one y-you like but p-pretend not to."

Cain let out a breath. His shoulders fell. He reached up and ran a hand through his wild mane of hair.

Then he slumped into the chair beside the bed.

"Fine," he muttered. "You win."

She grinned. "W-Want me to f-feed you?"

He gave her a long, side-eyed glance.

But didn't protest.

Eloa happily pulled up a chair and sat beside him, scooping a little of the pastel swirl into a silver spoon. She brought it to his lips.

Cain opened his mouth.

Cool sweetness hit his tongue. Fruit, cream, soft and perfect. A flash of colorful and delicious memories of joy.

He didn't speak.

He just chewed slowly, swallowed, and let the sugar dissolve something bitter inside.

Does she still believe I can be saved?

He wondered that a lot.

He told her, centuries ago, not to hope for him. That his path was already carved. That redemption was a story other people got to live.

And she'd nodded. Said okay.

But she never stopped following him.

Never stopped believing.

"Mm," she mumbled between spoonfuls. "Y-You're quiet. D-Did the walk with Mr. A-Abel go okay?"

Cain nodded.

Then she shoved the spoon into his mouth before he could speak.

He blinked.

"…Yeah," he mumbled past the cold, "it was fine."

Eloa smiled.

Cain glanced at her. Then out the window, past the edge of Heaven, to the silent sky beyond.

Maybe… he thought, as another spoonful of sweetness hit his tongue, just maybe… Abel isn't the only one.

A few hours later, the air in Heaven felt heavy—not with clouds or storms, but with the quiet weight of loss.

The funeral hall was vast and open, its marble pillars veined with gold, each carrying the faint glow of sanctified light. Choirs sang low and steady somewhere beyond the great chamber, their voices a somber current that carried the mourners' grief.

Abel stood with his family near the front—his mother Eve, his younger brother Seth, his little sister Azura, and a small circle of other kin and angels who had come to honor Adam, the first man.

Eve stood tall, her long golden hair falling in smooth waves over white ceremonial robes. There was a strength in her stance that refused to bend under the weight of tragedy, yet her presence was unmistakably maternal. She greeted mourners with a steady grace, her words soft, her eyes careful to hide the depths of what she truly felt.

Seth was to her right, his build almost a mirror of Adam's—broad-shouldered, square-jawed, and dignified—but with Eve's eyes, sharp and unwavering. The resemblance to their father was so stark it almost hurt to look at him.

Azura stood at Eve's left, a small, delicate figure with Abel's gentle features softened further by innocence. Her hair, a lighter shade of gold, framed a face that looked as though it had never known hatred.

They had been talking about Cain.

Or rather, about sending Abel to him—and the danger that might carry.

Abel recounted the conversation he'd had with his older brother earlier that day. He didn't embellish. He didn't spare them the unsettling parts. His voice was calm, but there was a trace of something else in it—something uncertain.

Eve listened in silence, her hands clasped before her, greeting those who came to pay their respects while never once interrupting.

Seth, however, had no such restraint.

"He sounds the same as always," Seth said flatly. "Arrogant. Cold. Full of himself."

Azura bit her lip, glancing between her brothers. "I just… I feel sorry for you, Abel."

But Abel shook his head, surprising them. "I'm not afraid of him."

That earned him a sharp look from Seth. "You should be. You forget—Cain spent years with Lucifer himself, with the Seven Sins at his side. You think you can take his words at face value? He has the tongue of a serpent."

Abel's expression hardened. "You've never even met him. You've never spoken to him. So how would you know?"

Azura's voice was timid, but it carried. "We've all heard the stories, Abel. About what he did to you. About what he's done to others. He's… dangerous."

"And yet," Seth cut in, "you defend him. Why?"

Abel turned then—slowly—to their mother. His voice was quiet, but it struck through the noise like an arrow.

"He was your firstborn. Doesn't that mean something? Doesn't that mean anything?"

Eve's eyes softened. She reached up, brushing a strand of hair from her face before answering. Her voice was calm, almost tender.

"Cain has always been different… difficult to understand. He acts upon his emotions—always has—and that path led him to his curse, to his banishment. That is the truth, Abel. But now…" She looked at each of them in turn. "…now is not the time to weigh the sins of your brother. Now is the time to mourn your father. There will be time for the rest later."

The words had barely settled when the great doors swung open with a low, deliberate groan.

A figure entered—a tall shadow against the light spilling in from outside.

Cain.

But not the wild, unkempt Cain that Abel had seen earlier. His long black hair had been groomed into a loose but deliberate sweep, his beard trimmed to a sharp line. The black and gold suit he wore was tailored perfectly to his frame, the cut of it almost regal, with subtle patterns woven into the fabric that shimmered under the hall's light. He smelled faintly of something warm and rich—spices, woods, and the faint sweetness of myrrh.

Eloa hovered softly beside him, her ears lifted and her posture proud. If she had been his shadow earlier, now she was his herald.

Cain's gaze found Eve instantly.

He didn't blink. Didn't waver.

For a long, stretched moment, they simply stared at each other.

Eve felt something stir in her chest, something she had locked away for centuries. She wasn't sure whether to reach for him… or step back.

Seth, for all his composure, felt something he hadn't in years—an old, instinctive pulse of fear. His hands flexed against his sides.

Azura took a step backward, her eyes darting toward Abel.

Cain's lips curled into a slow, chilling smile. It wasn't warm. It wasn't cruel. It was simply there—a statement. A challenge.

A reminder that whether they welcomed him or not… he was here. And he would be seen.

Cain moved through the room like a black tide, his height making him loom over almost everyone in his path. His gaze swept across the sea of angelic faces, searching—hunting—for recognition.

He caught it in fragments.

A pair of great-nephews standing stiffly by the wall, pretending not to see him but glancing sideways when they thought he wouldn't notice. A great-niece with her mother's wings and her father's eyes, shrinking behind her veil as if she could disappear from his sight. Veterans of Adam's command—the exorcist angels—stood rigid in their ceremonial armor, their faces unreadable, but Cain could sense the weight of judgment in their stares.

And then came the whispers.

They slithered from every corner of the room.

"Why is he here?"

"A murderer, among us…"

"…an insult to Adam's memory…"

Eloa's ears twitched. She caught every word. Her chest tightened, a pang of sadness swelling inside her. But before she could even open her mouth, Cain leaned toward her with a small, almost amused smile.

"Don't feel bad for me," he murmured. "I'll make sure they remember this day for the rest of their eternal lives."

And she believed him.

With long, unhurried steps, he closed the distance to his family. Eve straightened her back, the queenly calm in her face hiding the storm beneath. Seth's jaw tightened; his hands curled into fists at his sides. Azura froze where she stood, her wide eyes fixed on the man she had only heard about in stories.

Cain stopped just a few paces from them. He said nothing—only let his presence speak for him.

Eloa stepped forward, her voice soft and halting. "M-my condolences… Lady Eve, for your… your loss. And to your children as well." She bowed her head, sincere despite the tension radiating from every direction.

Cain stayed still, eyes locked on his mother, daring her to speak first.

Eve broke the silence. Her voice was even, but there was a thin crack in it if one listened closely.

"It has been a while… since I last saw you." She looked him over, her gaze lingering on the trimmed beard, the suit. "You've grown. Changed."

Cain chuckled—low, sharp.

"That's the best you've got for your firstborn? I see my stoic, ever-calm mother hasn't changed at all. Guess I shouldn't have expected more… not from the same woman who never tried to guide her troubled 'son,' and just kicked him out instead."

Seth's voice cut through the air like a blade.

"You don't have the right to judge anyone after what you did."

Cain turned his head toward him slowly, the smile spreading wider.

"We've never met in our earthly lives, little brother, yet you speak as though you know me—and what happened. That's cute." He stepped forward just enough for Seth to feel the shadow of his presence. "I don't mind being the villain in your story. The big bad brother who killed his little brother. But let's be clear…" His gaze moved deliberately to each of them—Seth, Azura, Eve. "…none of you know the truth. Except me. And the Heavens."

A subtle smirk curled his lips.

Eve's eyes narrowed slightly. "Do you want me to apologize to you?" Her tone was almost mocking.

Cain laughed outright at that, shaking his head. "Oh, I'm not that pitiful. I don't care for apologies. What I do want is for you to admit you were wrong. That you didn't do the right thing when it came to raising me. To protecting me."

The hall seemed to hold its breath.

Eve didn't flinch, but the pause before she spoke was telling. "…Perhaps I misjudged some situations. And… could have done better."

Cain tilted his head, a sarcastic shrug in his shoulders. "That wasn't so hard, was it?" His voice was dripping with irony.

Then, his expression shifted, the mockery cooling into something unreadable. "My condolences," he said simply, "for the loss of your husband." The deliberate absence of the word father hung heavy between them.

Without another glance, he turned and began walking toward where Adam's body lay in honor.

Behind him, Seth stood silent, his knuckles pale. Abel and Azura watched their mother, who for the first time in centuries, looked unsteady—her composure cracked just enough to show the truth: she wasn't sure whether to mourn her husband… or the chasm that had opened between her and her firstborn so long ago.

Cain's boots clicked against the polished marble as he crossed the hall toward Adam's resting place. The air here was heavier, thick with incense and hushed reverence, yet he moved through it like a man walking into a tavern, not a tomb.

By the body stood Lute, her tall frame still and her expression sharp, but the tightness in her jaw betrayed the weight of her loss. She didn't weep—no, she wouldn't give anyone that satisfaction—but there was a stiffness in her shoulders, the kind born from holding grief in a chokehold. Her left arm, gleaming silver under the funeral light, was no longer flesh; it was a new limb forged from the salvaged angelic weapons of her fallen exorcist sisters. The filigree engravings caught the light like captured starlight, each mark a silent memorial to those she had lost.

Cain slowed as he approached, a broad grin stretching across his face as if he'd stumbled into the punchline of some private joke. He gave her a cheerful little wave.

"Well, well… looks like you've learned from the mistakes of your late leader."

Her eyes flicked to him for only a moment, then back to Adam's body. She didn't answer.

Cain tilted his head, letting the smile fade into something sharper. "Tell me… you were there. You saw it. Why did he lose?"

Her lips pressed together before she finally said, "He tried to fight both Lucifer and Lucifer's daughter."

One of Cain's eyebrows arched. "Ah. The daughter too. I knew this would happen if Adam tried to face Lucifer himself."

Her gaze cut toward him, suspicious. "Mocking him now, are you?"

But Cain's tone shifted, suddenly cold and matter-of-fact. "Not mocking. Just stating the truth. Adam leaned too heavily on his angelic weapons, on the purity of his power. Lucifer?" He gave a short, humorless laugh. "Lucifer fights with trickery. With words. Gets under your skin, makes you act on your emotions, makes you blind. That's how he wins."

Lute's brow furrowed. Then, in a dry, biting tone, she asked, "And what, you think you could have done better?"

Cain's smile returned—small, knowing, dangerous. He didn't answer her directly, just turned toward the body lying in state, leaving her to wonder whether he was simply arrogant… or if he meant it.

Adam lay still in his golden-lined coffin, his once-legendary frame diminished, his features softer in death. Cain looked down at him and chuckled low in his throat. "Let yourself go, didn't you, 'First man'?"

He leaned closer, bracing a hand on the edge of the casket, and bent to Adam's ear. His voice dropped to a whisper—too low for anyone to hear. The corner of his mouth twitched as he murmured something only the dead could keep.

And then, he laughed. A sharp, almost boyish giggle that didn't belong in a place like this.

Every head in the room turned toward him. Some frowned, brows knitting in distaste. Others whispered to each other under their breath. A few stared in silence, trying to decide if Cain had finally gone mad—or if he'd always been this way.

The ceremony carried on, one voice after another rising to honor the First Man.

Eve was the first to speak. She stood in front of the gathered host like a queen before her court—her long golden hair flowing gently, her eyes holding the glint of years that no mortal could comprehend. Her voice trembled only slightly as she recounted their life together: the triumphs, the countless disagreements, and the strange comfort they had always found in one another despite those differences. "He was my partner," she said, her gaze fixed on Adam's still form, "and though our paths often diverged, I will not forget the moments when they came together."

Abel followed, his words breaking in places as the grief finally forced its way into his voice. He spoke of his father not as the legend, but as a man—flawed, stubborn, and distant in the final years, but still his father. His tears shone like crystal in the light of Heaven's great hall. Azura went next, her soft voice shaking as she admitted she never truly knew him as she wished, but she felt his presence in her every step. The innocence in her tone made her grief all the sharper. Seth, on the other hand, kept his tribute brief, his stoic demeanor only cracking for a moment as he described the "void" their will leave behind.

Cain watched them all with a crooked smile from the side, leaning lazily as if this entire display was an elaborate play put on for his amusement. Eloa floated just a little closer, whispering nervously for him to at least try to act respectfully. But the smirk remained—there was too much irony in these perfect speeches for him to resist savoring it.

Then came Lute. Her expression was as hard as forged steel, but there was a shadow in her eyes that betrayed her pain. Her metallic arm—gleaming with the salvaged steel of her fallen sisters—caught the light as she rested her hand upon the podium. Her voice was steady, but the sorrow wove itself through her words like cracks in marble. She spoke of Adam not only as a leader but as a force that shaped her very being. "I stood by him through victories and defeats," she said. "And in the moment it mattered most… I failed him." Her gaze lingered on his body, and for a heartbeat, the whole hall seemed to hold its breath.

After Lute stepped down, Sera emerged. Her wings flared slightly behind her, not in pride but in the gravity of her role. Her speech was formal, measured.

"Adam was more than the first man," she said. "He was a bulwark against the darkness, a leader of the noble exorcists, a keeper of the balance between existence and the void. He purged wickedness when it threatened to consume the living. He stood where many would have fled." Her words were stately, almost ritualistic—an official seal on Adam's legacy.

Cain arched an eyebrow, half-amused, half-intrigued at how clean and righteous the narrative sounded. To him, it was a story polished too bright to see the truth beneath.

And then, as Sera prepared to close the ceremony, Cain's grin widened. A thought—no, a dare—blossomed in his mind. Eloa glanced at him with wide, worried eyes. She knew that look. She knew it meant trouble.

Sera was halfway through her thanks when Cain stepped forward, his shadow stretching across the marble floor. "If I may…" His voice rolled through the hall, carrying both charm and challenge. Gasps rippled through the crowd. Lute's eyes narrowed, Seth openly scoffed, but Cain merely lifted his hands in mock reassurance. "I promise, I'll be respectful."

After a long pause, Sera nodded once, cautiously.

Cain approached the podium, standing tall as his gaze swept over the crowd. "Adam," he began, his tone shifting into something unexpected—formal, elegant, almost intimate, as though he were penning a letter only the dead could read. "We were always… different. So different, in fact, that being near one another was dangerous. Perhaps it was inevitable that we could never truly meet each other's eyes without seeing an enemy. And then… Abel was born." His gaze flickered to his younger brother. "And with him, the proof that you and our mother could show affection… could show love. That was when I began to wonder if the problem was me. That perhaps I had been born from her sins, from her banishment, and that was why…" His voice dipped lower, "…that was why that incident happened. The one where I took the life of my own brother."

Eve's eyes widened. Abel's breath caught. The entire hall was frozen.

Cain let the weight hang for a moment, then looked at Adam's casket, then at his family members, and said. "But I will tell you this," His tone impassive, almost robotic. "Not for a single moment—not even once—did I believe any guilt was yours. The effect you had on me was simply the effect you could not help having."

Silence followed. The crowd was stunned—not just by the confession, but by the grace in which it was delivered.

Then Cain's voice hardened, his posture shifting, his presence expanding like a storm rolling over the horizon. "And now…" His gaze locked on Lute, then swept across the exorcists in the crowd. "Now I speak to you, those who bear the swords, those who stand on the walls. Do not forgive Hell for this insult. Do not forgive the creatures who struck down your leader. Make them bow. If they kill one of yours, you kill ten of theirs! If they dare to attack the gates of Heaven, you wipe them from existence!" His voice rose into a thunderous roar, each word like the beat of a war drum. "Let this be the last lesson they ever learn!"

A surge of energy ran through the room. The exorcists—Lute among them—straightened with newfound resolve, their eyes burning with purpose.

Abel and the rest of his family remained frozen, unsure if they'd just heard a tribute, a declaration of war. Sera's gaze was fixed on him—not with admiration, but with something colder. Concern. Calculation. Doubt. She didn't know yet what Cain truly wanted, but in that moment, she realized one thing: his words had power. And that made him dangerous.

The golden gates of the Supreme Courtroom of Heaven closed behind him with a resonant clang that seemed to echo for miles. Cain strode in, still dressed in his black-and-gold suit from the funeral, his heavy boots clapping against the flawless marble. Beside him, Eloa floated like a pale wisp, her ears twitching ever so slightly. She was trembling, though she tried to hide it.

The chamber was vast and radiant, columns of blinding light forming the walls. The floor shimmered like it had been woven from sunlight itself. Cain lowered himself lazily into a chair at the center, looking almost bored as he leaned back and folded his arms, waiting for the show to begin.

The air thickened. A beam of pure brilliance erupted at the far end of the hall, and from it stepped Sera and the other Seraphim, each one wreathed in a halo of sacred fire. They took their seats on high, gazes cold and penetrating.

Sera's voice was calm, but carried the weight of divine judgment.

"Cain. Do you know why you are here?"

Cain stroked his beard, letting the silence stretch a beat too long before speaking.

"I might have an idea," he said, eyes glinting. "It's a little obvious, isn't it? You don't want a war with Hell—not yet. You want to buy time. So you're thinking, maybe, just maybe, you toss me into the mix. Keep things… balanced for a few more centuries."

A faint murmur stirred among the angels, some displeased, some intrigued.

Sera cleared her throat delicately. "You are… not entirely wrong. But there is more. We are not sending you to fight Lucifer or his daughter, Charlie. In the spirit of preventing open conflict, we are seeking a new deal with Hell. We believe that you—" her tone shifted into something more formal, almost diplomatic—"being, as some would say, 'Hell's favorite,' will be received there. Welcomed. Even wanted."

Cain's brow quirked. "Hell's favorite, huh? Flattering." He scratched his head. "Alright… what's in it for me?"

The room stilled. Several of the Seraphim glanced at each other in disbelief, as though the question itself was blasphemy.

Sera's face remained neutral, but her wings twitched. "This is for the sake of all that is good and pure. For the sake of avoiding a war that could end all creation."

Cain chuckled softly. "You know, I admire the pitch. But let's not pretend. My curse… my mark… that wasn't put there by you or your council. It came from something above even you. So don't insult me by promising to take it away. We both know you can't."

Sera's eyes narrowed slightly. "We are aware."

He leaned forward, his voice taking on a poetic, almost sorrowful rhythm.

"This war you fear? It was set in motion before I ever walked the Earth. Before any of your perfect, shining soldiers. It's in the bones of creation. You can patch it up, delay it, distract from it… but it's coming. Sooner or later."

Something in the way he said it made Sera study him more closely. He wasn't just being cynical—he had plans.

Finally, Cain stood, Eloa staring at him with fear in her little eyes. "Fine. I'll take your little title. Heaven's Ambassador to Hell. And I promise you… within a few months, they'll happily accept their fate." His smile widened, sharp as a blade. "But I have… conditions."

Meanwhile, down in hell and at the Pride Ring, Charlie was buzzing with nervous excitement as she moved through the newly renovated lobby of the Hazbin Hotel, clipboard in hand. Veggie trailed beside her, reading over lists.

"This is it, Vaggie! The big reopening! I can feel it—this time, we're really going to make a difference."

Vaggie gave her a cautious smile. "I just hope we don't get another angel raid before the ribbon cutting."

Charlie was about to respond when the floor trembled beneath their feet. Then came the BOOM. Not just a noise—a seismic wave that rattled the very bones of Hell. Chandeliers swung, dust fell from the ceiling. Outside, distant buildings swayed.

"W-what the—?!" Husk nearly dropped his glass at the bar. Alastor cocked his head, grinning just a little wider. "Ohhh… this should be interesting."

The entire Pride Ring was shaking. Waves of the tremor rolled outward, reaching into the other six rings.

Charlie grabbed her phone, heart pounding. Her screen lit up with news alerts. She opened the feed—her jaw dropped.

In the middle of the Pride Ring, an enormous smoking crater had appeared where a street used to be. Luckily, the area was empty… but the damage was staggering. Smoke poured from the hole like a volcanic vent. Drones zipped toward it, streaming footage to every screen in Hell.

Two silhouettes emerged from the haze—one small, floating, delicate. The other massive, broad-shouldered, moving with an unhurried, predatory swagger.

As the cameras zoomed in, the figures came into view: Eloa, looking both exasperated and relieved to be alive… and Cain. His black-and-gold suit was still immaculate, his smirk infuriatingly confident.

"M-Mr.Cain," Eloa muttered, "t-this was a b-b-bad idea. Y-You could have killed s-someone."

He threw his head back and laughed. "Relax, Little Hare. No one died."

The smoke thinned. The drones caught his face in perfect clarity. Cain looked directly into the lens, the smirk curling into something almost feral.

"WHAT'S UP, FUCKERS?!" His voice echoed across the Pride Ring. "DID YOU MISS ME?!"

In his manor, Lucifer sat back in his chair, glass in hand. Watching the live feed, he muttered under his breath.

"…Oh, shit."

Elsewhere, in their own decadent corners of Hell, the other Six Deadly Sins stopped what they were doing as they saw Cain's face displayed in front of their faces. One by one, in perfect, horrified unison, they said:

"Oh fuck. It's Cain."

Chapter Text

Hell went silent for the first time in centuries.

Screens, billboards, and even Vox's endless streams all cut to the same footage: a colossal crater carved into the Pride Ring, smoke boiling upward like a volcanic breath. And in the heart of it, two figures slowly emerged—one small, angelic glow hovering…and one towering shape, broad-shouldered, immovable, ancient.

The cameras zoomed. Faces sharpened. Whispers exploded into screams across the streets of Hell.

"It's him."

"No fucking way."

"That's Cain…?"

The name rolled like wildfire through every alley, den, and den of sin: Cain, the First Killer. The Cursed Immortal. A myth now standing in the flesh.

Some demons laughed nervously, thinking it a hoax. Others bolted into shelters, terrified that the apocalypse had just stepped into their backyard. And still others leaned in with hunger, intrigued by the man Hell itself had always whispered about but never seen.

By the time Cain's name was trending on every infernal network, the Hazbin Hotel was buzzing like a kicked hornet's nest.

"Holy fucking shit," Husk muttered, slamming down his glass so hard it cracked. "The bastard just nuked Pride like it was drywall. We're all fucked."

Angel Dust let out a long whistle. "Mmm, big, scary daddy energy. Can't lie—I'm kinda turned on."

"ANGEL!" Vaggie snapped, shoving him away from the couch. "That's not a person, that's a goddamn natural disaster in a suit!"

Niffty darted across the floor, her one good eye gleaming like a kid on Christmas morning. "Oooh! So he's the legend! The big bad boy! The killer prince of Earth! Eeee, I've always wanted to meet a living myth!" She twirled her feather duster like it was a sword. "Bet he smells like blood and firewood!"

Husk groaned. "More like death and regret."

Charlie clutched her clipboard so tight it squeaked. "Oh no oh no oh no—he's Adam's son. He's here because of what happened! Oh Lucifer, he's gonna think we—he's gonna think the hotel is responsible—" Her voice cracked as panic rose.

Vaggie caught her shoulders, forcing her to breathe. "Charlie, focus. We don't know why he's here. But if it's revenge for Adam, then we need a plan before he comes knocking on our door."

Alastor, calm as ever, chuckled low in his throat. His grin was sharp, but his eyes glinted with something rare: curiosity.

"I've heard the stories, you know. The cursed wanderer who could never die, who built cities doomed to fall, who carried grief like a crown. Myth, legend, fairy tale… I could never tell if it was truth." His smile widened, radio static humming faintly around his words. "But now? Now I see the myth walks in the flesh. And that, my friends, makes things very… interesting."

Charlie hugged herself, shaking her head. "No, no, this is bad—if he's here because of Adam, it means that heaven are planning something terrible—and Hell is in serious trouble…"

The crater still hissed with smoke as Cain stepped forward, brushing the dust and ash from his black-and-gold suit as if nothing had happened. The ground beneath his polished shoes trembled with the echo of his presence, and the swarm of hellish reporters closed in with cameras hovering, lenses blinking, microphones thrust forward like spears.

The noise was immediate and deafening.

"Are you really Cain?!"

"Why are you in Hell?!"

"Who's the little angel with you?!"

"Is this an invasion?!"

Questions overlapped, shouted from every direction, broadcast on every channel across the Seven Rings. Even those who had never touched a television or screen before were drawn to it—the name alone was enough.

Cain looked over them all with a sadistic smile, his eyes glittering with the kind of hunger that made demons recoil. He let the moment stretch, savoring the fear in their voices, then cleared his throat. The smoke around him swirled as if listening.

When he spoke, his voice was deep, dramatic, charismatic—yet with an undertone that promised ruin.

"Behold me," he began, spreading his arms. "I am Cain—the Immortal. The man who has walked through Earth, through Heaven, and now through Hell itself. I am the Father of Murder, the First Killer, the one who carved death into the marrow of creation." His grin widened. "And I stand before you now as proof that your sins call louder than your prayers."

A hush fell, the entire Pride Ring trembling as his words were carried through cameras and screens to the other six rings.

Cain's smile twisted darker. His tone shifted from regal to sinister, each word delivered like a knife sliding between ribs.

"And now, Hell… you've made your greatest mistake. You slaughtered Adam—the First Man, the leader of Heaven's Exorcists. You think his death ended a cycle? No… you've only fueled it." His eyes gleamed, bloodlust spilling from his aura as he leaned closer to the nearest camera. "For this crime, I am here to make you pay. I will not rest until every one of your seven rings lies in ash. You brought this to yourselves when you refused to accept your fate."

Gasps rippled through the crowd. Some of the reporters faltered backward, their wings or tails trembling. In homes, dens, palaces, and hovels all across Hell, millions of eyes widened.

Cain paused, letting the silence stretch until it hurt, then delivered the line like a guillotine.

"Stop wondering whether you will die, because you will. Every single one of you."

The words dropped like thunder, sealing the air. He ended with a smile that was calm, chilling, and merciless.

Chaos erupted. Panic broke like a wave—sinners running, imps shouting, voices screaming through the broadcasts. The reporters tried to keep steady, their lenses shaking as the fear in their hands betrayed them.

And then Cain laughed.

It began low, then built higher, louder, shaking the ground beneath him. The kind of laughter that didn't sound human anymore. He laughed until tears pricked his eyes, until the reporters flinched at the madness of it, until the smoke itself seemed to recoil.

Then, just as suddenly, he stopped. His face snapped cold and blank.

"I'm just fucking with you," he said flatly.

Confusion rippled through the crowd. Some froze. Some hissed curses. Others sighed in trembling relief, clutching their chests as if their blackened hearts might burst.

Cain let the tension hang a moment longer before continuing, this time in a smoother, more diplomatic tone.

"I am not here to start a war. I am here as Heaven's ambassador." He gestured casually to the sky above him. "My purpose is simple: to broker a new deal between Heaven and Hell. To ensure that the mistakes of the past—on both sides—are acknowledged and corrected. My goal…" he smirked, letting his gaze wander straight into one of the cameras, "is to strengthen the ties between us. To create an understanding that has never existed before."

The shift from threat to diplomacy was so sudden, so unnerving, that even the reporters struggled to keep up.

A question broke the silence: "Will you meet with the Princess of Hell? Will this mean the end of the Extermination?"

Cain's eyes narrowed, his expression unreadable. He stroked his beard slowly, then answered with vague, formal grace.

"I will meet with her. I will meet with all of you. From the lowest imp in the gutters, to the mightiest of the Seven Sins, to Lucifer himself." His eyes locked on the camera again, sharp as a blade. "And yes, I will see the Hotel of his daughter."

Across Hell, demons felt the weight of that look. In his manor, Lucifer leaned forward from his throne, eyes narrowing. Cain knew he was watching. He wanted him to.

Then Cain's tone sharpened, almost threatening, though still carrying the same theatrical grandeur.

"However—before I walk your streets, before I drink your wine, before I shake your bloodstained hands—I will enter the Heaven Embassy. I will shut its doors, seal its windows, and lock myself inside for three days and three nights. During that time, it is forbidden for anyone to approach, to spy, to pry, to knock. If anyone dares to break this condition…" His smile curved into something cruel. "…they will be annihilated."

A ripple of dread coursed through the crowd. The word annihilated stuck like poison.

Cain then gestured toward the small figure at his side. Eloa had been silent the entire time, clutching her bowl of notes nervously, eyes darting to the cameras.

"This," Cain declared, "is Eloa. My right hand. Do not let her size fool you. She is stronger than any exorcist you have ever faced. Stronger than entire legions. Cross her at your peril."

The reporters' lenses all turned at once. Every camera focused on her. Eloa froze, her little hare ears twitching, face flushing in embarrassment. Cain only grinned, enjoying her discomfort, knowing he had just painted a target on her back for the sheer sport of it.

Finally, he smoothed his coat and straightened.

"Now," he said, "I go to the Embassy. When I emerge, three days from now, the course of Hell itself will change."

He began to walk, slow and deliberate, the smoke curling around his frame like a cloak. Then, from somewhere in the crowd, a voice rose in a language older than most demons could remember—a chant in a dead tongue, a phrase long thought forgotten.

Cain stopped, listening. His smile widened into something feral.

"Oh," he murmured, more to himself than anyone else. "They still remember."

And with that, he walked on toward the Embassy, the world of Hell trembling behind him.

Cain's stride through Pentagram City was not the stride of a sinner. It was not the swagger of an Overlord, nor the shambling gait of a damned soul beaten down by centuries of punishment. His walk was steady, deliberate, and impossibly calm, like a man surveying land that was already his.

Sinners scattered from the sidewalk as he passed, their gazes dragging over his towering figure. They had seen monsters of every shape and size in this city—fangs and horns, wings and claws, bodies stitched together or dripping in tar. But Cain unsettled them in a way none of Hell's grotesqueries ever had.

He looked familiar. Too familiar. His face bore the clean lines of humanity, but they were warped by something eternal—his gaze too sharp, his smile too knowing, his presence too heavy for flesh alone to carry. He looked real, yet unreal. A figure from a nightmare painted onto daylight. They whispered, shifting in discomfort as he passed, unable to look away from the man who carried the weight of the world like it was a trinket in his pocket.

Cain noticed. He always noticed. And he smiled.

Above him, the neon glare of VoxTech ads screamed their presence across the skyline—flickering screens hawking cellphones and networks, cameras, radios, endless streams of propaganda masked as entertainment. To the left, Carmine's emporiums lined the streets, windows filled with racks of hellforged rifles, infernal cannons, blades that dripped with fire. To the right, towering billboards of Velvette's brands cast her models in garish spotlights, draped in fabrics that glittered like oil slicks.

Cain chuckled under his breath, the sound soft but brimming with contempt.

Eloa, floating nervously at his shoulder, tilted her head and asked in her usual stutter, "M-M-Mr. Cain… w-what's so funny?"

Cain slowed, lifting his chin toward the skyline. "Look, little hare. What do you see?"

Eloa followed his gaze, blinking at the parade of consumerism, the mark of the Overlords' dominance stitched into every sign and window. "I-I… I see competition. B-businesses trying to… uhm… trying to outdo each other."

Cain gave a small nod, lips curling in amusement. "Not wrong. But not right either." He stopped, hands clasped behind his back, eyes sweeping the skyline like he was reading scripture written in neon. "What you see, Eloa, is a pathetic attempt at authority by powerless idiots. They dress their hunger in screens, in steel, in silk. They pretend these empires are power. But they are not."

He turned, his voice deepening into something richer, poetic, almost sermon-like.

"Power is not neon. Power is not fashion. Power is not firearms. Power is not the name etched on your building. All these… all these things are tools. Toys. They are the bones of power, not the blood. True power, Eloa, is the ability to decide. To decide for yourself, and to decide for others. It is to impose will upon reality until even reality bows. And that"—his lip curled with disdain as he gestured at the skyline—"is forever out of their reach. They grasp, they claw, they climb. But when their hands close, they hold only air."

His words spilled like an old poem, heavy with a truth both bitter and undeniable.

Eloa furrowed her brows, her little paws tightening around her notes. "B-but… maybe it's not about power here. M-Maybe it's about survival. These Overlords—they're just trying to m-make a living. T-to keep going. T-to survive."

Cain stopped walking. Slowly, he turned to her, and for the briefest second there was something softer in his eyes, almost amused approval. He nodded once.

"A fair point. But wrong again." His smile sharpened. "Survival is for the prey. Overlords are not prey. They are scavengers. Hyenas gnawing on the carcass of a lion they did not kill. They eat corpses that were already devoured by time. They fill the voids because someone must. And yes, in that sense, they serve their function. But do not mistake scavenging for thriving. They are kings of nothing."

Eloa frowned, unconvinced, but she had learned the futility of wrestling Cain too long. She simply sighed, shoulders sagging, and let the conversation die. Cain smirked faintly at her silence and resumed walking.

At last, the Heaven Embassy came into view. A monolithic block of white stone and faded gold, it rose at the center of Pentagram City, towering above the sin-soaked skyline. Time had not been kind to it—the walls were weathered, the glass streaked with smoke, the great wings carved into its façade chipped and broken. Above it all, a massive sand clock loomed from its tower, the grains of time drifting endlessly, mocking the eternity of those who passed beneath it.

Cain stopped at its base, scratching his trimmed beard as his eyes studied the structure. "Lazy masonry. Hollow architecture. Heaven's fingerprints—but half-hearted. I will deal with this later."

He turned, glancing behind him. A small crowd had gathered. Sinners and imps held up phones, recording him, their faces pale but fascinated. They whispered to each other, their voices shaking. Some trembled. Some grinned nervously. Some prayed to gods they no longer believed in.

Cain's smile grew, wide and theatrical, like an actor stepping onto his stage.

"Three days," he declared, his voice cutting through the murmurs. "Three nights. That is the time I will spend within. Alone. Locked away. No eyes will watch me. No ears will hear me. No hand will knock upon these doors. If any of you dares to break this condition…" His gaze swept across them like a scythe. "…you will be annihilated."

The word echoed like thunder, bouncing off the walls of the Embassy, searing itself into their skulls.

Cain turned then, took the great brass handles of the Embassy doors, and pulled them wide. The hinges screamed, the sound carrying through the plaza. He stepped inside, his silhouette framed by the dim golden light within, then looked back over his shoulder.

His grin cut across his face like a blade. "Stay away."

With a violent slam, the doors closed. The locks clattered into place with finality, leaving the crowd outside in trembling silence.

Inside, Cain was already laughing under his breath. The game had begun.

The fallout was immediate.

Every news station in Hell dropped whatever petty feud or scandal they had been chewing on and turned their attention to the black-and-gold suited stranger who had descended like an omen. On 666 News, Katie Killjoy practically lit up with glee, cigarette dangling from her lips as she barked into the camera:

"Breaking news, you miserable reprobates! Heaven's favorite problem child has just landed in Pentagram City, announcing himself as Cain — yes, that Cain — the cursed son of Adam, the so-called Father of Murder, and now apparently Heaven's brand-new ambassador. What does this mean for Hell? War? Peace? Or just another pompous asshole in a suit? Let's find out!"

Tom Trench, stiff and pale as always, shuffled his notes and muttered into the mic:

"Sources say Cain has demanded three days and nights of solitude in the Heaven Embassy… but the question on everyone's mind is, what happens when he comes back out? Will this change the eternal war, or is this just Heaven's twisted sense of humor?"

Katie smirked, leaning close to the lens, her voice sharp and mocking:

"Stay tuned, kiddies. Because if the legends are true, Hell just got itself a new nightmare."

The feed splashed across every screen, every tablet, every flickering neon ad board in the city. The name Cain was already trending on every hell-wide network, debated in bars, whispered in alleys, shouted in clubs. Some laughed it off, others trembled, most just argued what it meant.

At the Hazbin Hotel, the atmosphere was tense. Charlie sat at the head of the lounge table, wringing her hands, her crimson eyes filled with restless hope. The glow of the news screen still flickered on the wall behind them.

"He said he's here to correct the mistakes of the past," Charlie murmured, trying to convince herself as much as the others. "That has to mean something good, right? Maybe he's different from Adam and Lute. Maybe he's… willing to talk."

Vaggie leaned against the wall, arms crossed, her tone sharp but not cruel.

"Or maybe it means he's planning an attack and wants everyone to think he's some kind of diplomat. We can't just trust someone like that, Charlie. He's Adam's son. That blood alone makes him dangerous."

Cherri Bomb scoffed, twirling a grenade between her fingers as if the idea amused her.

"Please. So what if he's Cain? At the end of the day, he's just one man. We've taken down worse. Blow him up, burn him down, problem solved."

Husk finally looked up from his glass of whiskey, his gravelly voice cutting through the chatter like a blade.

"You don't get it, kid. The fact that Heaven sent him here alone says everything. If he's standing on their side, he's not just some sinner or angel—they're treating him like a weapon. And don't forget what the stories said. He can't die."

Angel Dust rolled his eyes, leaning back lazily with a smirk.

"Yeah, yeah, they said the same shit about the exorcists too. Untouchable, unstoppable, all that jazz. And guess what? We figured out their weak spots. Maybe Cain's got one too. Everyone does. You just gotta… find where to stick the knife." He smirked suggestively, making Niffty giggle.

Charlie shook her head. "But he didn't come here for war. He said he wants to make a deal between Heaven and Hell. That's… that's different! He even said he'd visit all the Rings, talk to everyone, not just the nobles or overlords. That has to count for something!"

Vaggie sighed, softening just slightly, though her voice stayed firm.

"Charlie, you always want to see the best in people. But this is Cain we're talking about. He's infamous. He killed his brother. He's been cursed for it ever since. You're asking for too much, hoping he's the kind of person who'll suddenly agree with you."

Husk swirled his drink and squinted at Vaggie.

"Wait. You were an exorcist. You ever hear anything about him from Adam?"

Vaggie hesitated, her one good eye narrowing. "…No. Adam never mentioned him. Not once. Just stories whispered by others. That he murdered Abel in cold blood and was punished forever. That's all I know."

Niffty clasped her hands together, eyes sparkling with morbid excitement.

"Ohhh, a real bad boy. I like him already! Big, scary, unpredictable—he's perfect!"

Angel Dust chuckled, flicking ash from his cigarette.

"Perfect? More like a nutjob. Look at him—dressed like some holy gangster, acting like he owns the place. Total psycho vibes. Wouldn't surprise me if he bites."

That was when the room dimmed just slightly, the lights flickering as Alastor slid into view, his grin razor-sharp, eyes glowing with that eerie red static.

"Well, well, well. What a fascinating development! The firstborn son of Adam walks into our humble little playground, and suddenly everyone's hearts are all aflutter. How exciting!"

Charlie frowned.

"Alastor, this isn't a game. This is serious—"

The Radio Demon chuckled, tapping his cane on the floor.

"Oh, I know it's serious, my dear. That's what makes it fun. Men like Cain… oh, the stories I've heard. Tales so ancient they sound more like myth than history. A cursed immortal who cannot die, who walks between Heaven and Hell with no master but himself. Legendary! And yet, here he is, flesh and bone. How delightful."

Charlie rubbed her temples.

"All I'm saying is… we wait. We focus on the hotel, on our mission. And when he comes, I'll talk to him. I'll see what he really wants."

Alastor's grin widened.

"Oh, splendid idea, my dear. I'll be watching very closely. After all… if Cain is half the legend they say he is, we're in for a most extraordinary performance."

He chuckled under his breath and vanished into the shadows, leaving the others uneasy.

The group sat in silence for a moment. Charlie pressed her palms to the table, her face bright with a fragile determination.

"For now… we focus on redemption. On the Hotel. When Cain comes, I'll talk to him. I have to believe he'll listen."

Vaggie muttered under her breath, "Or he'll tear this place apart…" but she didn't push further.

The first night of Cain's three-day solitude came to an uneasy close, the Hotel caught between dread and hope, the name Cain still burning through every screen and every whispered corner of Hell.

The initial shock of Cain's broadcast had hardened into a long, simmering unease. Hell's panic had not vanished—it had simply crystallized into something colder, something that felt like anticipation. The Heaven Embassy sat like a marble tombstone in the center of Pentagram City, gleaming unnaturally clean amidst neon grime. The doors had not opened since Cain entered, and his silence was louder than any threat. On the second day, every Overlord—old, new, major, and minor—was awake, watching, and whispering.

The fortress of VoxTek was alight with static fury. Vox stalked the length of his command center, his screen-face cycling between red exclamation marks and glitching emojis. He gestured violently to the wall of monitors, each one locked on the Embassy's closed doors, unyielding and unmoving.

"Bullshit! Absolute bullshit!" His voice buzzed like a broken speaker, rattling the glass. "He cuts me off—me—like I'm some second-rate imp with a busted antenna. He wipes my signal clean, blocks my entire goddamn network, and sits in there like a smug corpse in a coffin!"

His words were met with a lazy drawl. Velvette reclined across a velvet lounge chair, one leg dangling, scrolling her tablet with a manicured finger. "Relax, Voxy. He's not blocking you—he's just not broadcasting. There's a difference." She smirked and flipped her screen around to show a page filled with stylized memes, fan edits, and even pirated merch. "Besides, look at this engagement. Cain's trending across every Ring. Hashtag Immortal Daddy is already at two million reposts. It's a performance. Theater. And it's working."

Vox's screen-face flashed a storm cloud with lightning bolts. He slammed a fist into the console, sending sparks scattering. "This isn't about fucking hashtags, Velv! He's rewriting the rules. If he can walk into my city, shut down my reach, and make me look weak in front of the entire goddamn population, then what the hell does that say about me?"

Before Velvette could answer, Valentino slithered into the conversation. The tall moth demon leaned against the doorframe, sunglasses reflecting the glow of the monitors. His grin was wide, dangerous, but tinged with a note of unease he didn't care to hide.

"I dunno, baby boy," Valentino drawled, his wings twitching. "Looks to me like he's making all of us look weak. And I don't like that one bit." He pulled a cigar from his pocket and lit it, the smoke curling lazily upward. "Now, I'm all for a new hotshot strolling in and shaking things up, but this guy? He ain't here to play. If he's Heaven's little attack dog, then every second we waste bickering is another second closer to him tearing us apart."

Velvette laughed, a sharp, cutting sound. "Oh please, Val. Don't act like you're not already thinking of ways to profit off him. A Cain-branded perfume, maybe? Eau de Murder?"

Vox ignored the jab, his static warbling like a growl. "Profit doesn't matter if there's no power left to hold. And right now? He's stripping us bare. He didn't just enter Hell—he announced himself. And that means every single one of us has a target painted on our screens."

Elsewhere, in the roaring steel belly of her factory, Carmine stood on a grated catwalk overlooking molten pits and clanging machinery. Sparks rained down from welding torches as demons hammered out weapon casings, and the smell of smelted iron filled the air.

She clasped her hands behind her back, her crimson eyes narrowed. "Double the output on infernal plasma rifles. Triple on divine-resistant armor plating. This is the biggest boom in centuries, and I'll be damned if I don't own the market."

A foreman glanced up nervously. "You think Cain is coming for war?"

Carmine's grin was razor-sharp. "He doesn't have to. War is the natural consequence of uncertainty. He walks into Pride and announces the world's first murder is here to change everything? That's all I need to start an arms race. Vox wants screens. Velvette wants clout. Valentino wants flesh. But me?" She leaned forward, resting her elbows on the railing. "I want every Overlord scrambling to buy a bigger gun before their neighbor does. Let them panic. Let them gorge themselves on my wares. Cain is a market force wrapped in prophecy."

In Rosie's Emporium, shadows danced with the flickering light of an antique television set. Rosie herself sipped tea daintily from a porcelain cup, her gloved hands pristine despite the faint copper scent of blood in the room. Beside her, Zestial loomed, his vast, shifting form half-shadow, half-flesh, a dozen eyes fixed intently on the looping image of Cain's entrance.

Rosie clapped her hands together with delight. "Oh, Zestial! Isn't he just divine? The posture, the voice, the sheer spectacle of it all! We haven't had such grand theater since the first fall of the Morningstar. A real myth made flesh!"

Zestial's voice rumbled like thunder through stone. "Nay, sweet Rosie. This is no theater. This is a testament. Cain's name is older than our thrones, older than the blood that stains these streets. He is not merely a sinner. He is the very shadow of the first wound upon creation. His presence is a reminder that no realm—Heaven, Hell, or Earth—is immune to the weight of its own sins."

Rosie leaned back, smiling slyly. "And yet, my dear, isn't that exactly what makes him delicious? He isn't like you or me. He isn't like Vox and his toys, or Carmine and her cannons. He's a disruption. A paradox. A legend walking among fools. And isn't that the best kind of entertainment?"

Zestial's many eyes narrowed. "Think thee not in terms of amusement, for thou dost err gravely. Mark me, Rosie—Cain's words were not idle. 'The course of Hell itself will change,' quoth he. Such utterance is no bluff. It is prophecy. He is no herald of order, but of entropy. And entropy consumes us all."

Rosie only hummed, twirling her teacup. "Well, darling, whether prophecy or play, it's rattled the hive. The Vees are squawking, Carmine's sharpening her knives, and every other Overlord is pissing themselves. It's delicious chaos."

In the backrooms of dive bars and gilded clubs, the lesser Overlords stirred. Some laughed nervously, calling Cain a bluff, nothing but a man with a flair for dramatics. Others whispered in hushed, fearful tones, convinced his words were the tolling of an ancient bell that would reshape their dominion. A few were intrigued—eyes alight with ambition—wondering if aligning themselves with Cain might offer power beyond anything the Sins or even Lucifer himself could grant.

In every corner of Hell's hierarchy, his name echoed. Cain was not simply present—he was felt. His silence from within the Embassy had become its own kind of roar, a storm hanging in the air.

The second day waned, the Embassy still silent at Hell's center. Around it, neon towers and iron factories buzzed with schemes and fears. The Overlords—new, old, mighty, and minor—all circled like vultures around a carcass not yet dead, each waiting for the doors to open and reveal whether Cain would be savior, executioner, or something far stranger.

The game had not yet begun, but already, every piece was moving.

The third day dawned in Hell with a strange weight in the air. The Embassy still stood locked and silent at the heart of Pentagram City, an untouched marble scar against neon skies, but by now the Sins themselves—lords of entire rings, embodiments of cosmic appetites—had turned their attention, if only briefly, to the matter of Cain. Unlike the Overlords, unlike the lesser demons buzzing in panic or intrigue, the Sins carried themselves with the unshakable calm of entities who had survived since the Fall. They did not rush to speculate, nor did they scramble to posture. Most of them did not even care—not yet. For the Sins, Cain was an inevitability, one they would face when he came to them, and not a second sooner.

In the endless oceans of the Envy Ring, Leviathan stirred in her fortress of black coral and tide-washed obsidian. The great serpent and fish ladies reclined against their throne, both heads raised toward the crystal screen hovering before them. Cain's frozen image, pulled from the broadcasts of his arrival, flickered against the waterlit walls.

The left head narrowed its eyes, voice low and rasping. "It was a matter of time before he would be back. The earth-born shade never stays buried."

The right head hissed agreement, its words like the crash of distant waves. "Yea. His shadow hath haunted every shore, every whisper. We are not surprised. We are… expectant."

They did not rage, nor did they plot; their voices carried only the inevitability of tides. Cain's return was not a shock to them, but the confirmation of a prophecy they had long ceased to doubt.

In the perfumed decadence of the Lust Ring, Asmodeus lounged on a bed larger than most mortal palaces, silk sheets spilling like rivers of wine. Beside him, Fizzarolli lay with his legs draped across Ozzie's chest, both watching the holoscreen that replayed Cain's speech in looping bursts of static and fire.

Fizz tilted his head, antennae twitching. "So… you know this guy? This Cain? Didn't peg you for being on first-name terms with spooky immortal murder-daddies."

Asmodeus let out a long, deliberate sigh, his golden eyes half-lidded. "Cain is… old, sugarplum. Very old. A shadow from the earliest days of hell, when Heaven still thought it could leash desire and strangle sin in the cradle. Let's just say we've crossed paths. Acquaintances, not really close friends."

Fizz blinked, his grin twitching with curiosity. "Acquaintances, huh? Should I be worried? You sound like you've got some history with him. You interested in meeting him again?"

Ozzie stretched, feathers rustling, and gave a low, rumbling chuckle. "Interested? Hardly. Cain's a pain in the ass—an exhausting, arrogant, chaotic pain in the ass. And not in the way I usually enjoy." His smile faded a little, thoughtful. "No. If he comes to Lust, he'll find me here. But I won't chase him. Not worth the headache."

Fizz, ever the jester, poked him in the side. "Guess I'll have to be the charming one when he does show up. Don't worry, babe—I'll make sure he doesn't ruin your sheets."

In a gilded palace littered with wrappers, empty bottles, and golden trinkets, Mammon sprawled on a mountain of cushions, surrounded by the glow of half a dozen televisions. Each screen replayed Cain's face in exaggerated close-up, his solemn words twisting into satire as Mammon barked curses between fistfuls of greasy food.

"Bloody Cain, struttin' in here like he owns the place!" Mammon snarled through a mouthful of chips, his accent sharp and brash. "Thinkin' he's all smug 'cause Heaven sent 'im down like some big bloody ambassador. Nah, mate. He ain't comin' in my Ring. Not without me sayin' so." He grabbed another slice of pizza, chewed angrily, then froze.

A grin spread across his grease-slick face, the glint of scheming greed in his eyes. "Wait a tick… Cain merch. Cain tours. Cain-themed casinos. Ohhh, I could sell Cain masks for Halloween! Cain ale! Cain action figures! The bloody Cain Experience!" He threw his head back and howled with laughter, spilling soda across his gut. "Fuck me sideways, I'll be richer off this immortal wanker before he even gets through me front door!"

In the cavernous abyss of Sloth, where eternal twilight stretched over a sea of feather mattresses and silken canopies, Belphegor stirred faintly in her colossal bed. Her hair spilled like ink across pillows the size of smaller beds, her hand lazily clutching a tablet propped against her chest. On it, Cain's broadcast replayed, his face frozen in solemn defiance.

With a yawn, she slowly lifted one finger and dragged it across the screen, zooming in on Cain's face. Her half-closed eyes studied it, her lips parting in the faintest of whispers.

"…Cain…"

Then she sank deeper into her pillows, tablet sliding off her chest, and drifted back into a dreamless slumber.

By contrast, Beelzebub was thrilled. In her neon-soaked pleasure palace, music thumped like a heartbeat, bottles clinked, and infernal brews foamed over. She danced atop a glowing counter, wings spread wide, a dozen demon partygoers cheering around her.

"Ohhh, Cainny-boy!" she sang between gulps of liquor, her grin wicked and wide. "You finally crawled back down here! We're gonna throw the biggest bash this Ring's ever seen when you swing by, baby! All the booze, all the fire, all the chaos you can handle!"

She spun in a drunken twirl, knocking bottles to the floor, her laughter echoing through the hall. For Beelzebub, Cain's return was not a warning. It was a promise of revelry. "Wonder if you're still the same crazy bastard I knew back then… Hope you can still hold your liquor!"

In the blistering heart of Wrath, the air shook with the roar of forges and the march of armies. Inside a fortress lined with weapons and banners, Satan sat rigid, fists clenched, his yellow eyes burning holes through the screen replaying Cain's speech.

"That fucking Bastard," he growled, his voice trembling with fury. "Marchin' into Hell, workin' with Heaven, sittin' there smug like he's the king of all sins. I'll tear his bloody head off if he sets foot here!"

The screen flickered, Cain's smile filling it, and Satan's rage boiled over. With a bellow, he hurled a ball of hellish fire straight through the television, shattering it in a burst of sparks. His chest heaved, every muscle taut with wrath barely contained.

From the doorway, Yogirt peeked in nervously, holding a tray. "Uh… boss? Maybe… maybe take a deep breath? You're getting a little, uh… murdery again."

Satan snarled, dragging a hand down his face, but his fury didn't abate. "He's in my Hell now. And if he thinks Wrath will bow to Heaven's dog, he's got another bloody thing comin'."

The manor was quiet, almost unnaturally so. The kind of silence that clung to the air like dust in sunlight. Deep within its heart, in a workshop lit only by the warm glow of scattered lamps, Lucifer Morningstar bent over his workbench. Wood shavings curled across the floor like fallen feathers, and the sharp smell of varnish mixed with the faint sweetness of tea cooling on the table beside him. His pale hands moved with precise elegance, carving out the rounded belly of a wooden duck.

The faint crackle of an old radio played in the corner. It wasn't tuned to music. It was tuned to the news. And the name Cain kept being spoken, over and over, like a curse dragged back from a grave.

Lucifer paused, knife hovering mid-cut, as the reporter's voice rang out:

"The immortal figure has declared himself Heaven's appointed ambassador, promising to reshape the course of Hell in the coming months."

For a moment, his lips curled into a dry, humorless smile. "Ambassador," he muttered under his breath. "Of course they'd dress the wolf in silk and call him a shepherd." He shaved another thin strip of wood from the duck's back, his motions steady, but the faint twitch in his brow betrayed his irritation.

The radio droned on—Cain's speeches, Cain's smile, Cain's promises. The knife dug a little too deep, leaving an ugly scar along the duck's wing. Lucifer stopped. He let the tool rest on the bench, staring at the marred line as if it were Cain's doing, not his own.

"Helping Heaven…" His voice was soft, but each word carried venom. He set the duck down gently, almost reverently, then leaned back in his chair. His wings, folded neatly behind him, shifted with a restless tremor. "You disappoint me, old boy. For all your services and loyalty to hell, all your cursed freedom, and now this? You let them put a leash on you? Or—" his eyes narrowed, a faint gleam of curiosity breaking through the anger, "—or you've put the leash on them."

He reached for his tea, took a sip, and grimaced—it had gone cold. The cup clinked softly against the table as he set it aside. His thoughts raced, though his outward composure never cracked.

Lucifer knew Cain too well, or rather, knew enough to never believe the surface. Heaven didn't trust Cain, not truly. They feared his actions. They always had. Which meant this appointment was desperation disguised as diplomacy. And Cain, Cain would never serve. Not honestly. The question was whether he'd play their game for his own ends, or if he'd simply burn the board the moment it suited him.

The news replayed Cain's declaration again. His voice echoed through the workshop—formal, commanding, dripping with poetic menace. "…To ensure that the mistakes of the past—on both sides—are acknowledged and corrected.…"

Lucifer scoffed, then chuckled, a low, tired sound that ended too quickly. He picked up the wooden duck again, smoothing over the scar he had carved. "Corrected?" he repeated softly. "That's not your word, Cain. Never was. You don't balance. You break."

His knife resumed its work, each cut deliberate now. "So what's your game? Revenge for Adam? Your old Position and throne? Or something fouler still?"

The radio crackled once more with Cain's name, and this time Lucifer switched it off. Silence flooded back into the room, broken only by the scrape of blade on wood. The Morningstar bent his head low over the duck, his face hidden in shadow.

"…One thing's certain," he murmured to the empty room. "You're not here to serve anyone. Not Heaven. Not me. Not even yourself, perhaps."

He finished smoothing the wing and held the duck up to the lamplight. Its eyes caught the glow, two tiny pinpricks of reflection staring back at him. Lucifer studied them in silence, his face unreadable.

At last, he set the duck gently upon the bench beside its half-finished companions, folded his arms, and leaned back in his chair. A faint smile flickered on his lips—half amusement, half dread.

"Welcome back to Hell, Cain," he whispered. "Let's see what chaos you've brought with you this time."

The workshop fell into silence again, save for the quiet ticking of the manor clock.

The night air over Pentagram City was heavy with anticipation, a charged silence that hummed through the neon-soaked streets. From every corner of the city, sinners, hellborns, and imps alike converged on the stark white monument of the Heaven Embassy, its glowing spires cutting like ivory knives into the crimson skyline.

Cameras hovered in the air, buzzing like mechanical flies, every news outlet desperate to be the first to capture the return of Cain from his three-day solitude. Streets were clogged with sinners filming on their phones, voices raised in speculation.

"Bet he's not even in there!" one demon sneered, holding a can of cheap booze.

"Heaven's just using his name—no way Cain himself's hiding behind some locked doors."

"Nah, he's plotting. Three days in silence? That's bad juju. He's Adam's spawn, nothing good comes from that."

Others muttered nervously, wondering aloud if Cain was different from Adam and the Exorcists, or if this was just the prelude to another massacre.

The crowd's murmur turned to a sharp, collective gasp when the heavy iron doors of the Embassy trembled. The earth gave a faint shudder, and every camera drone snapped into sharp focus, zooming in. Hundreds of phones were raised as the doors creaked open.

Out floated not Cain, but Eloa.

Dressed in a perfectly tailored heavenly robe far too regal for her tiny frame, she hovered out with all the poise of a diplomat, her small hands folded before her. She looked almost angelic—adorable even—like a child lost in the trappings of ceremony.

The reaction was immediate. Boos, curses, and mocking laughter filled the air.

"We didn't wait three days for this!"

"Where's Cain?!"

"Send the bunny back to Heaven!"

Eloa rolled her eyes, the gesture so dry and unimpressed that it silenced some of the hecklers. With a huff, she raised one tiny hand and pointed skyward, toward the looming clock tower above the Embassy.

All eyes turned, and the drones zoomed in.

There, perched on the very edge of the clock tower, sat Cain. His frame was long and imposing against the blood-red sky, one leg dangling casually, the other bent as he leaned on his knee. The grin on his face was carved with equal parts mockery and delight—like a wolf who had been watching the flock gather for slaughter.

The crowd froze, a collective breath held in their throats.

Then Cain stood. He threw his arms wide, his voice ripping through the city like thunder:

"IT'S THE DAWN OF A NEW AGE!"

The declaration reverberated across every street and rooftop, shaking the windows, rattling the cameras. Even the ground seemed to respond, a deep, resonant hum echoing up from the depths of Hell.

In a single, breathtaking leap, Cain hurled himself from the top of the clock tower. The crowd screamed as his body plummeted, but when his feet struck the earth before the Embassy, he landed in perfect balance. The impact split the pavement, a ripple of seismic force rolling outward in a quake that sent demons stumbling.

The dust cleared.

Cain stood tall, clad in a new suit of black and crimson red, every seam sharp as a blade, every fold immaculate. His presence was magnetic—terrifying and mesmerizing in equal measure. Behind him, the doors of the Embassy swung wide, with Eloa floating loyally at his side.

Cain's smirk deepened into a sly grin as he swept his gaze over the stunned masses. His voice, calm and silky, carried easily across the silence that followed:

"Let's start making a change, shall we?"

The crowd erupted. Some cheered in manic fervor, others cried out in terror, and still more stood dumbstruck, unsure if they had just witnessed the beginning of salvation or damnation.

But one thing was certain: Hell had just changed forever.

Chapter Text

The tremors of Cain’s landing still hummed faintly in the stones beneath the sinners’ feet, yet the terrifying grandeur of his entrance began to soften in the air as he straightened his suit and let his gaze sweep across the sea of faces. His grin mellowed into something gentler, almost warm—an expression so out of place on his uncanny, carved features that it caught the crowd off guard.

He took a step forward, unhurried, his presence drawing the mob in like gravity. His voice, now stripped of thunder, fell into something delicate, intimate, almost tender.

“Tell me…” he began, his eyes drifting over them with the softness of a confidant rather than a conqueror. “How long has it been, my dear neighbors of Hell, since anyone in power asked you about your lives? Since anyone bothered to look you in the eye and wonder how you endure?”

A hush settled. No one moved. The mocking jeers that had been directed at Eloa moments earlier were gone, smothered by the startling strangeness of Cain’s tone.

Cain let his smirk fade into something closer to concern, folding his hands loosely behind his back as though he were a teacher among frightened pupils. “You suffer extermination after extermination… every year, your streets awash in ash and blood. Families torn apart, friends scattered into nothingness. And when the skies close again, who comforts you? Who comes down from Heaven to whisper, ‘be patient, endure, your lives are not without worth’? No one.”

A murmur rolled through the crowd, some heads lowering, others staring in wide-eyed silence. Cain leaned slightly toward a smaller group near the front, his tone softening even further, as though he spoke only to them.

“And yet… here you are. Still standing. Still laughing, still fighting, still living despite the certainty of death hanging over your heads. That,” he said with a hand pressed against his chest, “is resilience. That is strength beyond the imagination of angels or kings. It is proof that your existence cannot so easily be erased.”

He crouched low to the ground, his black-crimson suit cutting a sharp silhouette against the pale pavement. His eyes locked on a trembling imp in the front row who had muttered something under his breath. Cain’s voice lowered, intimate, coaxing:

“Tell me, friend… how does it feel when the trumpets sound above? When the wings descend and the fire rains down? Do you feel fear? Anger? Helplessness?”

The imp swallowed hard, his throat bobbing. “…Fear. Always fear.”

Cain smiled gently—not mockingly this time, but with a strangely paternal softness. He reached out a gloved hand and patted the imp’s shoulder with the weight of a blessing. “Fear is not weakness. Fear is the heartbeat that reminds you you are alive. It is proof you still value what is yours, even when Heaven declares you worthless. Do not be ashamed of it. Cherish it. Let it become the soil from which your defiance grows.”

The crowd shifted uneasily, but the atmosphere had changed; the menace of Cain’s earlier theatrics had given way to a haunting intimacy. He rose slowly, his height once more towering above them, and spread his arms in a quiet benediction.

“I have heard whispers of a dream,” he said, his voice carrying now, but never rising above a calm, honeyed timbre. “A place… a hotel, they call it. A house of redemption, where even the damned may rise above the curses that bind them. Tell me—do you believe in such a thing? Do you dare to hope?”

Some heads nodded hesitantly, others turned to glance at their neighbors. Cain’s smile widened slightly, as though their uncertainty delighted him.

“Hope is fragile,” he continued, pacing slowly before them, “but it is the rarest and most precious jewel in Hell. Guard it. Do not let cynics or tyrants strip it from you. For patience, resilience, and hope… these are the weapons that do not dull, the fires that never die.”

He stopped, fixing the crowd with an expression so tender, so deceptively sincere, that it sent a shiver through even the hardest of sinners. “You are not alone. Not anymore. For three days I have listened, witnessed, and considered. And now, I am here among you—not as a judge, not as an executioner, but as one who would understand. I ask not for your worship, nor your obedience, but for your voices. Speak. Tell me your griefs. Share your fears. For only then may we weave together the strength to face what is to come.”

For a long moment, silence lingered, heavy and uncertain. Then a demon shouted something—an angry complaint about losing family to exterminations. Another, a trembling hellborn, cried that Heaven would never let them be. More voices followed, some furious, some desperate, all pouring their frustrations into the night.

Cain stood at the center of it all, drinking in their pain, nodding with an expression of infinite understanding. Every sigh, every tear, every angry curse—he received it as though it were confession. His eyes gleamed in the firelight of the cameras, a predator cloaked in velvet sympathy.

And when their cries began to ebb, he raised a hand, silencing them with a calm authority. His smile returned, soft and comforting, like a parent lulling children after a storm.

“Patience,” he said simply, the word caressed by his tongue as though it were sacred. “Patience and resilience. Together, we will endure. Together… we will change.”

The crowd, dazed and uncertain, clung to his words. Some felt comfort. Some felt manipulated. But all of them felt.

Cain had them exactly where he wanted them.

The murmur of comfort and curiosity that Cain had carefully woven into the crowd was pierced by a voice—loud, sharp, and trembling with doubt. A gaunt sinner in the second row, his eyes ringed with suspicion, shoved forward through the press of bodies.

“Why should we trust you?” he barked, his voice carrying just enough to echo against the Embassy’s walls. “You show up after three days, dressed like a king, talking like you give a damn—when not long ago you stood before every camera in Hell promising fire, destruction, and the end of us all. And now you’re working with Heaven, the very bastards who rain death on us every year! How can you expect us to believe a single word from your mouth?”

The crowd rippled with unease. Some nodded in agreement, emboldened by the man’s words. Others hissed at him to keep quiet, fearing Cain’s response. All eyes shifted to the Immortal, waiting to see if the mask of gentleness would fracture into wrath.

But Cain did not strike. He did not even frown. Instead, his lips curved into a slow, deliberate smile—a smile of satisfaction. He clasped his hands behind his back and inclined his head slightly toward the sinner, as though acknowledging an equal.

“Good,” Cain said, his tone rich with quiet approval. “Doubt me. Doubt everything. For skepticism is not weakness—it is strength. It is the first spark of wisdom.” He paced slowly before the mass of sinners and hellborns, his hands clasped loosely behind his back. Each step was deliberate, his presence commanding without force.

“Think on this,” he continued, his voice rising with a strange cadence, almost sermon-like. “The angels tell you to bow, to accept their will as truth. The lords of Hell tell you to serve, to obey, to consume. Both sides demand your silence, your blind faith. But blind faith is the chain that keeps you bound, the yoke pressed upon your shoulders since the dawn of creation. You will never rise above if you do not question.”

He turned suddenly toward the skeptic, his eyes gleaming with an unsettling brightness. “Ask yourself—why must there be exterminations? Who declared them necessary? Who profits from them? Why must sinners always cower? Why must you believe the stories you are told about who you are, what you deserve, and what you will never be? Have you ever stopped to question if your punishment was truly justice—or if it was merely convenience for those in power?”

The crowd stirred. Some whispered nervously, others frowned in thought. Cain stretched his arms wide, his voice now swelling to fill the square like a storm gathering.

“Question everything. Question Heaven’s decree. Question Hell’s order. Question the words of your kings, your Overlords, your idols. Question me—yes, especially me. Do not believe a word from my mouth simply because I wear a fine suit and speak in honeyed tones. Tear apart my words. Dissect them. See if they withstand your fire. And when they do not, cast them aside.”

He leaned forward, lowering his voice again, coaxing, intimate, his words like a serpent’s whisper curling into every ear. “For only in relentless questioning lies freedom. A mind that accepts all it is told is a mind in chains. But a mind that doubts, that resists, that cuts into the marrow of every truth it is handed—that mind cannot be enslaved. It will claw toward higher knowledge, higher freedom, higher self.”

Cain straightened once more, lifting his chin, his dark eyes sweeping the restless assembly. “You cry for salvation, but salvation without thought is just another prison. You beg for peace, but peace without doubt is death. You want freedom? Then let your doubts be your wings. Let your questions be your weapons. Never stop tearing at the walls of this cage until either the cage falls—or you do.”

He fell silent for a long, charged moment, letting the words hang heavy in the air. Then, at last, a faint, sly smile curled his lips. “So doubt me. Doubt them. Doubt everything. For in your doubt lies the seed of power.”

The crowd was thick with tension—some frightened, some exhilarated, some whispering furiously, already questioning things they had never dared voice aloud. Cain let the storm stir, let the seeds scatter, before folding his hands once again with a graceful bow.

“Now…” he said softly, “who else will speak?”

The murmurs that Cain’s words had sparked began to grow louder, sharper, like embers catching wind and flaring into little fires. A few sinners pushed closer through the throng, their faces lit by the sickly glow of neon signs and the cameras still hovering nearby.

One gaunt sinner with hollow cheeks and flickering eyes shouted over the rest, his voice hoarse from centuries of smoke and ash:

“So what, you’re tellin’ us to spit in the face of every order we’ve ever been given? To question even Heaven itself? That’s suicide!”

Cain turned toward him with deliberate slowness, folding his hands behind his back, his smile never faltering. He nodded, like a teacher pleased that a student had spoken.

“Yes,” he said, his voice calm yet razor-sharp. “Suicide. Madness. Rebellion. All of these words are but brands used by those in power to keep you docile. The man who does not ask is already dead—only he does not yet know it. The woman who does not chase after the hidden knowledge will never breathe free air. She lives in chains—chains made of her own fear.”

The gaunt sinner’s mouth shut, but another—a young hellborn woman with cracked horns and soot-stained hands—raised her voice, trembling but fierce. “Then answer me this, Cain,” she demanded. “Why does Heaven want us dead? Why send their blades, their fire, to cut us down year after year? Why are we never allowed to exist?”

The crowd hushed. All eyes turned to Cain. He tilted his head, amused, and for a moment the air seemed to thicken around him. His gaze was sharp, predatory, but his tone when he answered was soft, patient.

“Some questions,” Cain said, drawing the words out like a hymn, “are rivers that split into a thousand streams. Each stream is an answer, and each answer may be true, as much as it may be false. Heaven will tell you it is balance. Some angels whisper it is mercy. Others say it is fear, that your existence threatens their order. And you—” he pointed at the sinner, his finger like an accusation yet also an invitation—“you will think of reasons of your own, reasons pulled from your grief, your rage, your endless longing. And every one of them, in its way, will be right.”

He spread his arms wide, turning so that the crowd could see the sweep of his crimson-and-black suit. “And Hell? Hell will tell you a different story—that Heaven kills out of cruelty, out of a hunger for dominion. They will paint themselves as the wronged, the victim. But do not be deceived. They too hold the blade. They too have blood upon their hands.”

Cain’s smile warped, the corners tugging into something darker, crueler. His voice grew sharper, his cadence rising like a drumbeat. “This is the truth: all murder is shared. Every act of violence has two hands upon the hilt. Heaven kills because Hell exists. Hell suffers because Heaven kills. Both sides feed the fire, both sides carve the corpses. And neither side has the honor to admit it.”

The crowd stirred uneasily, some nodding, some whispering, some scowling. Cain’s eyes gleamed now, and he leaned forward, his grin widening. “But if you must kill—and oh, we all must—you should honor your killing. Stand by it. Do not weep, do not excuse, do not cloak it in the garb of balance or mercy. Own it! Say ‘I killed because I willed it so. I killed because I must. I killed because the world left me no other.’ That is the only morality worth a damn. Everything else is cowardice, dressed in silk.”

His words rolled over the crowd like thunder, and some flinched, others murmured in agreement, others simply stared, unsettled.

“M-Mr. C-C-Cain,” Eloa’s small voice broke in, high and trembling. She floated closer, her tiny form a fragile lantern in the dim chaos. Her paws clutched the hem of her little robe, her ears twitching nervously. “W-we need to g-go… to see the Princess of Hell. R-remember the… the h-hotel.”

Cain paused mid-breath, his head turning slowly toward her. For a long heartbeat, the sinister fire in his eyes softened. He straightened, one hand smoothing the front of his suit, the other stroking his beard. Then he cleared his throat and stepped back from the crowd, as though he had merely been caught in the heat of his own sermon.

He raised a hand, palm open, signaling for quiet. “You’ve been good listeners,” he said, his tone now measured again, elegant, almost gentle. “And I will leave you with this: never cease your questions. Never bow your head to silence. Let your hunger for truth gnaw at every wall until it breaks. If you stop asking, if you stop seeking, you are already dead.”

His grin returned, slow and devilish, flashing white beneath his trimmed beard. “We will speak again soon. And when we do, I will expect sharper questions.”

With a dramatic sweep of his coat, Cain turned from the crowd. Eloa hovered by his side, her little paws gripping nervously at her robe as she followed him, glancing back at the restless sea of sinners. Cain did not look back. He only strode forward, confident, deliberate, his shadow long and heavy against the glowing streets of Pentagram City.

And with that, the two of them began their walk toward the Hazbin Hotel.

Cain and Eloa walked side by side through the glowing arteries of Pentagram City. The streets buzzed with neon signs, greasy smog, and the distant clamor of sinners still arguing about the words Cain had spoken hours ago. Every corner they turned, whispers followed them, cameras clicked, and hellborn eyes tracked their silhouettes like prey watching a predator prowl by. Cain, towering in his black and crimson suit, cut an image that was half regal, half foreboding.

Eloa hovered close, her little wings beating nervously, robe sleeves pulled tight around her tiny paws. She peeked up at him, her voice a gentle tremor:

“M-Mr. Cain… p-please don’t let yourself s-slip again… not to those… d-dark thoughts.”

Cain exhaled, a laugh without humor, his eyes fixed ahead. “You always say that, little hare. And yet, the more you say it, the truer it becomes.” He glanced down at her, his smirk curving just slightly softer. “Tell me, what is worse? To slip into darkness, or to pretend that the darkness isn’t there at all?”

Eloa lowered her gaze, ears folding, unable to answer. Cain’s attention drifted back to the streets, his stride calm but sharp. His eyes scanned the demons loitering in alleys, hellborn beggars hunched against walls, the flashing ads of overlords plastered across the skyline.

“They’ve grown weak,” Cain muttered, voice low and cutting. “Fragile. Small. This city reeks of creatures with no teeth, no claws. When Hell began, demons were titans. They were chaos made flesh. Now…” He gestured with disdain toward a group of hellborn hawking cheap trinkets to passing imps. “Now they scrape and sell like merchants at a flea market. Tell me, Eloa, is this what damnation amounts to? A circus of scavengers?”

For a moment, she was quiet, her little chest rising and falling with a slow breath. Finally, she answered, voice timid but firm in its simplicity: “M-Maybe try not to be too… judg-judgmental,M-Mr Cain. N-not everything is as b-broken as you see it.”

Cain said nothing. His smile flickered, unreadable. The city lights reflected in his eyes, making them look like burning embers.

at the Hazbin Hotel, the air was heavy with anticipation. Charlie sat on one of the lobby couches, leaning forward with her hands clasped, her face pale but set with determination. Vaggie stood beside her, arms crossed, her sharp gaze fixed on the door as though Cain might burst through it at any moment.

“I won’t falter this time,” Charlie said suddenly, breaking the silence. Her voice wavered, but her conviction did not. “When I met Adam, I—I let fear take over. I can’t afford that mistake again. Not with Cain.”

Vaggie sighed through her nose, nodding slowly. “Good. Because Cain isn’t Adam. From what I’ve seen… he’s worse. He’s cunning. A smooth talker. The kind of guy who could smile at you while he’s putting a knife in your back.”

Charlie flinched at the thought but squared her shoulders. “Then I’ll stand my ground harder. I’m the princess of Hell. This is my duty—to protect our people, no matter who comes through that door.”

“Wonderful words, my dear.”

Both women jumped, spinning toward the sudden voice. Alastor stood behind them, tall and composed, his grin wide enough to split his face. His shadow stretched along the floor, flickering unnaturally with the dim light.

Vaggie scowled. “Alastor! How many times have I told you not to sneak up like that?!”

His chuckle was smooth, delighted, like a radio crackling with static. “Oh, but I simply can’t help myself. The tension in this room was delicious. And besides—” his eyes glittered like twin red bulbs “—how could I resist eavesdropping when talk of our mysterious Cain fills the air?”

Charlie rose to her feet, her fists clenched but her chin held high. “You might find him entertaining, Alastor, but this isn’t a game. He’s dangerous. He’s the son of Adam, and Heaven sent him for a reason. If he tries to harm my people, I will be ready.”

For a moment, even Alastor’s grin wavered into something sharper, hungrier, before curling back into amusement. He tipped his head. “Splendid. Then let us wait, shall we? The stage is set, the audience restless… and the star of the show is on his way.”

The three of them fell into a tense silence, the grand clock in the lobby ticking steadily as the weight of Cain’s impending arrival pressed down upon them all.

Pentagram City’s heartbeat quickened as Cain and Eloa made their way through its veins. The streets narrowed the closer they came to the Hazbin Hotel, neon bleeding across cracked pavement, shadows stretching from rusted fire escapes. Every sinner and hellborn they passed slowed, their conversations breaking into silence as eyes locked onto the towering figure in black and crimson. Cain did not hurry, did not falter—he walked as though he owned the streets, his steps measured and steady, his presence heavier than the neon smog that clung to the city.

Eloa floated beside him, small hands clutched nervously at her robe. She glanced up every few seconds, her large eyes flicking between his face and the path ahead, her wings fluttering like a candle about to burn out.

“M-Mr. Cain,” she whispered, “y-you don’t have to… to look so terrifying. They’re already scared of you.”

Cain smirked without looking at her. “Scared is easier than adored, little hare. Fear leaves no room for doubt.” His voice was smooth, even, like iron dragged gently across stone. Then his eyes flicked toward a crowd of imps huddled at a corner, whispering his name like a curse. “Besides,” he added, “they’d be fools not to fear me.”

Above, a giant screen flickered with 666 News reruns of his first declaration, Cain’s image repeated endlessly. “Cain the Immortal,” the headlines screamed, his smirk blown up over half the city. Every block carried his face; every alley buzzed with rumors. Even here, at the threshold of the Hotel’s neighborhood, groups of sinners argued about what his arrival meant—salvation, destruction, or something worse.

Eloa frowned, her small voice cracking through the noise. “J-Just… don’t lose yourself again.”

Cain tilted his head down at her, one brow arching. “You repeat that like a prayer.” His lips curled faintly. “Prayers don’t work here, Eloa. Not in this city. Not in this pit.”

The Hare cherub’s ears dipped, but she didn’t argue.

Inside the Hotel, tension clung to the walls like damp wallpaper. Charlie sat stiffly in the lobby, her hands clutching each other so tightly her knuckles had gone white. She kept glancing at the doors, heart racing, but forced herself to sit up straighter, to wear the posture of a princess rather than a nervous girl.

“Okay,” she whispered to herself, “you can do this. You have to do this. For them.”

Vaggie paced nearby, her arms crossed, one hand rubbing her temple as though she could squeeze the anxiety out of her skull. “He’s late. Too late. He’s dragging this out on purpose, Charlie. He wants you nervous when he walks in.”

Charlie frowned but shook her head. “Or maybe he’s just… taking his time. We don’t know him yet, Vaggie. We can’t judge before we even meet him.”

“That’s exactly what worries me,” Vaggie snapped, then softened, stepping closer. “Charlie, I know you want to see the best in people. But Cain isn’t like Angel, or Husk, or Niffty. He’s not even like your father. This guy… he’s dangerous in a way I can’t put into words.”

Charlie bit her lip, then nodded. “Which is why I have to stand firm.”

From the corner, Angel Dust lounged across the couch with a cigarette hanging from his lips. “Sweetheart, if this Cain guy’s half the psycho they say he is, ‘stand firm’ won’t mean jack. But hey—maybe he’s just one of those big talkers. Hype, smoke, mirrors. You know, like half the dicks I’ve worked with.” He smirked and flicked ash onto the floor.

Niffty twirled past with a duster in hand, her one good eye gleaming. “Ooooh, I think he sounds fun! Big scary immortal bad boy with a tragic past? Kinda hot! I bet his shoes are dirty, though—maybe I’ll shine them while he’s here!” She giggled, oblivious to the way Vaggie pinched the bridge of her nose.

Husk, perched behind the bar, downed another glass. “You don’t get it. Heaven doesn’t send people for fun. If they sent him here alone, it’s because he’s worse than any squad of exorcists. Don’t underestimate him, or we’re screwed.”

Charlie swallowed hard at that, but before she could answer, the lobby lights flickered—the hum of the city outside seemed to press against the windows, as though the very air was holding its breath.

And then came the voice.

“Ladies, gentlemen, and lost souls…”

Alastor emerged from the shadows like a phantom stepping out of his own radio static, his grin carved wide across his face. The old-timey buzz of his voice filled the lobby, smooth and maliciously cheerful. “Our guest approaches. Can’t you feel it? That crawling itch down your spine? That delightful pressure in your chest?” He chuckled. “Oh, I do so adore a grand entrance.”

Charlie and Vaggie both jumped, spinning toward him.

“Dammit, Alastor!” Vaggie snapped, her spear manifesting in her hands out of sheer reflex. “Do you have to sneak up every time?”

He tilted his head with mock innocence. “Why, my dear, I didn’t sneak. I announced. But perhaps your nerves are strung too tightly to notice.” His eyes gleamed as he turned toward the door. “He’s here. And ohhh, I can hardly contain my excitement.”

Charlie exhaled, standing tall now, her voice trembling but steady. “I’m not afraid. I am the princess of Hell. This is my home, and my people. Whatever he wants, whatever games he plays—I won’t let him harm them.”

Her words carried through the room like a vow, even as everyone else exchanged wary glances. Outside, the faint rhythm of heavy footsteps echoed closer and closer to the doors, each one falling like a drumbeat, steady and deliberate.

The Hotel waited, silent but alive, like the moment before lightning split the sky.

The knock was almost polite. Almost.

Three booming raps shook the Hazbin Hotel’s new front doors, rattling the hinges like the fist of a titan disguised in civility.

Charlie froze mid-breath, her heart pounding so hard she swore the whole lobby could hear it. Her hands clenched and unclenched as she forced herself to rise. Behind her, Vaggie adjusted her grip on the glowing spear, jaw tight, eyes locked on the door like she was ready to stab the first shadow that slipped through.

“Deep breath, Charlie,” she whispered to herself, smoothing her dress with trembling fingers. “You can do this. You have to do this.”

The knock came again—this time lighter, almost mocking.

Charlie glanced at Vaggie. Vaggie nodded once, her spear steady but her face tense. Together, they stepped forward. The lobby had gone dead silent, every sinner in the room holding their breath. Angel Dust flicked away his cigarette, suddenly sober. Husk poured another drink but didn’t sip it. Alastor leaned back in a chair, grin impossibly wide, eyes glittering with the anticipation of a man watching a show about to hit its crescendo.

Charlie grasped the handle. She could feel her palms sweating against the polished brass. With one last inhale, she pulled the door open.

And there he was.

Cain filled the frame like a monolith carved out of myth, broad-shouldered, towering even more than she’d imagined. His presence blocked the neon chaos of Pentagram City behind him, turning the world outside into a pale backdrop to his figure. For a heartbeat, both Charlie and Vaggie were struck by the same realization—Cain was even taller than Adam had been. And Adam had already been pretty large.

But Cain wasn’t snarling or swinging a weapon. Instead, his smile was smooth, his expression almost… courteous. His trimmed beard caught the light, his crimson-black suit crisp and immaculate. When he spoke, his voice carried that strange duality—silken and diplomatic on the surface, but ancient and dangerous in its marrow.

“Princess Charlotte Morningstar,” he said with a small, deliberate bow of his head, every syllable laced with formal respect. “And her ever-vigilant champion, Vaggie.” His sharp eyes flicked briefly to the spear leveled at him, and his grin widened with wry amusement before returning to Charlie. “My name is Cain. The Immortal. The one who has walked through Earth, Heaven, and now returned to Hell once more.”

He spread his arms slightly in mock ceremony, the gesture oddly grand despite his casual stance. “Heaven, in its boundless wisdom, has seen fit to send me as their chosen ambassador. I am here to make a deal.”

The words landed heavy in the room, as though the Hotel itself had been waiting to hear them. Cain’s voice carried like a sermon, yet he stood there like a polite guest, as if the past three days of fear and speculation had all been nothing more than a formality before this introduction.

Charlie swallowed hard, her fingers tightening on the door. Every instinct screamed at her to slam it shut, but she forced her shoulders back and lifted her chin. She had promised herself she wouldn’t falter.

“Welcome,” she said, steady despite the hammering of her heart. “Cain… the Immortal.”

Vaggie, though, didn’t lower her spear. Her glare could have cut through steel.

Cain noticed, of course. He noticed everything. And yet he only chuckled softly, as though the sharp end of her weapon was no more concerning than a pointed finger.

“Well,” he said smoothly, leaning forward just slightly, his smile curling into something sly. “Shall we step inside? After all… it would be terribly rude of me to keep your little kingdom waiting.”

Charlie’s voice trembled at first, but she steadied herself as she stepped aside from the door, motioning inward with one hand. “You… and your companion may enter.”

Cain bowed his head with a theatrical grace, his hair falling slightly over his brow, then straightened and stepped into the Hotel with Eloa hovering faithfully at his side. His colossal frame filled the doorway, casting a long shadow that stretched into the lobby. The instant his boots touched the floor, the room seemed to hold its breath.

He did not rush. His stride was slow, deliberate, each step echoing faintly in the newly polished tiles of the rebuilt Hotel. His sharp eyes traced the space with obsessive detail—the clean walls, the refurbished furniture, the hopeful banners still hanging from the ceiling. He let his gaze linger on every inch as though weighing the heart of the building itself, then spoke with a calm, velvety tone.

“You’ve rebuilt this place with delicacy… with care.” His eyes flicked to Charlie briefly, then back to the surroundings. “I must commend you. Hope is a fragile thing, and yet here it stands—stitched into brick and wood.”

The compliment hung in the air, unsettling in its sincerity.

Angel Dust gave a long, low whistle and leaned back into the couch, his smirk masking unease. “Holy shit… he’s huge. Like, I thought Adam was big, but damn, tall, dark and broody’s got him beat.”

Cherri Bomb snickered from beside him, blowing a bubble of gum before snapping it. “Yeah, no kidding. Guy looks like he could use a canon as a handgun. Kinda hot though.”

Cain’s smirk twitched as if he’d heard every word, though his eyes kept roaming the walls.

Behind the bar, Husk squinted over his glass, studying Cain’s face. He had always pictured the Immortal as a monster—eyes black as void, a figure dripping with menace. But what he saw was different: a face lined with wisdom and fatigue, sharp but strangely human. His gaze shifted to Eloa, hovering close to Cain like a shadow. Her little robe quivered with her trembling body, her tiny hands clutching the edges of her sleeves. For a moment Husk thought: spy, some heavenly leash disguised as innocence. But the way she shook, the way her ears twitched nervously, made him reconsider. No spy looks that scared, he thought, downing another gulp.

On the far side of the room, Niffty’s one good eye sparkled like a gem. She wrung her hands, bouncing in place with a manic grin. “He’s here… he’s really here! The immortal bad boy himself!” she squealed in a whisper, though it wasn’t quiet at all. She dusted the already spotless counter with rapid sweeps, muttering about how she wanted to shake his hand, "play with him", maybe even stitch him a little pillow with ‘Cain the Immortal’ on it.

Alastor leaned forward slightly, hands folded atop his cane, grin as wide as ever. His crimson eyes glowed like burning radio tubes. His voice was smooth and tinged with static when he finally spoke. “So… the rumors were true.” His tone made it sound like he was savoring each word. “The immortal Cain, walking once again through our little corner of perdition. I’d always wondered if the tales were mere campfire fables—stories told to frighten imps and amuse the old guard. But now…” He chuckled, low and sharp. “Now I wonder if the rest is true as well. That you once spoke with princes, that even the Seven Sins lent you their ears. Ohhh, what fun it will be to find out.”

Vaggie tightened her grip on her spear. Her shoulders were stiff, her body angled between Cain and Charlie like a shield. Every instinct screamed danger, every flicker of Cain’s gaze felt like the promise of violence. She tracked him with narrowed eyes, waiting for the first twitch of aggression.

And then his eyes found hers.

They glowed faintly—red, deep and ancient—and the grin on his lips bent into something sharper. Vaggie’s breath caught. A wave of dizziness struck her like a hammer. She blinked, and in that blink she saw it—her own head rolling across the floor, her throat split open, the searing phantom-pain of a blade biting her neck. She staggered, the vision vanishing as fast as it came, leaving the echo of pain hot on her skin. With a gasp, her spear clattered to the ground.

“Vaggie!” Charlie was instantly at her side, catching her before she could collapse. She turned to Cain, her face blazing with anger. “What did you do to her?! You—”

Cain tilted his head, expression calm, almost amused. He raised his hands slightly in a mock gesture of peace, the smirk never leaving his face. “Nothing,” he said smoothly. “Your warrior saw the consequence of her own intent. She held malice toward me, and the vision was the echo of that malice. A glimpse of what would happen if she acted upon it.”

Charlie’s glare didn’t soften. “She—she nearly fainted! You did something!”

Cain’s tone stayed steady, patient, unnervingly gentle. “If I meant harm, Princess, there would be a sickle or a scythe in my hands, and your lobby would run red. But I have none, because I am not here to fight. I am here as a friend… as an ally.” His eyes lingered on Vaggie, whose breathing was shaky, her hand pressed to her throat. “I apologize, sincerely, for the pain you felt, if it was outside of my intent or your consent. You have my word—it will not happen again.”

And then he smiled, that devilish grin that seemed to stretch deeper than his mouth should allow. “Now… shall we begin our conversation properly?”

The room was silent except for the faint hum of the neon sign outside, buzzing like a warning.

The lobby’s silence was shattered by the creak of a door opening on the upper floor. The residents snapped their eyes upward. From the grand staircase, footsteps echoed—measured, deliberate, and oddly unhurried.

Lucifer descended with all the elegance of a man who had long ago mastered spectacle without effort. His short frame was draped in a robe patterned with whimsical ducks, golden trim catching the light. His face was calm, his smile polite but sharp, and his eyes—those ancient, calculating eyes—swept over the scene with detached composure.

Charlie’s breath hitched. “Dad…” she whispered. Relief flickered across her features as he crossed the last steps.

Lucifer’s first motion was not toward Cain but toward Vaggie, who was still pale and shaken with Charlie at her side. He bent slightly, offering her his hand with surprising gentleness. “My dear girl,” he said, voice smooth as velvet, “no lasting harm done, I trust?” His tone was gentle, though his eyes flicked once, razor-sharp, toward Cain.

Vaggie steadied herself with a nod, still clutching Charlie’s arm. “I’m fine,” she muttered, though her voice betrayed her unease.

Charlie braced herself for a storm, but Lucifer turned to her instead, resting a hand briefly on her shoulder. “Worry not, my little star,” he said softly, “no guest will strike you down while I am under this roof.”

Lucifer straightened, turning his gaze now toward Cain. The corners of his mouth tugged into a half-smile, more knowing than welcoming. “You certainly do make an entrance, Old Boy.”

Cain’s eyes flared with amusement. He tilted his head, his lips stretching into a grin as he offered an exaggerated, mocking bow. “Your Majesty,” he purred, the words dripping with sarcasm. “What an honor to stand once again before the great Lucifer himself… though I must ask—did you get taller? Or did I simply forget how small the king of hell looks outside his throne and in person?”

A chuckle rippled from Lucifer’s throat, smooth and dry. “I suppose the shining sun of earth and the lighting in Heaven have weakened your vision. Speaking of which… tell me, Cain—how was your stay in my old quarters? Did the halls still sing with the echoes of my rebellion, or were they too busy whispering your name?”

Cain’s smirk sharpened. He took a casual step forward, his shadow stretching long across the marble floor. “It was more comfortable than I expected, truth be told. Far better than the time you spent there. They don’t seem to miss you nearly as much as you think.” His words carried like daggers wrapped in velvet, each syllable meant to bite.

Lucifer arched an eyebrow, his half-smile unfazed. “Careful. You’ll wound my pride, and that’s a sin I’ve always been quite protective of.”

The two men locked eyes, banter sparking between them like steel on flint. It was not the clash of enemies, nor the embrace of friends—it was something stranger. Almost playful. Almost dangerous.

Cain folded his hands behind his back, his grin never faltering. “Oh, but I wouldn’t dare. Pride is a crown you wear better than anyone, Lucifer. I wouldn’t dream of stealing it. I have my own titles, after all.” He leaned forward, lowering his tone just enough for the weight to settle on everyone in the room. “Cain the Immortal.The Cursed one. But i think you know the title that I cherish the most.”

Lucifer tilted his head, regarding him with that same unimpressed smile. “And yet… here you are. In my daughter’s Hotel. Seeking diplomacy, if the rumors are true.”

Before Cain could answer, Lucifer’s gaze shifted, softening slightly as it landed on the small figure by Cain’s side. “And Eloa… little starling. I see they’ve dragged you into this as well.” His tone gentled, words carrying a fatherly note he hadn’t spared for Cain.

Eloa blinked, ears perking, and stuttered a small bow in return. “Y-Your Highness, s-sir. It’s g-good to s-see you again.”

Cain’s grin twitched wider at the difference in tone. “She gets the gentle greeting, and I get the unimpressed glare. Ah, Majesty, your favoritism is showing.”

Lucifer chuckled again, this time low and amused. “Well, Cain, perhaps you should try being a hare or a duck. They’re much harder to hate.”

The lobby held its breath as the two ancient immortals stood face-to-face, their words veiled in humor yet heavy with unspoken history, as though this was only the opening act of a much longer duel.

Cain’s grin lingered as the banter hung in the air, but then, tilting his head slightly, his tone shifted, suddenly curious, almost too casual.

“And tell me, Majesty,” he said, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly. “Where is her Highness? Surely she would have come to greet her old acquaintance.”

The question cut sharper than any blade. For the first time since descending the stairs, Lucifer’s composure cracked. His half-smile faltered, his pale eyes darkening. He rested both hands on his cane and answered with a tone that was far heavier than he intended, laced with pain.

“She is not here. She left… years ago.”

The weight of those words rang across the lobby, silencing even Angel’s murmured jokes. For a brief, rare moment, Cain’s own mask slipped. His smile faded into something quiet, solemn. He bowed his head slightly, his voice lower, stripped of sarcasm.

“…I didn’t know,” he admitted, the sincerity in his tone startling everyone who heard it. “Lucifer, I truly didn’t know. For that, I apologize.”

Lucifer gave the faintest nod, his eyes hollow for a fleeting second, before he drew himself back together. “Your sympathy is noted. But it leads me to the real question: why?” He leaned forward on his cane, gaze sharp. “Why are you here? Why are you helping Heaven of all sides? Is it because of Adam?”

The lobby froze. Charlie sucked in a sharp breath, waiting.

Cain stared at Lucifer for a long moment… then erupted into laughter. A booming, guttural laugh that shook the air, his head thrown back, his teeth flashing like ivory daggers. He laughed until the sound bounced against the high ceilings, until it nearly drowned the hum of the city outside.

When he finally calmed, his grin returned, sharper than ever. “Lucifer… are you seriously asking me that? Do you truly believe that I care about Adam?” His words snapped like a whip, each syllable brimming with contempt. “Adam. The man who raised me as a blemish. The man who raised Abel as the golden child. The man who led armies against Hell as if it would fix his failings as a father. Do you think I would soil myself with loyalty to him?”

He stepped closer, his shadow falling long across the floor. “No. I am here because of the laws of cause and effect. Causality, Majesty. The oldest law, the law beneath all laws. I told you centuries ago I would return here, and here I am. Not by choice. By inevitability.”

His gaze cut toward Charlie, then back to Lucifer, his grin widening. “Your daughter’s project, your actions, her optimism—they spun the wheel that turned the chain of events that dragged me back. This moment, this room, was written the day you rebelled and the day she dreamed of redemption. You should thank me, Lucifer, but more importantly, you should thank yourselves. Every choice you made was a step on the road to this moment.”

Charlie’s hands curled into fists, her wings twitching with frustration. “We’re not going to let Heaven destroy us,” she blurted, her voice firm despite the quiver of fear behind it.

Cain chuckled softly, his eyes glowing like embers, his tone dipping into something darker, heavier. “Destroy you? They can’t. They won’t. Not because of mercy, but because of balance. Cosmic balance. The grand scale that underpins existence itself.”

He began to pace slowly across the lobby, his long strides measured, every step echoing. His voice grew philosophical, almost hypnotic. “For every flame there must be shadow. For every heaven there must be a hell. Without one, the other collapses into meaningless void. You are necessary, Princess. Necessary not because you are righteous, not because you are strong, but because you are the counterweight. Existence is a pendulum—it swings only because both ends exist. Remove one, and the pendulum stills, time halts, the cosmos decays.”

He turned back toward her, his grin sharp but his tone almost gentle. “So no, Hell will not be destroyed. It cannot be destroyed. But it can be controlled. Manipulated. Trimmed back to keep the pendulum swinging neat and clean.” He raised one hand, curling his fingers into a claw. “That is what Heaven does with its exterminations. Not destruction—maintenance. They prune the tree so it does not crack the heavens above or rot into the roots below.”

Cain lowered his hand, smirk lingering, his voice lowering into something more intimate. “But trees grow. Branches spread. And no gardener can stop a storm.”

Charlie’s breath hitched, her knuckles tightening. She didn’t know whether to feel relieved or horrified.

Lucifer’s half-smile returned, faint and razor-thin. “Ah,” he said softly, “there’s the Cain I remember. Half prophet, half poison.”

Cain’s words lingered in the air like smoke, heavy and invasive. The silence that followed was brittle, on the edge of shattering.

It was Charlie who broke it. She took a step forward, wings quivering, her voice trembling with fire. “You’re wrong. Maybe Heaven thinks it’s just pruning, maybe they see us as weeds to be trimmed back—but we’re not weeds. We’re people. Every sinner, every hellborn, every demon—you can’t reduce us to a branch to be clipped whenever they feel like it. We matter. We have feelings, dreams, regrets. That’s why I started this Hotel. To prove we’re more than the mistakes we made.” Her voice caught in her throat, but she pushed through. “If Heaven won’t see that, then we’ll show them.”

Cain tilted his head, regarding her almost tenderly, though his smile carried no comfort. “Ah, the heart of the Princess. A flame burning so brightly it blinds itself. Beautiful, but dangerous. Tell me, Charlotte—what good is a dream when the pendulum swings regardless? Do you believe you can stop inevitability with compassion alone?”

Lucifer’s voice cut in, sharp and deliberate, grounding the storm of Charlie’s emotions. “He’s right about one thing, darling—inevitability is a stubborn beast. But Cain, inevitability is only another word for laziness. It’s the excuse of those too afraid to wrestle with possibility. Balance, pendulums, cause and effect—it’s all very poetic, yes. But it’s also a cage built of your own cynicism.” He stepped forward, cane tapping against the floor. “The cosmos does not demand we accept balance—it dares us to break it.”

Cain’s grin widened, a flicker of respect glinting in his eyes. “Ah, the Devil still has teeth. I almost missed this.” He spread his hands, voice rising with conviction. “Yet tell me, Lucifer: when you broke balance, what happened? You were cast down. Your rebellion did not end the pendulum—it only gave it momentum. Even you, Majesty, are proof of its inevitability.”

Charlie’s fists clenched. “So what? We should just roll over? Accept being slaughtered every year because some angels decided that’s the ‘natural order’? No! If the pendulum swings, then we’ll push back harder. We’ll slow it. We’ll change its path.”

Cain chuckled softly, eyes burning like coals. “Such passion. Such defiance. I almost envy it. But understand this: both sides are guilty. Heaven slaughters, cloaked in righteousness. Hell devours itself, clawing for scraps of power. You call it justice, they call it duty. I call it the same disease—different symptoms.”

Lucifer leaned on his cane, his half-smile edged with razor steel. “And yet, you stand here, Cain, sent by Heaven. Does that not make you their symptom?”

Cain’s eyes narrowed just slightly, the grin sharpening. “Perhaps. Or perhaps I am the fever breaking. Perhaps I am the wound healing by festering first.” He paused, lowering his tone into something quieter, almost intimate. “I lean neither wholly to Heaven, nor fully to Hell. But I acknowledge what most here refuse—that both sides are flawed. Both sides corrupt. And until someone admits that truth, nothing changes.”

He looked at Charlie again, voice dropping softer, his grin momentarily tempered. “Do you know why I speak with you, Princess? Because unlike your father, unlike the Seraphim, unlike the Sins—you believe. That belief makes you dangerous. It also makes you fragile. And fragile things…” His smirk returned, devilish and mocking. “…are always the first to break.”

Charlie bristled, her eyes burning with fair fury, while Lucifer’s smile thinned into something colder, more calculating.

The debate had not ended—it had only drawn its first blood.

Eloa’s small voice, stammering yet firm, broke through the heated air like a bell cutting through smoke.

“Mr. C-Cain… y-you s-shouldn’t… antagonize them,” she said, her little form floating closer to him, her tiny hands wringing the hem of her robe. Her big eyes darted between Charlie and Lucifer, their postures still sharp with unease. “W-we came here to p-propose something… not start a f-fight. Y-you said yourself, we’re here to h-help the Hotel. To help… them redeem more people.”

Her tone, though meek, carried enough weight to make Cain pause. The smirk wavered. He exhaled slowly, rubbing his beard with one hand as if dragging himself back from the edge of his darker thoughts. “Ah, Eloa. Ever the conscience.” He gave her a half-smile, then looked back at Charlie and Lucifer. “Forgive me. Old habits. Old scars. I do enjoy sparring in words a little too much.”

Lucifer arched a brow, leaning lazily on his cane. “Enjoyment is one word for it. Self-sabotage would be another.”

Cain chuckled under his breath, then let the grin fade. For the first time since stepping into the Hotel, his posture eased—less towering menace, more solemn presence. “Very well. No more games. The truth, then: I am here to help you. You, Princess, and your Hotel. You and your dream of redemption.”

Charlie blinked, her suspicion not dissolving but faltering. “...Help us? After everything you just said?”

Cain nodded, eyes steady. “Yes. Heaven will not stop its Exterminations. If anything, the Hotel’s progress makes them more nervous. Nervous angels are dangerous angels. You’ve already seen how quick they are to send their blades. But I am… an exception. A loophole. Heaven may despise Hell, but Heaven needs me. And if I stand with your Hotel, they will hesitate. They will think twice before cutting down what you’ve built.”

The room was silent for a moment. Even Alastor, who had been quietly grinning from the shadows, tilted his head with genuine intrigue.

Vaggie clenched her fists. “And why would you do that? Why help us? What do you get out of it?”

Cain smirked again, though softer this time. “Ah, always the practical one. I knew I liked you.” He straightened, his voice carrying a weight that filled the room. “Because balance demands it. Hell cannot be erased, Heaven cannot consume all, and sinners cannot be left without a path. If the pendulum swings too far, everything falls apart. That is why I am here.”

Charlie’s eyes narrowed. “If that’s true… then what’s the catch?”

Cain’s grin widened once more, this time playful, almost boyish. “The catch?” He spread his arms with a theatrical flourish, then leaned forward slightly, his massive frame lowering closer to her level. “Simple. Before I can defend your little dream from Heaven’s fury…” He let the pause linger, just long enough to twist the tension. “…I’ll need a room in your Hotel.”

Charlie blinked, utterly taken off guard. “...A room?”

Cain’s smirk turned mischievous, his teeth flashing. “Yes. A room. Somewhere I can stay, watch, and—let’s say—partake in this grand experiment of yours. Surely the first murderer deserves at least bed and board, don’t you think?”

Eloa sighed, pinching the bridge of her tiny nose, while Alastor’s grin spread ear to ear, the radio demon chuckling softly at the absurdity.

Lucifer muttered, shaking his head. “You always did know how to make an entrance… and a demand.”

Charlie swallowed hard, her heart pounding, staring at Cain’s devilish smile.

The Immortal had just asked to live under her roof.

Charlie took a sharp breath, her hands folding against her chest as she glanced between Cain’s expectant grin, Eloa’s anxious little face, and the watchful eyes of the others in the lobby. The weight of his words hung heavy in the air, pressing down on her shoulders.

She forced a nervous but polite smile. “Cain… if you don’t mind,” she began, her voice steady but carrying the tremor of her heart, “I’d like to speak with my father and Vaggie alone. Just for a moment. This is… a lot to process.”

Cain tilted his head, eyes gleaming with amusement. He seemed almost delighted by her composure. With a playful little bow, hand pressed mockingly over his chest, he said, “But of course, Princess. Take all the time you need. A wise host must weigh the value of her guests before deciding where they shall rest.”

Eloa hovered closer, tugging gently at his sleeve. “M-Maybe we should… give them space,” she stammered.

Cain winked down at her, then turned back to Charlie. “In the meantime, I shall make myself… acquainted.” His deep voice rolled with charm, threaded with a faint undercurrent of mischief. He straightened his suit, pivoted on his heel with surprising grace for such a massive figure, and strode deeper into the Hotel.

The residents shifted uneasily as he approached—Angel leaned against the bar with a sly grin, Cherri Bomb’s eyes glittered with a mix of excitement and suspicion, Husk’s ears twitched as he poured another drink, and Niffty was practically bouncing on her toes, squealing, “OH YES!, OH YES!, the Immortal Bad Boy is really here!”

Cain spread his arms as if stepping onto a stage, his towering shadow spilling across the lounge. “Well now,” he said smoothly, his smile wide and careful, “why don’t we get to know one another?” His tone dripped with warmth, though his eyes studied every detail—their reactions, their postures, the subtle tells of each resident.

Back by the door, Charlie exhaled shakily and turned toward her father and Vaggie, her hands trembling as she whispered, “We need to talk. Now.”

Lucifer rested a hand on her shoulder, his half-smile fading into something quieter, older, more tired. Vaggie tightened her grip on her spear, her jaw clenched, but she nodded firmly.

The princess of Hell led them aside, away from Cain’s commanding presence and the nervous chatter of the others. She wanted answers—she wanted clarity. Most of all, she wanted to know if she could possibly trust Cain in her sanctuary.

Charlie shut the door to the small sitting room upstairs, her shoulders still tight from the weight of Cain’s presence downstairs. The muffled noise of the residents’ chatter and Cain’s deep voice drifted faintly through the floorboards, but here it was quieter—tense, but quiet.

She paced once, twice, before finally blurting out, “I don’t know if we can trust him. He talks so smoothly, so… politely—but everything about him feels like a trap waiting to snap shut.” Her hands fluttered anxiously as she tried to find the words. “I mean, why here? Why us? Why me? What if Heaven’s using him to get close?”

Vaggie leaned against the wall, spear still clutched in one hand, her brows furrowed deeply. “He’s a silver-tongued bastard, that’s for sure,” she said flatly, her tone carrying both anger and reluctant respect. “But… I can’t lie, Charlie. When he spoke, there was something there. I felt it. Like he wasn’t completely bullshitting. Like part of him meant every word. That’s what makes him dangerous—he weaves the truth with the lies so tightly you can’t pull them apart.”

Lucifer, lounging in a chair with a glass of red wine in hand, gave a quiet chuckle. “That’s Cain, darling.” He swirled the wine lazily, his eyes glinting with old recognition. “He has always been like that. Every word dipped in poetry, every thought dressed as a revelation. But here’s the thing—Cain doesn’t betray his own absurd beliefs. He clings to them like a drowning man clings to driftwood. That’s what makes him… paradoxically reliable. He won’t go against himself. He won’t abandon what he considers his truth.”

Charlie turned to him sharply. “So you think we can trust him?”

Lucifer leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his half-smile tugging at his face again. “I think, my little star, that you should be wise. Listen, yes. But don’t believe everything. Cain has a fondness for twisting the truth until it looks like something new, something grander. It’s his way of control. But—” he raised a finger—“he could also be an interesting addition to your Hotel. Imagine it: the first killer, the Immortal himself, walking among your residents. A wild card, but a powerful one.”

Charlie bit her lip, her eyes clouded with worry. “Then… I’ll put my trust in his words. For now. But I’ll keep an eye on him. I won’t let him trick me the way Adam did. Not again.”

Vaggie stepped forward, her stern expression softening as she took Charlie’s trembling hands into her own. “And I’ll be right here. Always. You don’t face this alone, Charlie. Not ever.”

Lucifer rose from his chair and placed a hand gently on his daughter’s shoulder, his voice unusually earnest. “Nor will you ever lose me, my dear. Whatever Cain is scheming, whatever games he plays—remember, you’re not alone. You’ve got us. Both of us.”

Charlie breathed deeply, nodding as she squeezed Vaggie’s hands and leaned into her father’s touch. For a moment, the uncertainty faded, replaced by a fragile but resolute warmth. Cain was here, yes. But so were they.

The hotel’s main lounge hummed with uneasy chatter, but Cain’s presence quickly turned it into something else entirely. He had shifted gears, his towering figure now moving with an almost relaxed swagger, the philosopher-king mask replaced by the charm of a dangerously charismatic uncle at a family gathering.

He stopped first in front of Angel Dust, who was stretched across the couch, legs crossed like a pin-up. Cain tilted his head, his smile sharp but oddly warm.

“Those boots,” he said, voice dropping into a casual drawl, “sleek, polished—almost sinful. And that figure? Slim as a blade. Makes every sinner jealous, Spidey boy.”

Angel blinked, then smirked, adjusting his collar. “Well, aren’t you full of surprises. First Immortal, now fashion critic? Careful, big guy, you might give me ideas.”

Cain chuckled, a low rumble. “Ideas are dangerous things, Angel. You’d fit right in with the philosophers I drank with back in Athens. They’d have adored you.”

He moved on, turning his attention to Cherri Bomb, who was leaning against the bar with a grin sharp enough to cut glass. Cain’s eyes lit up at the sight of her stash of explosives.

“You know,” Cain began, leaning close like he was telling her a secret, “I was there when dynamite was first invented. Humanity trembled, trembled, Darling. The power in a single stick of powder—they thought the world would end.”

Cherri’s grin widened. “And did it?”

“No,” Cain said with a laugh, “but man, it should’ve. Nothing rattles a kingdom like watching its walls shatter in fire. You’d have loved it. I’ve never seen eyes sparkle brighter than the first time someone lit a fuse.”

Cherri cackled, fist-bumping him. “Hell yeah, big guy. You get it.”

Cain’s next stop was Husk, who looked up from behind the bar with the most exhausted glare he could muster. Cain tapped two fingers on the counter.

“The strongest thing you’ve got. And none of that watered-down swill.”

Husk wordlessly slid him a glass filled with a liquid that looked like it could strip paint. Cain downed it in one smooth gulp, smacked his lips, and then—

“Fuck!” he growled, slamming the glass down. “Still sober.”

Husk raised an eyebrow. Cain spread his arms dramatically, his grin crooked. “Cursed super healing. I can’t get drunk even if I try. I swear, during the Black Death, I would’ve killed for a bottle that worked. Europe was the gloomiest place on Earth. Rats, coughing, priests losing their fucking minds, everyone blaming the Church. Absolute buzzkill.”

A dry chuckle escaped Husk despite himself. Cain gave him a wink. “See? Even you laughed. Not so bad after all, eh?”

Then, Cain felt a tug at his sleeve. He looked down to see Niffty staring up at him with wide, sparkling eye.

“Well, aren’t you a sharp little needle,” he said, bending down and, without hesitation, lifting her onto his lap like she weighed nothing. “Tell me—were you the one who put the blade in Adam’s back? Hmm?”

Niffty beamed, practically vibrating. “Yup! Stabbed him right up! He didn’t even see me coming!”

Cain burst into laughter, a manic, unrestrained laugh that echoed off the walls. He ruffled her hair, chuckling even as he gave her a mock look of dismay. “So you stole my kill, eh? Took it right out from under me.”

Niffty puffed out her chest proudly. “Guess I did!”

“Good girl,” Cain said with a grin that bordered on feral, patting her head. “You did well. Even if you robbed me of my satisfaction.”

The two broke into matching manic laughter that unsettled half the room. Then, Niffty hopped down, dug into her apron pocket, and presented him with a little roach-crown she had been saving.

Cain held it up, his eyes glinting with amusement, before settling it on his head like it was a king’s crown. His laugh boomed again. “Marvelous. Truly marvelous. I like this little one!”

The room shifted, unease mixing with reluctant amusement. But then the air grew heavy again, because Cain’s smile faltered for the briefest second as he noticed Alastor.

The Radio Demon stood just beyond the group, hands clasped neatly in front of him, smile razor-wide, eyes gleaming with predatory delight. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. He just stared.

Cain adjusted the roach crown, straightened his crimson suit, and smirked knowingly. “Well,” he muttered, almost to himself, “I suppose I know who I should talk to next.”

And with that, the room seemed to tense like a violin string, every resident aware that two legends were about to collide.

The lounge’s atmosphere shifted when Cain finally closed the space between himself and the Radio Demon. The chatter of Angel, Cherri, and Husk dulled to whispers; Niffty scurried out of the way with wide, sparkling eyes. Cain loomed, adjusting the roach-crown as if it were a coronet of iron, and when he stopped in front of Alastor, he tilted his head, eyes gleaming with mischief.

“Well, well,” Cain drawled, his grin sharp and dangerous, “Lester, isn’t it? The one they call the Radio Demon. I’ve heard the name whispered through Hell like an old hymn—half admiration, half terror. You’ve been busy.”

Alastor’s ears twitched at the deliberate mispronunciation, though his grin remained sharp and unchanged. He leaned forward slightly, cane tapping once on the floor, his static voice humming like a radio tuning into the right frequency.

He gave a neat bow, voice as smooth and melodic as ever. “My, my! To be acknowledged by the father of murder himself! What an honor indeed! Why, your reputation precedes you, Mister Cain. One could almost say you’re… legendary.”

Cain’s laugh rumbled, low and cutting, shaking his head. “Legendary, yes—but not without proof,"He gave a low chuckle before stepping just close enough for his shadow to fall over Alastor. “I watched the record of your fight with Adam. You had your moment, I’ll give you that. But when your cane broke… you just vanished.”

The Radio Demon’s static spiked for a moment, the lights in the lounge flickering faintly, though his smile stayed plastered on.

Cain leaned closer, voice lowering just enough for the others to hush and listen. “And I read your file. Did you know Heaven keeps extensive records, Lester? All your little tricks, all your clever games. And there, tucked between pages of praise and horror, was one little note. You were supposed to protect this very hotel. Yet the first chance you had—” Cain gestured toward the rebuilt walls with a mocking flourish— “you abandoned it. Left it to crumble. Interesting, isn’t it?”

The smugness dripped from his tone, his smirk daring Alastor to retaliate.

For the briefest second, the static faltered. Alastor chuckled, though his voice came out tighter than before. “I did what I had to do, Mister Cain. Survival, after all, is an art. I don’t dwell on the past.” His crimson eyes flicked, and with a sly shift he added, “Perhaps you shouldn’t either. Unless, of course, you’d like to revisit the time you murdered your own brother?”

The room went deathly quiet. While Husk muttered a low “oh shit.”

“Ah, Lester. Always reaching for the obvious card. Yes, I killed Abel. But here’s the difference.” Cain’s tone grew sharper, darker, as his words cut with precision. “I never promised to protect Abel. I never swore loyalty to him, never claimed to stand between him and death. You did. You promised this hotel safety, and you abandoned it. I ended a brother’s life and bore the mark of it forever. But you?”

He leaned even closer, his whisper dripping with mockery. “You abandoned the thing and the people you promised to protect, and called it necessity. Tell me, Lester, which of us is truly worse?”

For the first time, Alastor’s smile faltered—a hairline crack across porcelain. The static hissed like white noise caught in a storm.

Cain straightened, chuckling as if nothing had happened. “But I admire your smile, Lester. Hold onto it tight. Smiles are masks, and masks always tell the truth, even when we pretend they don’t.”

The room exhaled all at once, the tension like a taut string plucked and left quivering. Alastor recovered his composure, his grin snapping back into place, but the shimmer in his eyes betrayed a flicker of wounded pride.

Cain stepped back, folding his arms, still smirking. “You and I—we’ll have fun, Lester.”

The tension between Cain and Alastor lingered like smoke, curling in the corners of the lounge. Cain stood with his arms folded, relaxed but undeniably predatory, while Alastor straightened his coat, static fading back into its usual background hum. The others—Angel leaning forward with wicked glee, Cherri biting her lip in anticipation, Husk nursing his glass—watched in silence, sensing that something sharper than banter was about to unfold.

Cain tilted his head, eyes locked onto Alastor. “You carry yourself like a man who believes he owns the room, Lester. The stage, the script, the applause. But tell me—what is a radio without its listeners? What is your power without an audience to shiver and clap?” His grin widened, deliberate, slow. “Noise in an empty field.”

Alastor chuckled, static crackling faintly. “And what is a murderer without someone left alive to remember his crime? A whisper, Mister Cain, fading into nothing. Legacy demands witness. Without witness, even your story becomes dust.” His voice lowered, still cheerful, but sharp as a blade. “We are not so different, you and I. Both of us require others to give us weight.”

Cain’s laugh boomed through the lounge, startling Niffty into dropping a broom she’d been holding. He stepped closer, looming, but his tone was playful, almost indulgent. “Ah, but here’s the difference, Lester. I am remembered because I carved myself into the marrow of existence. My crime was the first. The seed from which every death bloomed. You?” His smirk darkened. “You rode the echoes. I birthed the sound.”

For a split second, Alastor’s grin faltered again—just enough for Cain to notice. But the Radio Demon recovered, eyes glinting with that unsettling mirth. He leaned on his cane, his voice dipping into that melodic cadence that made even threats sound like music. “Seeds, yes. They are planted, and they grow. But weeds, too, are born from seeds, choking the garden. Perhaps you are the weed, Cain. The original weed, sprouting from mankind’s failure.”

Cain’s eyes gleamed, almost proud, as he leaned down until his face was inches from Alastor’s. “A weed, perhaps. But weeds endure. Weeds thrive where flowers wither. Cut them down, burn them, poison them… they return. Always.” He straightened, his tone shifting back into casual mockery. “And you, Lester, with your smiles and your static, your desperate need for an audience—you are a flower. Pretty, fragile, waiting for someone to pluck you.”

The lounge grew quiet again, the weight of the words hanging in the air. Alastor’s grin tightened, almost brittle, but his voice didn’t waver. “Fragile flowers, Mister Cain, can still be poisonous. Some kill with beauty. Some with thorns. Perhaps you’ll find I am not so easily plucked.”

Cain chuckled, patting him once on the shoulder as if they were old friends, the gesture both mocking and oddly affectionate. “Oh, Lester… I do hope you prove me wrong. I enjoy a good surprise.”

Angel Dust finally broke the silence with a low whistle. “Damn. I dunno if I should be turned on or terrified.”

Cain turned his head, grin widening, and replied smoothly, “Why not both?”

The room erupted into uneasy laughter, but beneath it, the crackle of static lingered, and Cain’s smirk never left his face.

The lounge was quieter now. The chatter of residents had dulled into murmurs after Cain’s playful exchanges with them. He sat back in his chair, half-relaxed, one hand draped lazily on the armrest. Eloa hovered near his shoulder, still tense, still cautious, her tiny hands fidgeting with the ends of her robe.

The doors to the hall opened again. Charlie entered with Vaggie at her side, her girlfriend’s spear gripped tight in her hand. Lucifer followed behind, brushing invisible dust from his tailored vest, his expression unreadable but his eyes sharp.

Cain rose smoothly to his feet, his tall frame dominating the room. He smiled at them as though they were guests, not the other way around. “Welcome back, Princess,” he said, dipping his head slightly. “Did you come to a decision?”

Charlie clasped her hands together to keep them steady. Her voice was soft but firm. “You can stay here, Cain. You’re welcome in this hotel. But only if you truly mean what you said. You’ll help with redemption, and you’ll give your input to improve what we’re building here.” She hesitated, then added, “But you must understand—this place is meant to protect people, not put them in danger.”

Lucifer stepped forward, his hand lightly brushing Charlie’s shoulder in a protective gesture. His half-smile deepened, though there was no humor in it. “That’s the condition, Cain. You will not endanger my daughter’s work or anyone within these walls. Not by your hand, nor by your games.”

Vaggie leveled her spear, eyes narrowing. “We don’t trust you,” she said bluntly. “Not yet. So don’t think for a second we won’t be watching you.”

Charlie’s voice cut through, softer but more resolute. She looked Cain in the eyes, her red irises glowing faintly. “Do you understand?”

For a long moment, Cain said nothing. He simply stared back at her, his smile unreadable. Then, slowly, he nodded.

Cain rose from his chair, slow and deliberate, his towering figure casting shadows that seemed to stretch unnaturally long across the floor. His smirk softened into something grave, ancient, as though he were shedding the casual mask he’d worn since arriving.

Charlie stiffened, her hands tightening nervously in front of her skirt, Vaggie instinctively brought her spear closer, and even Lucifer, ever smug, grew silent, recognizing the ritual about to unfold.

Cain lifted his left hand, palm out. For a moment, nothing—then the air shivered. A crimson shimmer spread outward from his skin, like ripples of blood spilling through water. Sigils and runes carved themselves into the air, glowing faintly, then burning brighter, circling his hand like serpents of fire. The old mark—the Mark of Cain—blossomed across his palm, carved into his flesh as if freshly branded, its bloody glow pulsing with each beat of his immortal heart.

Eloa’s eyes widened, her tiny form trembling midair. Her voice caught in her throat, her usual stutter vanishing in sheer shock. “…M–Mr. Cain… y-you cannot mean to—” She stopped herself, clutching her tiny hands together, knowing that once Cain invoked this oath, there would be no taking it back.

The room swelled with power. Sigils bled into the walls, etching themselves in fleeting brilliance, until it felt as if the entire hotel were caught inside a living circle of blood and light. Cain’s eyes burned a deep, merciless crimson, and when he spoke, his voice was thunder wrapped in poetry:

“𝑰 𝒂𝒎 𝑪𝒂𝒊𝒏. 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝒊𝒎𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒕𝒂𝒍. 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝒃𝒓𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒆𝒅. 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝒇𝒊𝒓𝒔𝒕 𝒎𝒖𝒓𝒅𝒆𝒓𝒆𝒓.  

𝑰 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒌𝒆𝒅 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒃𝒚 𝒎𝒂𝒏, 𝒏𝒐𝒓 𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒆𝒍, 𝒏𝒐𝒓 𝒅𝒆𝒎𝒐𝒏, 𝒃𝒖𝒕 𝒃𝒚 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒉𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒐𝒇 𝒇𝒂𝒕𝒆 𝒊𝒕𝒔𝒆𝒍𝒇.  

𝑩𝒚 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒌, 𝑰 𝒂𝒎 𝒆𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒏𝒂𝒍.  

𝑩𝒚 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒌, 𝑰 𝒂𝒎 𝒄𝒖𝒓𝒔𝒆𝒅.  

𝑨𝒏𝒅 𝒃𝒚 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒌, 𝑰 𝒏𝒐𝒘 𝒗𝒐𝒘—”

He lowered his gaze to Charlie, and even though his tone was solemn, his words wrapped around her like a command and a comfort all at once.

“—𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒏𝒐 𝒉𝒂𝒓𝒎 𝒔𝒉𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝒃𝒆𝒇𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒉𝒐𝒎𝒆 𝒃𝒚 𝒎𝒚 𝒉𝒂𝒏𝒅, 𝒏𝒐𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒓𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉 𝒎𝒚 𝒘𝒊𝒍𝒍.  

𝑰 𝒘𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒅𝒐 𝒐𝒏𝒍𝒚 𝒂𝒔 𝑰 𝒅𝒆𝒆𝒎 𝒇𝒊𝒕 𝒕𝒐 𝒂𝒊𝒅 𝒚𝒐𝒖, 𝑷𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒄𝒆𝒔𝒔 𝒐𝒇 𝑯𝒆𝒍𝒍, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒊𝒏 𝒔𝒐 𝒅𝒐𝒊𝒏𝒈,  

𝒕𝒐 𝒂𝒊𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒅𝒐𝒎 𝒘𝒉𝒊𝒄𝒉 𝒉𝒂𝒔 𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒃𝒆𝒆𝒏 𝒎𝒚 𝒔𝒉𝒂𝒅𝒐𝒘.  

𝑺𝒐 𝑰 𝒔𝒘𝒆𝒂𝒓, 𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒏𝒂𝒎𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝑳𝒖𝒄𝒊𝒇𝒆𝒓 𝑴𝒐𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒓,  

𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒏𝒂𝒎𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝑯𝒆𝒍𝒍 𝒊𝒕𝒔𝒆𝒍𝒇.”

The mark on his palm flared, erupting in a scarlet burst of flame that crackled but did not burn, before cooling into a steady glow. The sigils unraveled into ash and vanished, and the oppressive aura dissipated—leaving behind only the faint scent of iron and smoke, and the echo of something eternal.

Lucifer, who had been watching with narrowed eyes and folded arms, exhaled a long breath. His smirk returned, but it lacked some of its usual bravado—there was respect buried in it now. “You’ve gone and bound yourself, Cain. Quite the spectacle. I haven’t seen that oath since…” His voice trailed off, but the glint in his eyes betrayed how heavily the sight weighed on him.

Charlie, wide-eyed, tried to steady herself, her voice wavering between awe and concern. “You… you really mean it. You swore to Hell itself.”

Vaggie, though still distrustful, lowered her spear slightly, muttering, “Silver-tongued bastard or not, that’s… not the kind of oath you break.”

Eloa remained frozen beside Cain, still shaken by what he had just invoked. She clutched her tiny arms around herself, whispering almost too quietly to hear: “You didn’t have to go that far…”

Cain closed his palm, and the bloody glow sank into his skin like it had never been. He looked at them all, his crimson eyes cooling back to their usual human shade, and offered a soft, devilish smile. “Words are wind. But vows… vows carved in blood endure. You wanted assurance, Princess. Now you have it.”

And then, with a faint chuckle, he lowered himself back into his chair, casual once more, as though nothing had happened.

The silence that followed Cain’s oath still hung heavy in the room, a pressure none of the residents could quite shake. Then, as the glow faded and the dust settled, murmurs began to ripple among the crew.

Angel Dust leaned back on the couch, one arm draped lazily over its edge, his long lashes blinking fast. “Well, holy fuckin’ shit,” he drawled, though his smirk was a little tighter than usual. “Didn’t think I’d ever see that. Remind me not to piss this guy off.”

Cherri Bomb crossed her arms, her single eye narrowed, though a grin tugged at the edge of her lips. “Yeah, Angel’s right. That wasn’t just smoke and mirrors. That was real power. He just nailed himself to this place, whether we like it or not.”

Husk muttered into his glass, staring hard at the faintly glowing sigils that lingered in the air before vanishing. “And I thought I’d seen everything. Guess not. Damned fool went and swore on Hell itself. That’s… binding. Dangerous binding.”

Niffty clutched her little roach crown like a relic, bouncing slightly on her heels. “He’s so serious! It’s scary, but also kinda dreamy~”

And Alastor, standing by the corner, chuckled softly, radio static rippling beneath his voice. “Now, that was entertainment! The infamous Cain, showing his hand at last. Oh, I do believe this hotel just got a great deal more… interesting.” His crimson eyes glinted, watching Cain closely, calculating.

Cain, however, leaned back in his chair again as though nothing of weight had transpired. He stretched his arms, cracking his shoulders, and when he spoke, his voice carried none of the heavy gravitas of before. Instead, it was casual, almost conversational.

“So,” he began, rubbing at his beard, “do any of you have books worth reading? Philosophy, history, poetry, even your local pulp nonsense. Anything with ink and a spine.” He chuckled low in his throat. “You see, knowledge is the only wine I can still get drunk on. And I do so love a good vintage.”

Charlie blinked at the shift, her shoulders loosening just a little. “O–oh, yes! Of course. I have some books here in the library. A few about the history of Hell, the old rings, and even some human philosophy. I’d be happy to show you.”

Cain inclined his head with surprising grace. “That would be delightful, Princess.” His tone dipped into something warm, almost nostalgic. “There’s more truth buried in forgotten books than in most living mouths.”

The moment seemed to soften—until Cain’s eyes gleamed with some private thought. Slowly, his lips curled into a smile, faint at first, then sharper, sly. He leaned forward just slightly, fixing Charlie with that crimson gaze.

“Tell me, though… how fares your little snake friend?”

The room stilled. Everyone looked at one another—confused, wary. Charlie’s smile faltered, her voice careful. “Sir Pentious? Why do you ask about him?”

Cain’s smirk widened. “Because, Princess,” he said, voice silky, almost teasing, “your little snake made it to Heaven.”

The words struck like a bell. Silence crashed down as wide eyes turned toward him. Angel’s jaw dropped, Husk’s ears flicked back, Cherri muttered a sharp “no fuckin’ way,” and even Alastor’s grin faltered for a fraction of a second.

Cain leaned back again, relaxed, savoring the weight of their shock. His voice was low, velvety, edged with amusement. “Yes. The wretched little engineer you all wrote off… ascended. Proof, if ever there was, that redemption is no fairy tale. It is feasible. It has already happened.”

He let the silence deepen, his crimson eyes glowing faint in the dim light, before he whispered with that devilish grin—

“And now, New friends, the game has truly begun.”

Chapter Text

The bells of Heaven rang soft and distant, their chimes drifting through air that shimmered like spun gold. Abel walked among alabaster gardens, where rivers of light wound between orchards heavy with fruit that never spoiled. His white robe swayed with each step, and the smile he wore was practiced—not false, but tempered, a shield he'd long since learned to wield.

Ahead, near the threshold of the Ascendant's Gate, a woman sat trembling on the marble steps. She was still cloaked in the faint, smoky residue of her mortal passing, eyes wide as if she expected the ground beneath her to collapse at any moment. Abel's heart tugged at the sight—he had seen this so many times before, but each soul arrived carrying their own fragile approached slowly, making sure his sandals clicked lightly against the stone so she would not be startled. "You've come a long way," he said gently, kneeling to her level. His voice had the warmth of sunlight through glass, quiet yet steady. "And I promise you… there is no more pain here."

The woman looked at him, disbelief clouding her face. "I—I don't understand. One moment there was fire and screaming, and then—light. I thought it was a trick. I thought I'd be dragged back down any second."

Abel reached out his hand, palm up. The faint shimmer of his aura glowed soft blue, offering no command, only invitation. "You are safe. Truly. No chains, no fire. No one will harm you here. That's not what Heaven is."

Her hand trembled as she placed it in his, and Abel guided her to her feet. The orchard's light played across her weary features, softening the terror etched there. "But why me?" she whispered, voice raw. "I've done terrible things. Why would Heaven let me in?"

Abel's smile deepened, though inside he felt a familiar sting—a pang of guilt, of memories he tried to bury. Cain's voice still echoed in the back of his mind, mocking the very notion of redemption, of worthiness. But Abel pressed on, refusing to let that shadow reach this soul.

"Because forgiveness is greater than judgment," he said. "Because you sought it, even if you did not believe you deserved it. And because Heaven is not built on the weight of your sins, but on the hope that you can grow beyond them."

The woman's tears broke then, spilling freely as she leaned against him. Abel steadied her, holding her shoulders firmly. To her, his smile was a beacon. But behind it, Abel's thoughts strayed—toward his brother, wandering Hell in a storm of charm and menace. Toward the doubts Cain had planted like seeds.

Do I even believe the words I speak anymore? Abel asked himself, his smile never faltering.

But that was not for this woman to know. His burden was his own.

Instead, Abel guided her forward, past the orchards and into the chorus of waiting souls who sang softly in welcome. As her steps steadied and her tears quieted, he whispered once more, "You're home now."

And still, as he turned back toward the gate for the next arrival, Abel kept smiling.

The orchard's light had already softened into a golden dusk when Abel found himself no longer alone. He had just guided the trembling soul into the company of singers when the sound of light footsteps reached him. Turning, he saw Emily—the Joybringer—her presence radiating that peculiar warmth that made even Heaven's gardens seem brighter. Her wings shimmered faintly with a tint of rose and gold, and she carried herself with the casual confidence of someone who had made countless others laugh and dance through eternity.

"Another safe arrival?" she asked with a smile, tilting her head slightly.

Abel returned the smile, though his was always quieter. "Yes. A frightened one, but she's steady now."

Emily walked closer, brushing her fingers along the edge of a flowering arch. "You're good at this," she said. "Calming them, I mean. Most of us try, but you… you have a way of making them believe it. Like you really see them."

"It's my duty," Abel replied, adjusting his robe, though there was no vanity in the gesture. "Every soul deserves to know they're safe here, that their fear ends at the gate. If I can give them peace, even for a moment, then…" He paused, letting the thought hang in the fragrant air. "Then I've done enough."

Emily chuckled, brushing back a strand of bright hair. "And yet you never admit that it's fulfilling. You make it sound like work."

Abel let out a small laugh, more air than sound. "I suppose it is fulfilling. Watching them smile when they realize nothing will hurt them anymore—that's worth more than anything. And you, Emily? How many did you lift into laughter today?"

Her grin widened. "Three. One of them hadn't laughed since her childhood, can you imagine? She barely remembered how. It took me the whole morning to coax her, but when she finally let it out—oh, Abel, it shook the trees." She spread her hands dramatically, wings fluttering with the memory. "I think the whole garden felt it."

Abel's expression softened, touched by her enthusiasm. "That's the kind of work Heaven was built on," he said. "Not just peace, but joy. You carry it well."

Emily tilted her head again, studying him for a moment. "You carry yours too, even when it looks heavy."

Abel blinked at her, caught off guard. He hesitated, about to ask her something that had lingered in the corners of his thoughts, but Emily was quicker.

"So," she began, her tone light but her eyes searching, "how is your family? I haven't seen them since… Adam's funeral."

The name hung heavy in the air, but Abel's smile did not falter. He folded his hands behind his back, choosing his words with care. "They're all right. Mother spends most of her days in her rose garden—Eve still finds her peace there. Azura has returned to her work, designing clothes again, always stitching beauty into the smallest things. Seth… Seth keeps himself busy, managing the Winners' affairs. It suits him."

Emily's lips curved knowingly. "You forgot someone."

Abel blinked, thinking. His brow furrowed, and then smoothed as realization dawned. "Cain," he said softly, almost tasting the weight of the name. His voice carried both distance and an old wound. "He's in Hell now. Heaven's ambassador, of all things." His smile wavered, uncertain. "I still find it strange. After everything… that he accepted."

Emily raised a brow, folding her arms. "Maybe he had a change of heart."

Abel's eyes lowered, shadows flickering in them. Cain's words returned to him—harsh, bitter, mocking talk of redemption and fate. Abel wanted to share the unease that still gripped him whenever he thought of his brother, but instead he pressed the doubt down, burying it beneath another practiced smile. "Maybe he did," he said simply.

Emily giggled softly, the sound like bells. "That wasn't who I meant."

Abel looked at her, confused. "No?"

She shook her head, her smile growing brighter. "I was talking about your other sister."

The realization struck like a bell's toll. Abel's eyes widened, and then he laughed once, quick and sheepish. "Oh, shoot," he muttered, dragging a hand down his face. "Aclima. Of course. She's returning from her rehabilitation today. How could I forget?"

Emily clasped her hands together, eyes sparkling. "See? You do get distracted."

Abel chuckled again, but there was a flicker of genuine anticipation in his chest now. Aclima—his younger sister, though the oldest of Eve's daughters—was coming home. For all his duties, for all the weight he carried with his smile, Abel felt something else stir within him: the rare lightness of a reunion long overdue.

The hum of distant choirs drifted through the air, mingling with the fragrance of blossoms. Emily, thoughtful now, brushed her fingers along the edge of a lily before speaking again.

"What about Sir Pentious?" she asked softly. "He still doesn't feel like he fits in with the other Winners. I've seen him, Abel. Always standing a little apart, always looking like he's waiting to be judged. Have you tried speaking with him? Really speaking, I mean—making him feel like he belongs?"

Abel's smile faltered just slightly. He lowered his eyes, the weight of the question hanging on his shoulders. "I have… tried," he admitted. "But I'm not sure how to approach him yet. He is different."

Emily tilted her head, a spark of amusement softening her features. "Different? You've had centuries of experience comforting Winners, Abel. Countless souls, countless stories—and you're telling me you're stumped by one nervous little snake?"

That earned a small, genuine laugh from him. He scratched the back of his head, sheepish. "I've never spoken to someone who was a sinner and then became a Winner," he confessed. "Every other soul I've comforted… they ascended directly. They carried no shadow of Hell."

Emily's expression softened, her golden eyes warm. "And isn't that what makes this wonderful? Sir Pentious is proof. Proof that it can be done. That bridges can be built between here and there. If he can find his place here, then maybe both Heaven and Hell can find common ground."

Abel fell silent, her words resonating deeper than she might have realized. Cain's voice returned to him unbidden—mocking yet truthful—speaking of both Heaven and Hell's failings. Abel thought of his father, marching into Hell with the Exorcists, blade raised against souls who were already suffering. He thought of Cain, branded and banished, returning not as a brother but as an ambassador.

He drew in a slow breath, raising his eyes again. "Sir Pentious should feel welcomed," Abel said firmly, his voice steadier now. "He has earned his place here. I'll make sure he knows it."

Emily's face lit up, her wings giving a little flutter of delight. "That's exactly what I wanted to hear! We'll make him feel at home, Abel. Together."

Her enthusiasm carried them forward. Soon enough, the pair made their way across the marble pathways to where Sir Pentious lingered in the gardens reserved for newcomers. The serpentine demon-turned-Winner sat stiffly on a bench of pale stone, his hat clutched nervously in his hands. The golden shimmer of Heaven clung to him, but his posture betrayed unease, as though he feared he might yet be cast down again.

Abel approached with the calm, steady grace he was known for, Emily beside him radiant as ever. Abel offered a smile—not the formal one he used for the trembling, freshly-ascended souls, but something softer, meant for a man who still carried doubt.

"Sir Pentious," Abel said, inclining his head. "May we sit with you?"

The snake blinked in surprise, but after a long, awkward beat, he nodded. Emily giggled gently, easing the tension as she lowered herself onto the bench first, her joy spilling into the silence. Abel followed, and the three sat together beneath the soft glow of Heaven's light, the first words of comfort yet to come.

Far away, beyond the gardens of ascension, Eve tended to her roses. She hummed under her breath as she knelt among the flowers, fingers brushing tenderly over velvet petals. The quiet of her garden was deep, unbroken save for the gentle rustle of leaves and the sigh of Heaven's breeze.

The garden stretched wide and endless, its borders vanishing into the golden horizon of Heaven, where the air always smelled of blooming petals and the earth never tired of giving life. It had not always been so. When Eve first ascended, she had been given a small patch of untouched soil. A single square of holy earth, bare and silent, waiting for her hands. She had planted her first roses there—shy white blossoms that bowed their heads to the sun. Day by day, year by year, she returned, planting, pruning, coaxing beauty out of silence. What began as a small refuge slowly became a sanctuary. What began as a garden grew into acres upon acres of roses and flowers, each bed an outpouring of her love and grief, each bloom a whisper of memory.

Here, she had found peace.

Her children visited often enough, wandering among the petals with the curiosity of younger years or the quiet reflection of older ones. Abel would linger, sometimes asking questions about each flower, always careful with his hands. Seth had his stern moments but still came to see her, keeping to the shaded rows where the flowers grew taller. Aclima delighted in walking barefoot through the soft grass, plucking blossoms to weave into her hair. Azura had a more practical hand, trimming and helping her arrange when she stayed too long in the sun.

Adam, however, seldom came. He always had excuses—meetings, duties, words about leadership and order. And perhaps once, long ago, his absence would have stung. But now? Eve no longer minded. She did not plant for Adam. She planted for herself, for the stillness, for the life she could nurture without judgment. The roses did not ask her to obey, nor did they demand her silence. They only bloomed.

Eve walked along the neat rows, her fingertips brushing the velvet edges of each flower. She paused before a small cluster of yellow roses, their hue soft as morning light. Her lips curved into a tender smile. "Abel," she murmured, her voice barely louder than the breeze. He had always been her gentle one, kindhearted and warm, bright like the dawn.

A few steps further, she bent toward a rare blue rose, its petals deep and striking. "Seth," she whispered. He had the weight of responsibility on his shoulders, stern and cold at times, but rooted like this flower—unyielding, steady.

She continued, eyes softening at the sight of a blooming purple rose, regal in its shade. "Aclima." Always vibrant, always walking a path between strength and confidence.

Her hand lingered on a row of pink roses next, blossoms opening as though eager for attention. "Azura," Eve said, her voice carrying a quiet chuckle. Her daughter's creativity had always burst forth, as radiant as these flowers.

But then, her gaze shifted. At the far edge of the garden, standing like a bold scar against the softer colors, the crimson roses bloomed. Their petals were full and rich, deeper in hue than blood, catching the light in a way that almost seemed to make them burn. Eve's expression hardened.

She had never been fond of the red roses. No matter how often she trimmed them, no matter how carefully she tried to keep them apart from the others, they grew fast, wild, persistent. They reminded her of him. Of her firstborn son. Cain.

The crimson roses always carried his shadow, and with it came the memory of his eyes. Those eyes that had unsettled her from the very beginning. They had not been the soft brown of Adam's, nor the warm hues of her other children. Cain's eyes had been crimson—brilliant, sharp, unnatural. They made her uneasy, even in the moments when she cradled him close.

She remembered the first time she saw them. How could she ever forget? The day Cain was born, the day her life changed forever.

Eve's hand froze above the crimson blossoms, her breath catching in her throat as memory pressed down like the weight of time itself. The garden faded from her awareness. The roses, the heavenly glow, the serenity—all of it melted away.

In its place, the image of Eden began to rise.

The sound of birdsong. The warmth of a younger sun. The first days, when the world was still untouched. She was younger too, carrying the weight of her first pregnancy, moving through the garden of paradise at Adam's side.

The vision of crimson lingered still, pulling her deeper into memory, back to the fateful moment when she first looked into Cain's eyes.

And the garden of Heaven gave way to the memory of Eden.

Eden was still beautiful, but it no longer felt like paradise. The birds still sang their pure songs, the rivers still flowed with clarity, and the fruit still gleamed like jewels in the trees. Yet for Adam and Eve, every sound was sharpened, every color seemed to mock them. What once was gift now felt like curse.

Eve walked slowly along the path, her swollen belly weighing her down. She brushed her hand against the leaves, but her touch was absent, her thoughts heavy. Adam trailed behind her, silent, his jaw set. The quiet between them stretched, thick and suffocating.

Finally, Eve turned her head, her eyes dark with unease. "Adam," she said, her voice low, weary, "what will happen when the child is born?"

Adam did not answer. His gaze shifted to the soil beneath his feet, to the shadow of her body cast on the grass. He clenched his fists and kept walking.

Eve stopped, her frustration boiling over. "Do you hear me? I asked you a question!"

Adam's silence stretched longer still, until it broke with sharpness. "What do you want me to say, Eve? That he will be blessed? That he will walk in glory? We are damned. You damned us. Whatever comes from your womb will live in the same curse as we do."

Her eyes widened, burning with hurt. "My womb? You speak as though this is only mine, as though you had no part in what we did!"

Adam snapped, his voice raw. "I told you not to touch it! I told you not to take the fruit! You brought that thing to your lips, and now—" He stopped himself, but the anger in his face betrayed him.

Eve's own fury lit. "Do not put this all on me, Adam. You ate too. You could have refused, but you didn't! You wanted it just as much as I did—you just don't have the courage to admit it!"

Adam's jaw tightened. "I had no choice."

Her laugh was bitter, sharp as broken glass. "No choice? You had plenty. Just like you had a choice when Lilith left you. She saw the truth of you and spat it out. I should have done the same."

The words cut him deep. Adam's face twisted, and he stepped closer, his voice low but seething. "Do not speak her name. Do not dare compare yourself to her. She was prideful. Defiant. Arrogant. She was unfit."

"And what am I?" Eve shot back. "A replacement? A docile creature for you to mold? You speak of arrogance while puffing your chest like a peacock—look at you now! Stripped of glory, crawling in the dirt, yet you still act like some king!"

Adam's temper snapped. "Better a king of dirt than a whore of serpents!"

Eve froze, her lips trembling, her chest heaving with rage and grief. "You bastard," she hissed. "You dare? You dare? If not for me, you'd still be alone in your precious garden, with nothing but the animals to keep you company. I gave you children, I gave you flesh of my flesh—and this is how you see me? A whore?"

Adam glared back at her, nostrils flaring. "You gave me nothing but shame."

The words hung heavy, poisonous.

Eve's breath hitched, her fury collapsing into something colder, more hollow. She looked down at her swollen belly, trembling hands clutching at the curve. For the first time, she felt revulsion. The child inside her was not yet born, yet already it felt like a curse, a reminder of the fall, of their sin, of everything broken.

Her voice cracked when she spoke again, softer but venomous. "And now this child… our firstborn… will carry all of it. He will look at us and see only the ruin we made. He will live with the stain of what we've done, a living reminder of sin."

Her eyes brimmed with tears as she turned away, clutching her belly tighter, as though trying to shield herself from what grew within.

Adam said nothing. His breath was harsh, his shoulders rigid, but the silence between them now was worse than shouting.

The air in Eden that night was heavy, like the garden itself was holding its breath. The fruits gleamed under a dying sun, the wind carrying scents of ripeness and rot alike, a mocking reminder of paradise lost. Adam and Eve walked the edge of the riverbank in brittle silence, their earlier argument still festering between them. Neither would apologize. Neither could.

Adam finally broke the silence, his voice rough and tinged with bitterness. "We'll see something tonight. The angels used to whisper of it—an eclipse. The sun swallowing itself in shadow." He spat into the dirt. "A fitting show, don't you think? Even the heavens can't keep their light straight."

Eve turned her head toward him, her hair wild around her face, eyes sharp with resentment. "What the hell is an eclipse?"

Adam's lip curled. He waved a hand toward the darkening sky. "The moon climbs over the sun, blocks it out. Turns day into night. That's it. Nothing holy, nothing magical—just one ball of rock shoving the other out of the way. A mess, like everything else now." He sneered. "It's like the sky itself forgot its place."

Eve rolled her eyes, though her hand pressed against her stomach, feeling another sharp pang ripple through her. "You speak like you understand it. You don't. You barely understand yourself, Adam. And now you think you can explain the heavens to me?"

Adam's teeth clenched, but he barked out a short, cruel laugh. "You're one to talk of understanding, Eve. You couldn't even resist a fucking talking snake."

Her breath hitched, her fury flashing again. "Better a snake than a coward who hides behind his excuses. You think blaming me will make you less of a failure?" She pressed harder on her belly, another ripple of pain making her grit her teeth.

Adam noticed and tilted his head, the smirk returning. "What, already? Don't tell me you'll give birth under this… eclipse thing." He chuckled darkly. "Now that'd be poetic. A child born under a curse of shadow. A bad omen if I've ever heard one."

Eve's eyes narrowed, her voice cutting through the night like a knife. "Don't you dare jinx it."

Adam shrugged, his expression cold. "What difference would it make? The kid's already damned before he even breathes. Maybe the sky just wants to make it official."

The wind stirred, bending the trees, carrying the scent of the coming night. Above them, the sky slowly dimmed as the moon crept into place, preparing to smother the sun.

Eve gripped her belly tighter, her nails digging into her skin as the pains grew sharper. She whispered to herself, almost in defiance of Adam's words, but more to keep her courage steady: "He will not be a curse. He will not."

But the garden's shadows deepened, and the world began to darken around them, as if Eden itself had other plans.

The night split open with the weight of agony.

Eve's screams tore through Eden, raw and animalistic, echoing against the trees that once whispered paradise. This was the first birth, the first time flesh had to split and tear to bring life into the world. Her body convulsed, sweat dripping down her face, hair plastered to her skin as she clawed at the dirt. "Damn this world! Damn you, Adam! Damn everything!" she howled, her voice half-rage, half-despair. The river beside them rippled as though even nature recoiled at the sound.

Adam knelt at her side, trying to steady her shoulders, but his face betrayed unease. He whispered half-hearted encouragement, words that sounded hollow even to his own ears. The eclipse deepened above them, the sun snuffed into shadow, the sky turning into a bruised twilight.

And then, with one last guttural cry, the child entered the world.

It was not peaceful. It was not tender. The birth came like a violent rift in reality itself. Blood, sweat, and shadows clung to the infant as Adam lifted him up with trembling hands. For a moment, silence fell, broken only by the wet gasp of a newborn's first breath—then a cry rang out, piercing the eclipse's suffocating stillness.

Cain had arrived.

His hair, damp and dark, was not the color of his parents'—not earthy-brown like Adam's nor Golden like Eve's, but black as charred wood. His eyes opened almost immediately, unnatural for a newborn, and they glowed crimson against the pale light of the veiled sun. The red burned with a strange clarity, as though the child already carried secrets no infant should know.

Adam froze, staring down at the boy in disbelief. Eve, still trembling from the pain, lifted her head weakly to look at her son—and felt her chest tighten with dread. The moment their gazes met, she shuddered. Cain's crimson eyes fixed on her with an intensity that cut deeper than any blade, as though he already saw every wrong choice, every shame, every sin etched into her soul.

"No…" she whispered, her voice breaking. "He knows. He knows what I've done." Her face twisted with fear and disgust. She recoiled, her arms refusing to open for him. Her fingers trembled as if ready to cast him into the dirt. "This miserable creature will ruin us. He's staring into me, Adam—he hates me already!"

Adam gripped her wrist before she could push the baby away, his own heart hammering in his chest. "Enough, Eve! He's our son." But even as he said it, he couldn't ignore the knot of unease twisting in his gut. Cain's eyes turned on him, and Adam felt as though the infant pierced right through him, too—seeing his cowardice, his shame, his failures.

The two parents sat in silence for a long time, listening to the eclipse fade while the child's cries quieted. Eve turned her face away, muttering through clenched teeth, "I feel nothing for him. Nothing but distance. He isn't mine. He isn't ours."

Adam tried to wrap his arm around her, tried to sound reassuring, but deep down the same thoughts gnawed at him. The boy bore no resemblance to either of them. Not their hair, not their eyes. It was as if a stranger had been dropped into their lives, uninvited.

Still, they named him. Cain. The name tasted uneasy on their tongues, as though they cursed themselves by speaking it.

Years passed, though the unease never left. The boy grew quickly, strong-limbed and silent-eyed, carrying the same strange crimson gaze that unsettled both his parents.

One evening, the three of them sat together by a small fire, tearing strips of meat from the carcass of a great elk Adam had felled. Adam forced a smile, eager to break the silence. He tore off a chunk of roasted flesh and spoke with forced cheer: "Cain, did you see the size of this beast? Strong as fuck, and yet it fell to me. Soon enough, you'll learn to hunt like this too—not as good as me but It will be your pride."

Cain chewed slowly, saying nothing. His gaze flickered between them, unreadable.

Eve leaned forward, her voice softer, but tinged with unease. "Your father asked you a question, Cain. How was your day? Tell us something."

The boy finally looked at her, his crimson eyes glinting in the firelight. His expression remained unreadable, but his words cut the air like a knife:

"Why are we here?"

The question silenced the clearing. Adam froze, his hand halfway to his mouth, while Eve lowered her gaze from her son's eyes, already uneasy under their glow.

Adam cleared his throat, fumbling for an answer. "We're here because… because it is our duty," he said with forced conviction. "The Almighty commanded it. We must work, endure, and populate the earth so that, in time, our obedience will be rewarded. That is our path back to Heaven."

Eve nodded, trying to back him up, though her voice lacked its usual sharpness. "Yes. We obey because we must. That is the way. That's how we survive."

Cain tilted his head, still chewing slowly, considering their words as though he were older than both of them combined. He swallowed and asked, with unnerving frankness:

"Why should we obey them? The angels. Weren't they the reason we ended up here?"

Adam's face drained of color. He slammed his hand down onto the dirt, making the fire jump. "How the hell do you know that?" His voice cracked between anger and fear.

Cain blinked, unbothered, as though he had just asked what time the sun rose. "I don't know. It came to me. Like… breathing. Like sight. It's just there." He shrugged, his tone casual, almost childlike. "It feels natural. Like the wind, or hunger." His eyes flicked between them, unyielding. "Did I say something wrong?"

Eve's breath hitched. Her hand trembled as she gripped her knees, staring at him as though he were a stranger wearing the face of her son. Her voice, sharp with fear, cut through the silence. "Yes. Wrong. Don't you ever—ever—repeat that again."

Cain's red eyes locked onto hers, piercing. He didn't flinch, didn't argue. He only nodded slowly, as though sealing an unspoken pact, before lowering his gaze to his food.

But inside, Eve's thoughts twisted. Her heart pounded as she stared at the boy, her own flesh and blood. Was he born knowing? Does he carry knowledge that no mortal should? The thought chilled her to the bone, planting a seed of dread she could not shake.

"Lady Eve! Lady Eve!"

The voice jolted her from her spiraling thoughts. She blinked, and the roaring firelight of the past faded into the soft golden glow of Heaven's sky. The scent of blood and smoke was gone, replaced by roses—her roses. Acres upon acres of them swayed gently in the heavenly breeze.

A tiny bee-like cherub hovered near her head, its wings buzzing so fast they were little more than a blur. The small creature wore a sash of heavenly silk and a crown of pollen dust, looking both comical and reverent as it bowed midair.

"Buzz," Eve greeted softly, brushing her hands over a nearby blossom as though steadying herself. "What brings you here?"

The cherub's tiny voice chimed sweetly, "I was sent to remind you, Lady Eve. It is almost time. Your daughter Aclima has completed her rehabilitation, and your family is gathering to welcome her home."

Eve's lips curved into the faintest smile, though her eyes lingered on a patch of roses nearby. Yellow, blue, purple, pink—all soft, comforting reminders of her children. But in the corner of the bed, the crimson roses bloomed like wounds. They stood taller than the rest, petals dark as spilled blood, their fragrance sharp, almost metallic.

Her hand hovered over one, hesitating. The memory of crimson eyes staring into her soul burned against her mind. She drew her hand back quickly, as though the rose had thorns sharper than any she had planted.

"I haven't forgotten, Buzz," she murmured, her voice quieter than the wind. "But thank you."

The cherub buzzed happily and zipped ahead, leading her down the winding path. Eve turned one last time to glance at the red roses. They swayed in silence, crimson faces tilted toward her, as though watching her leave.

With a deep breath, she turned her back on them and stepped away from that part of the garden, the unease clinging to her as surely as their scent.

The mansion of Eve stood like a crown in Heaven's fertile fields, draped in white stone and golden trim, surrounded by vast orchards and flowing streams. What had once been a modest dwelling when Eve first arrived had grown into something much larger across the centuries. With her patient hands, and the help of her children, the house had become a sprawling estate—a place not only of beauty but of gathering. It wasn't a palace, but rather a home that carried the warmth of a matriarch who had wanted her family to always have a place to return to.

Inside, the air was alive with the soft hum of preparation. Azura's laughter rang faintly from the kitchen, where the scent of sweet breads and roasted fruits filled the air. Seth was in the great hall, dragging heavy furniture into place, muttering under his breath as he tried to balance a lopsided table.

Abel stepped through the arched doorway and paused for a moment, letting the familiar warmth of the place settle over him. He smiled softly, then called out, "I'm here."

"Abel!" Azura peeked out from the kitchen doorway, a streak of flour dusting her cheek. She waved with her free hand, a ladle in the other. Seth, wiping sweat from his brow, gave Abel a nod.

"Same old day?" Seth asked, a faint grin tugging at his lips.

Abel shrugged with a small laugh. "The same as always. Smiles, encouragement, new arrivals. You know how it goes."

Seth leaned his weight against the table, smirking. "You mean endless sermons about joy. I don't know how you haven't bored yourself to death yet."

Azura chuckled, chiming in as she returned to her cooking. "Don't tease him. If Abel wasn't so good at it, Heaven might be a much duller place."

Abel giggled and held up his hands in mock surrender. "Fine, fine. I'll wear the crown of boredom proudly." He glanced around at the decorations—flowers strung across the bannisters, lanterns glowing softly with heavenly light—and then sighed. "So… what's the number this time?"

Seth's grin faded as he rolled his eyes and muttered, "Sixteen. Can you believe it? Sixteen times."

The words hung heavily in the air. Azura lowered her gaze, her voice quiet now. "She didn't take Father's death easily. Not at all. I think she carries that weight more than any of us."

Seth set his jaw, his voice firm but not unkind. "She's always been extreme. In her actions, her emotions… it's just who she is. She takes everything further than the rest of us."

Abel crossed his arms, thoughtful, before speaking with hesitation. "I know neither of you wants to hear this… but Aclima reminds me of Adam. At least, sometimes."

Seth's eyes sharpened, and he let out a sharp exhale. "You mean Cain. Don't twist words. And yes—I see it too. But Aclima… she's not like him. She has the good side. She cares about us. Cain never did."

Azura slammed her ladle down on the counter, her voice sharp for the first time. "Enough. Not now. It's not the time for this, and certainly not here." She glanced toward the door, lowering her tone. "Mother will be here soon. Do not bring him up while she's here. She doesn't need that burden tonight."

Abel pressed his lips together and nodded. Seth huffed but gave a short, reluctant nod as well.

The siblings returned to their tasks—Azura stirring her pot, Seth adjusting the chairs, Abel quietly helping by lighting the lanterns one by one. The air between them was heavy with unspoken words, but also with the anticipation of what was to come.

The scent of roasted fruits and honeyed bread lingered in the halls, and the soft glow of lanterns hung in the archways like halos. Abel sat with Azura as Seth moved about with his usual rigid efficiency, the three siblings slipping into easy conversation as they worked.

Then came the sound. Heavy boots, steady and unhurried, striking against the marble steps outside. Not the delicate tread of angels, but the purposeful march of a warrior. The door didn't creak open — it swung wide, pushed with a force that rattled the hinges.

Aclima strode in like she owned the place. Short brown hair fell messily across her forehead, one eye a piercing sapphire, the other a deep golden-yellow— their parents' legacy split down the middle. Across her back rested an angelic battle axe, its edge gleaming faintly with celestial light. She carried herself like a storm bottled into a woman, confidence radiating with every step.

"Well, well," she called out, her voice tomboyish and teasing, cutting through the mansion's quiet warmth, "look at you three—domestic as ever. Didn't expect to find the mighty children of Adam polishing tables and stirring soup."

Azura's head snapped up, her lips parting in relief and excitement. "Aclima!" she cried, rushing over. Aclima dropped her axe with a clang against the wall and scooped her younger sister up with one arm, laughing as Azura squeezed her tightly.

"Easy, Zu," Aclima chuckled, ruffling Azura's hair like she was still a child. "Still sweet as honey, aren't you? Don't let these two sour faces ruin that."

Abel approached next, smiling wide as always, though a flicker of nerves crossed his eyes. "It's good to see you again, sister. We've been waiting for this day."

Aclima looked him over, smirk tugging at her lips. "Still soft, huh? Still Heaven's little smile-maker. You probably hugged three new Winners before breakfast and told them the world's full of sunshine."

Abel chuckled awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck. "Well, someone has to."

"Yeah, someone weak," she teased, though her tone held no real venom. She clapped him on the shoulder hard enough to nearly throw him off balance. "Don't worry, brother. The world needs lambs too. Keeps the wolves like me from starving."

Then her gaze slid to Seth, who had stopped mid-task, arms crossed, watching her with his usual severity. For a moment, silence hung between them.

"Well?" Aclima said, cocking her head. "Still acting like you're Dad junior? Keeping the books balanced, the Winners in line? Always the good little soldier, huh?"

Seth's jaw tightened. "At least I don't lose control and have to be sent away sixteen times."

Azura winced. Abel shifted uneasily. Aclima, however, only grinned wide, baring her teeth. "Fair enough, Seth. But let's be honest—you don't control yourself. You just bury everything down until you're colder than the walls around you. At least when I burn, everyone knows it."

The tension sparked in the air for a beat before Azura hurried to place herself between them. "Please. Not today. This is supposed to be joyful."

Aclima let out a laugh, sharp and amused, then bent down to nudge Azura's cheek with her knuckle. "Relax, Zu. I'm just teasing. Haven't seen you all in forever—can't come home without stirring the pot a little."

She straightened, scanning the room, her heterochromatic eyes gleaming in the lantern light. For just a moment, her tone shifted, firm and edged with conviction.

"So," she said, "where's Mother? If she's not here yet, I'll wait. But I'll tell you this right now—rehabilitation or not, I'm done being caged. If Heaven's not going to let me loose on Hell, then I'll find my own way to prove my faith. I'm stronger than ever. If they let me descend, I'd purge every last demon, every spawn, every liar—Lucifer, his brat daughter, all of them. That's what I was born for."

Her words hung in the air like steel. Abel looked down, uneasy. Seth crossed his arms tighter, unreadable. Azura bit her lip, caught between admiration and fear.

And Aclima, battle axe at her back, smirked again, casual as if she hadn't just declared a holy bloodbath.

"Anyway," she said, with a shrug, "who's hungry?"

The table was already set, decorations hung, food arranged, yet none of them truly cared for the presentation now. The moment Aclima sat among them, her axe leaning against the chair, the air seemed to bend and twist with her presence.

It didn't take long before the talk turned toward the topic hanging over all of Heaven.

"So," Seth said first, leaning back in his chair with a tired breath, "the Princess of Hell has her little hotel open again. Apparently, her latest project of mercy."

Aclima barked a laugh. "A hotel? That's her idea of salvation? Babysitting degenerates until they stop sinning?" She leaned forward, elbows on the table, her mismatched eyes glinting. "If I had my way, I'd march down there, burn the place to ash, and put every last one of them out of their misery. Mercy is a lie, and sinners are snakes—you don't redeem snakes, you cut off their heads."

Azura lowered her gaze, fidgeting with the hem of her dress. "I don't want to talk about it," she murmured. "All this fighting, all this blood… it feels endless. I'd rather focus on my work. On beauty. On creating things, not tearing them apart."

Seth gave a short, almost approving nod. "That's fair, Zu. But ignoring it doesn't change the fact that it's happening. The Hotel exists, and now Heaven itself is sending… ambassadors. We can't act like it's nothing." He shifted his eyes back to Aclima. "And your way—charging in, swinging until everything's dead—is why you've been sent away so many times. There's a balance to be kept."

Aclima rolled her eyes and gave him a toothy grin. "Balance is for cowards who don't want to choose a side. You've always been afraid of choosing, Seth. Me? I'll choose. Every time. Heaven or Hell. Angels or demons. There's no middle ground."

Abel, who had been listening quietly, finally spoke, his voice soft but steady. "Maybe that's the problem. Maybe there is middle ground, and we've just never dared to see it. The Hotel… it's strange, yes, but Sir Pentious is there. He was a sinner. And now… he's here, in Heaven. He made it." Abel paused, looking down at his hands as though he was still unsure of the words. "I'm still slowly getting close to him and making him open up, but he's proof that things can change. That maybe… redemption isn't as impossible as it seems."

Aclima snorted, the sound sharp as steel. "Sir Pentious? That little snake with his stupid gadgets? Don't make me laugh. The first time he tries to slither back to his old ways, I'll make myself a fine pair of snakeskin boots. That's the only redemption I'd trust from him."

Seth shot her a warning glare. "That's exactly the kind of talk that keeps you from being trusted, Aclima. Not everyone needs to be slaughtered."

"Not everyone deserves the chance to betray us either," she snapped back.

The siblings fell into a tense silence, each carrying the weight of their own convictions. It was Azura who broke it, her voice small but heavy. "…This all comes back to him, doesn't it?"

Abel lifted his head, startled. Seth's eyes narrowed, and Aclima's smirk faltered for the first time.

"You mean Father?" Seth asked.

Azura shook her head. "…Cain."

The name sat in the air like a curse.

Aclima's chair screeched as she stood abruptly, her jaw tightening. "Don't you dare tell me he was there."

Abel looked away, guilt flickering across his face. "He was. He came. To the funeral."

Her hands curled into fists, nails digging into her palms. Her heterochromatic eyes burned with fury. "You let him? You all stood there while he walked among you? While he desecrated Father's memory with his cursed presence?"

"Enough," Seth said firmly, standing as well. "That fury of yours is exactly why you weren't allowed there. You would've torn the ceremony apart in blood. And Mother—she couldn't bear another fight. Not there. Not then."

Aclima's chest heaved, her breath ragged, but she didn't lash out again. Instead, she leaned on the table, glaring down at her brothers and sister like a lioness pacing her cage. "…Then tell me. How was he?"

Seth's reply was immediate. "Arrogant."

Azura whispered, almost trembling, "…Intimidating."

Aclima smirked at that, her bloodlust flaring. "Good. Then he hasn't grown soft. When I face him, it'll be worth it."

All eyes turned to Abel, who sat silently for a long moment. His lips curved into a faint, almost mournful smile. "…Different."

Aclima's grin faded, replaced by something like suspicion. Seth arched a brow. Azura tilted her head.

"Different how?" Aclima demanded.

Abel didn't answer right away. He only lowered his gaze, as if the word itself was enough—and perhaps, in his heart, it was.

The silence stretched, heavy and unbroken, until the sound of footsteps in the hall announced the approach of their mother.

The great double doors to the hall creaked open, and the warm perfume of roses preceded Eve as she stepped inside. Her presence was calm, collected, and softened by the years she had spent tending her garden, but her eyes still held that quiet strength her children knew so well.

Aclima was the first to move. Her hard stance broke into a broad grin, and she strode across the room with heavy, purposeful steps. "Mother!" she exclaimed, dropping her axe against the wall as though it were a casual walking stick. She wrapped her arms around Eve, strong and unyielding, yet strangely gentle in her grip.

Eve let out a soft chuckle, stroking her daughter's short brown hair. "Aclima… my child. It has been too long."

Aclima pulled back slightly, still grinning. "Yeah, well, you know how it is. They send me away every time I get a little too enthusiastic. Apparently, carving through demons 'with unmatched zeal' isn't the sort of thing Heaven wants on display." Her tone was mocking, almost playful, but her eyes gleamed with that same sharp fervor.

Eve's brow furrowed as she searched her daughter's mismatched eyes. "They wanted you to learn control, Aclima. Not because your strength is wrong, but because it can consume you. You know that."

Aclima tilted her head, still smiling, but her voice carried a weight of conviction. "Control? Mother, what they call 'control,' I call compromise. And compromise is weakness. My faith is pure—my purpose is clear. Evil doesn't deserve a leash or a second chance. It deserves to be purged, wiped out until nothing remains. That's not madness. That's devotion."

There was no anger in her tone as she said this, no rebellion. Just conviction. Respectful, even earnest—but absolute.

Eve sighed softly, her hand falling from her daughter's hair. "And what of mercy? What of love? These, too, are Heaven's gifts. Did you forget them in your zeal?"

Aclima shook her head, stepping back with a confident smirk. "Mercy belongs to the innocent. Love belongs to those who walk in light. What I do is for them—for all of us. Every demon I strike down, every sin I cut away, is an act of love. My axe just… speaks louder than prayers."

The words lingered in the air. Eve looked at her daughter, troubled, but not dismissive. She knew Aclima's heart burned with faith, even if that fire sometimes blinded her.

Azura busied herself with rearranging dishes, avoiding the tension. Seth leaned against the wall, arms crossed, clearly expecting this clash. Abel, however, sat very still, his eyes distant, replaying the last exchange before their mother's arrival.

Eve noticed his silence. "Abel, you've hardly spoken since I entered. What troubles you?"

Aclima turned, catching the flicker in her brother's eyes. Her grin returned, wolfish. "Yeah, Abel. Earlier, you called him 'different.' Care to explain?"

The room tensed again. Azura froze mid-motion, Seth narrowed his eyes, and Eve raised her chin, now realizing who they were talking about.

Abel hesitated, looking first to his mother, then to his siblings. His lips parted, then closed again, as though the weight of the word itself pressed down on him. "Different," he repeated softly, almost to himself. "Not as we knew him. Not as I remembered."

Aclima's smirk sharpened into something more dangerous. "So he has changed. Good. That means when I face him, it won't be a child's duel—it'll be a test worth my faith."

Eve's voice cut across her daughter's zeal, firmer than before. "Aclima. Enough."

The long oak table gleamed under the golden light of the chandeliers, plates set and silverware aligned, but the siblings' voices filled the hall before anyone thought to sit.

Seth leaned forward against the edge of the table, his tone sharp but controlled. "You can't seriously defend him, Abel. Not after everything. Not after what he did."

Aclima, pacing with her axe propped against her shoulder, added with a scoff, "If you ask me, Abel, you're not defending a brother—you're defending a disease. Cain's existence is rot. And rot spreads."

Azura remained quiet, setting the last garland in place along the mantle, but her eyes flicked anxiously between her brothers.

Abel raised his chin, his voice calm but steady. "I'm not saying he's innocent. I'm saying… he's different. I saw it in his eyes. He's not the same Cain we knew."

"Different how?" Seth barked. "Stronger? Colder? He's still Cain. He's still the murderer. Don't dress it up."

Aclima smirked, leaning against the wall. "Don't tell me you think he's redeemable. That's rich. You—of all of us—should know better. You're the one he killed."

The jab stung, but Abel didn't flinch. He folded his hands in front of him, voice low. "Maybe that's why I see it clearer than the rest of you."

The tension snapped when Eve's voice cut in, sharp as steel. "Enough." She had been silent until now, watching, weighing—but her children's arguing snapped something in her. "Cain made his choice millennia ago. We built our lives without him. We were strong, we were whole, before he reappeared and dragged his shadow back into our lives."

Her voice rose, trembling not with weakness but with fury. "And you, Abel—my son—you would defend him? After he sided with the very ones who took Adam from us? After he worked beside the same deceivers who tricked me, who tricked your father, who doomed us all to fall?"

The siblings froze. Even Aclima, with her brashness, went silent. Seth and Azura exchanged wide-eyed glances. It was rare—almost unheard of—to hear Eve's fury laid bare.

Abel's gaze fell to the floor. His voice, quiet but firm, carried the weight of guilt. "I'm sorry, Mother. I didn't mean to anger you."

Eve inhaled sharply, the edge of her fury softening. She reached a hand across the table, her tone gentler. "Then don't, Abel. Don't let him shake the foundation we've built. Don't give him that power again."

For a moment, silence reigned. Then Abel lifted his head, his expression shadowed by memory. "The reason I can't stop thinking about him is because of Eden. Before he killed me. Before everything. I've been remembering."

Azura tilted her head. Seth frowned. Eve's fingers stilled against the wood of the table.

"That time," Abel continued, "when we were told to make offerings. Heaven chose mine, and Cain's was rejected. We all know the story."

Seth crossed his arms. "Because you gave your best—the lamb. He gave dying crops. It was obvious."

Abel nodded slowly. "That's what I thought too. But there's something else. Something I'd forgotten. Days before the offering, a storm struck. It only touched Cain's field. It destroyed his harvest. The rest of Eden stood untouched."

A heavy silence fell.

Eve's voice, sharp and cutting, interrupted. "Stop. That was centuries ago. Your memory is clouded, Abel. I don't recall such a storm." Her eyes hardened, but something in her tone betrayed unease.

Abel studied her face carefully. Then, after a pause, he smiled faintly, nodding. "Perhaps you're right, Mother. Perhaps it's just a false memory." His words carried submission, but beneath them lingered a spark of suspicion, a thought left unspoken.

The tension hung heavy until Azura clapped her hands suddenly, forcing a smile. "Well, storm or no storm, none of us are eating, and this food won't stay hot forever." She gestured to the steaming plates she had laid out, the scent of herbs and roasted meat filling the air.

Seth exhaled, loosening his arms. Aclima grabbed her axe and dragged it to the table like a chair. Eve nodded stiffly, taking her seat. Abel lingered a moment longer before pulling his chair out, his thoughts still on Cain—but for now, he let them rest.

The family dinner carried on with the clatter of cutlery and forced laughter, but Eve only half-heard her children. Abel's words had cracked something in her mind—something she had sealed away for centuries.

The memory returned like a stormcloud.

She saw it again: the aftermath of that strange storm, Cain's fields flattened and blackened while the rest of Eden thrived. Eve remembered the smell of wet earth and ruined crops, Cain's small figure standing in the mud, his black hair plastered to his forehead, fists balled at his sides.

"They killed it all!" he screamed, voice cracking with fury. "The sky hates me! Heaven fucking hates me!" He ripped up the dead stalks with his bare hands and flung them aside. "Every time I try, they spit in my face!"

"Cain—" Eve tried to approach, but he spun on her with wild eyes.

"Don't touch me! Don't fucking touch me! You don't know what it's like! You've never cared! You look at me like I'm already damned!"

Abel stood frozen, clutching his lamb, unsure if he should speak. His silence only fueled Cain's rage. Cain's finger jabbed toward him, trembling with accusation.

"And him!" he roared. "Your perfect little lamb-boy! Abel the blessed! Abel the pure! Abel the one Heaven loves! He doesn't even try, and they shower him with gifts while everything I do turns to rot!"

Eve's voice sharpened, desperate to cut through his anger. "Cain, stop this madness—"

"Madness?" Cain barked a laugh, bitter and broken. "The madness is pretending Heaven's not laughing at us every fucking day we breathe! They're laughing at me, Mother! They've been laughing since the day I was born!"

The door slammed open. Adam stormed out, his face thunderous. "Enough! Shut your mouth before I shut it for you!" He marched across the mud, seething. "You shame us! You shame me!"

Cain's breath came in ragged bursts, his crimson eyes fixed on his father. "You think I asked for this? You think I wanted to be born into your cursed shadow?"

Adam grabbed for him, his hand a vise of authority. "I'll beat this devil out of you—"

But Cain caught his wrist.

The sound was sickening. Bone splintered under the boy's grip. Adam fell to one knee with a guttural cry, clutching his broken hand, spitting curses through his teeth. "You fucking little monster! filthy demon spawn!"

Cain's chest heaved. His eyes blazed like bloodlit coals. "Don't ever touch me again," he hissed, voice trembling with venom.

Eve's fear twisted into rage. She stepped between them, her own voice cracking with fury. "Enough! You'll tear this family apart before it's even begun! Go, Cain! Get out before I—before I curse you myself!"

Cain's mouth hung open in disbelief. "You'd cast out your own son?"

"You already cast yourself out the moment you raised your hand against your father!" Eve shouted, tears streaming down her face. "You're a plague, Cain! You'll ruin us all!"

For a moment, silence fell—save for the patter of rain. Cain's small body trembled, his face torn between hurt and rage. Slowly, he backed away, his crimson eyes locked on theirs, burning with something far older and darker than a child should ever carry.

"You'll regret this," he whispered. "One day, you'll see me for what I am."

Then he turned, vanishing into the storm.

Eve, trembling, clutched Adam's shoulder, both of them shaken by the way their son had looked at them in that moment. That was no boy's gaze. That was something else—something dangerous.

It was the night they first glimpsed the shadow inside him.

Chapter Text

The neon skyline of Pentagram City burned in streaks of electric blue and toxic magenta. Inside the towering monolith of VoxTek, the hum of thousands of servers filled the air like a digital hymn. The boardroom gleamed — sterile, angular, and soaked in the glow of monitors that showed news clips, live feeds, and social chatter all orbiting around one Thing: Voxtek's new phone.

Vox stood before the screens, his digital face flickering with manic confidence — glitching between a grin, a skull, and a static storm. “We’ve seen it,” he began, voice booming through invisible speakers. “They can bleed. The high-level angels. That walking museum piece, Adam, got taken down — which means the impossible isn’t impossible anymore.” His tone turned almost feverish as he pointed to the flickering image of a winged exorcist lying shattered on the ground. “And if angels can die... then Heaven can fall.”

Velvette, lounging upside down on a couch with her phone hovering above her, blew a pink bubble of gum that popped with an exaggerated snap. “Yeah, sure, Vox. Real cute speech. But are we talking ‘fall of Heaven’ as in, like, overthrowing God, or ‘fall of Heaven’ as in your big wet dream of being king of the universe? Because I swear, if you’re about to monologue about transcendence through digital order again, I might hurl.”

Valentino took a puff of his cigar and leaned forward, squinting through the smoke. “Hold up. Overthrow Heaven? Babe, that’s... cute, really. But how’s that gonna help my business? You think the angels are gonna start watching Valflix Premium or somethin’? Hah!”

Vox’s display flickered to static for a second before returning to a sharp, irritated smile. “It’s not about your filthy little empire, Val. It’s about dominance. Power. A new world where we make the rules. Where Hell bows to us. No more Lucifer, no more Sins, no more hypocritical angels.”

“Sounds like a wet dream,” Velvette snorted. “Big, shiny, and impossible. You’re talkin’ about taking down Heaven like it’s a PR rival, Vox. You really think your ‘digital revolution’ means anything to them? They’ve got spears made of starlight. You’ve got... routers.”

“I have influence,” Vox snapped. “Every sinner, every screen, every soul in Pentagram City hears my voice every day. Information is power, Velvette. Perception is control. And if we control what Hell believes, we control Hell itself.”

Valentino clapped mockingly. “Bravo, baby. I love a good power fantasy. Real sexy. But what’s the first step, huh? You gonna send a virus to God?”

Vox’s grin widened, glowing crimson. “No, Valentino. We start small. We start by cutting off the infection that’s trying to poison Hell from within. That princess and her ridiculous little ‘redemption’ act. Her hotel. Her people. Especially him.”

The screen zoomed in on Alastor’s smiling face. Vox’s tone turned venomous. “That grinning bastard thinks he’s untouchable. Thinks he can charm his way through this city’s veins. I’ll tear that static freak apart pixel by pixel.”

Velvette chuckled, brushing her hair aside. “Oh, so that’s what this is about. Not Heaven. Not order. You just want to crush the Radio Demon ‘cause he bruised your ego.”

Vox turned toward her, his grin fading into a cold, silent glare. “I want to erase every smug face that thinks Hell can be saved. Especially by a princess. This city doesn’t need redemption. It needs rulers.”

Valentino leaned back, swirling his drink lazily. “Well, as long as the drinks keep coming and the money flows, I’m in. You do your digital crusade, I’ll keep Hell sinful.”

Velvette whistled mockingly, twirling a lock of hair. “Oh, you sound so scary when you get all fascist like that, Voxy. Real sexy dictator energy. But you’re forgetting something, cupcake—besides, you know, reality. There’s the Sins, the royal family, and one more big red flag—literally. That Cain guy.”

The name made Vox’s static flare for a moment. Velvette smirked, enjoying the reaction. “See? You didn’t even factor in the immortal murder-grandpa Heaven sent down here. I dunno, maybe focus less on cosmic domination and more on not getting your pixels rearranged by an ancient psycho with daddy issues.”

Valentino snickered, flicking his ash. “Heh. Bet Cain doesn’t even know what Wi-Fi is.”

Vox glared. “You underestimate me—and him. That’s your mistake.”

Velvette grinned, leaning forward. “No, babe. Our mistake would be following you into another one of your ‘world domination’ PowerPoints. But hey,” she stood, stretching with a lazy smile, “I’ll stick around. I do love a good disaster movie.”

The hum of the screens grew louder as Vox stared at their reflections — Velvette’s playful smirk, Valentino’s disinterested swagger. For a fleeting second, his digital face flickered into something darker.

“Mock me all you want,” he muttered, “but soon... everyone in this pit will see who really runs Hell.”

Velvette blew another bubble. Pop. “Sure thing, Mr. Megalomania. Can’t wait for the sequel.”

The neon lights dimmed as the Vees’ laughter echoed through the tower — half amusement, half disbelief — while outside, the city below flickered like a dying circuit, unaware of the chaos quietly beginning to charge.

The Hazbin Hotel was livelier than it had ever been. Word had spread like wildfire through the infernal veins of Hell—about Cain, about the Princess of Hell, and about how this was the place where sinners could either find salvation… or learn how to kill angels.

The lobby buzzed with sinners—some curious, some hostile, most simply lost. A few clutched pamphlets bearing Charlie’s hopeful slogans, while others whispered rumors: that the Princess had fought Heaven’s greatest and lived, that she had the blood of rebellion in her veins, that the daughter of Lucifer was building an army disguised as a hotel.

And through all that noise, Charlie Morningstar sat behind the reception desk, her eyes twitching in restless anxiety.

“Dad’s not coming back for a while,” she sighed, brushing a lock of golden hair behind her ear. “He said I should be careful with Cain and with what he says to people... but that I shouldn’t worry too much. He said to just—” she waved her hands vaguely, mimicking his dismissive tone—“‘focus on the goal, sweetie. Redeem as many sinners as you can.’”

Vaggie stood beside her, spear leaning against the counter. Her usual sternness softened when she saw how weighed down Charlie looked. “He’s right,” Vaggie said. “You shouldn’t worry too much. You’re doing everything you can. It’s just… the crowd we’ve been getting lately—”

Charlie groaned, lowering her head to the counter. “Don’t even get me started. Half of them don’t even want redemption anymore. They’re here because they think I’m gonna teach them how to kill angels. Like I’m running some kind of anti-heaven boot camp!”

She lifted her head again, eyes wide with worry. “That’s not what I wanted, Vaggie. This was supposed to be about peace. About second chances. About hope!”

Vaggie leaned against the counter beside her and gave her a small smile. “And that’s still what it is,” she said gently. “Charlie, you’ve just got more eyes on you now. After what happened with Adam, everyone sees you differently. You’re not just the Princess of Hell anymore—” she smirked softly—“you’re the revolutionary Princess of Hell. The one who took down an angel and lived to tell the tale.”

Charlie winced. “That’s not who I want to be remembered as...”

Vaggie chuckled, brushing her fingers through Charlie’s hair. “Deep down, you’re still the same sweet idiot I fell in love with all those years ago. Let them talk, let them gossip—you just keep doing what you do best. Sooner or later, they’ll see you for who you really are.”

Charlie blinked, her frown easing into a soft smile. “You always know how to make me feel better.”

“That’s the job,” Vaggie said with mock seriousness, tapping Charlie’s nose.

They shared a quiet laugh, and Charlie stood a little taller. “You’re right,” she said. “If we can redeem one sinner, we can redeem ten. And if we can redeem ten, we can redeem all of them. I mean—look at Sir Pentious! It worked for him!”

Vaggie smiled. “Yeah. It did. You were right about him.”

Charlie sighed in relief. “Then maybe it’ll work for everyone. Maybe even for Cain.”

“Maybe,” Vaggie said, though her tone carried a hint of doubt.

Charlie looked around the lobby again, noticing how every corner of the place was busy with activity. “So, what’s everyone up to?”

Vaggie pulled a small notebook from her pocket, flipping it open. “Angel Dust and Cherri Bomb went out again. Probably blowing something up or starting a trend — maybe both. Husk’s in the bar, actually cleaning for once, though I think it’s just an excuse to drink in peace.”

Charlie tilted her head. “Alone?”

“Not exactly,” Vaggie said. “He’s got company. That new resident, Baxter — the weird scientist guy. Quiet as a corpse, but apparently helps organize the bottles by chemical density or… whatever. Husk said, and I quote, ‘He’s tolerable, so I don't mind him.’ Which is high praise from him.”

Charlie laughed softly, covering her mouth. “That’s… progress?”

“Sure,” Vaggie shrugged. “Niffty’s cleaning like usual, talking to herself and doing… Niffty things. She found a nest of cockroaches and made it into a tea party this morning.”

Charlie winced. “That’s… less progress. And what about Cain?”

Vaggie’s expression turned uncertain. “He and Eloa are still in his room. They haven’t left since yesterday. No noise, no movement—nothing.”

Charlie tilted her head, curious. “You think they’re plotting something?”

Vaggie shrugged. “Honestly? I don’t know. But with him, anything’s possible.”

Behind the heavy doors of his suite, Cain was anything but the poised, calculating diplomat Hell had seen in public. The curtains were drawn, and the air was filled with the smell of fresh ink, paper, and spiced wine. A large wooden board sat between him and Eloa, the surface covered in a web of intricate lines and carved figurines representing celestial and infernal armies.

Cain leaned forward with a grin, rolling a small die between his fingers. “If I move my legion of Seraphic Knights here…” he said, tapping the board with exaggerated thoughtfulness, “then your little cherub army is officially surrounded.”

Eloa adjusted her glasses, twitching her ears as she studied the pieces. “N-n-no... you f-forgot the flank, C-Cain.”

Cain blinked. “The what?”

Eloa pointed with her tiny paw. “T-there! T-t-the d-divine garrison is behind y-you!”

Cain’s face went blank for a second. Then he groaned dramatically, slumping back into his chair. “You sneaky little Angel! You set me up!”

Eloa giggled so hard she nearly floated backward off her chair. Cain rubbed his beard with mock seriousness. “You realize this means war, right? Next round, I’m unleashing the—uh—‘Heavenly Nuke.’”

Eloa blinked. “T-th-that’s not a real p-piece!”

“Now it is,” Cain said, grabbing a small figurine shaped like a harp and making pew pew pew noises as he pretended to blast her army off the board.

Eloa shrieked, laughing uncontrollably as she tried to shield her side with her tiny arms. “Y-you c-can’t do th-that! Th-that’s cheating!”

Cain leaned closer, grin wide and mischievous. “Cheating is just an advanced form of winning.”

For a moment, the legendary first murderer looked nothing like the terrifying being the world whispered about. His laughter filled the room—loud, carefree, and unrestrained—as Eloa clutched her stomach from laughing too hard.

Then, when the laughter died down, he refilled her cup of tea with a surprising gentleness. “You’re getting good at this game,” he said warmly.

Eloa smiled shyly, taking the cup. “Y-you’re just b-bad at losing.”

Cain chuckled. “Touché, little one. Touché.”

Eloa floated down and smiled softly. “Y-You’re… d-different when it’s just us.”

Cain raised an eyebrow. “That so?”

She nodded. “Y-you laugh more.”

Cain smirked faintly, his crimson eyes glowing in the dim light. “Yeah… maybe that’s because you’re one of the few who still treats me like a person, not a curse.”

Eloa smiled wider. “W-well, maybe you should l-let more people see this side of you.”

Cain chuckled. “Ha. Maybe someday, little hare. But for now…” he grinned, rolling his sleeves further, “let’s see if lightning strikes twice. One more game.”

Eloa laughed nervously. “O-oh no…”

And just like that, the heavy weight of politics, war, and Heaven faded for a while — replaced by the quiet joy of two old souls, playing a game they created centuries ago.

The lobby of the Hotel was filled to the brim—dozens of sinners packed shoulder to shoulder, the air thick with the smell of sulfur, cigarette smoke, and excitement. The once bright and polished interior now looked more like a bar at closing hour than a sanctuary of redemption. A crowd had gathered near the stage, where a hand-painted banner read “Welcome New Guests!” in looping, optimistic lettering that clashed painfully with the mood.

Charlie stood in front of them, hands nervously clasped together, visibly shaking from excitement. She was glowing with her usual enthusiasm—but the noise drowned her out. The sinners weren’t here for speeches. They were laughing, swearing, boasting—some already taking bets on who could take down the biggest angel when the time came.

Vaggie stood beside Charlie, tapping her foot, glaring daggers at the unruly crowd. “Are they even listening?” she muttered.

Charlie tried to smile through it. “They just need a second to settle down, that’s all…”

But the second stretched into several minutes. Someone threw a bottle—thankfully empty—and another sinner shouted, “Oi, Princess! When do we start the angel-killing classes?” The others howled with laughter.

Charlie winced, then cleared her throat. “E-Excuse me! Hello—um—everyone!”

No one stopped. The noise was deafening.

Then Vaggie had enough. She grabbed her spear, slammed the butt of it against the floor, and bellowed, “SHUT THE HELL UP!”

The sound cracked through the lobby like thunder. Conversations died mid-sentence. The sinners turned—some startled, others annoyed, but all finally silent.

Charlie blinked and gave an awkward little wave. “H-hi! Heh… sorry about that.”

Her voice wavered, but she took a deep breath and pushed through, smiling as brightly as she could. “Welcome, everyone! I’m so glad you’re here! The Hazbin Hotel is a place for hope—a place where anyone, no matter who they were or what they did, can find redemption! It’s about healing, about understanding, and about becoming your best selves!”

The crowd stared blankly. One sinner in the back whispered, “Is she for real?”

Charlie pressed on, her tone full of optimism that almost defied the atmosphere. “You see, the goal isn’t revenge or violence. It’s about forgiveness! I truly believe that every soul in Hell deserves a second chance. A chance to rise above their past and—”

“Bullshit,” someone interrupted.

The word echoed through the lobby like a gunshot.

A tall sinner with jagged teeth and tattoos of barbed wire all over his arms stepped forward, sneering. “We didn’t come here for that fluffy crap. We came to learn how to kill angels. You think we forgot what they did to us during the exterminations? Those fuckers torched entire districts!”

The crowd began to murmur in agreement.

Vaggie stepped forward, holding her spear upright. “That’s not what we do here. We’re not an army—we’re not training anyone to fight Heaven. This is a rehabilitation center, not a war camp.”

“Yeah?” the sinner spat. “Then why the fuck did you lot fight the Exorcists last month, huh? You think we didn’t see the footage? You took out, what, six angels? And the big one—what was his name—Adam? You killed him!”

Charlie raised her hands defensively, her voice trembling but earnest. “We didn’t have a choice! They attacked us first! We only fought back to protect everyone here. It wasn’t about revenge—it was self-defense!”

“Self-defense, my ass,” another sinner shouted from the crowd, a horned woman with a scar across her cheek. “You proved it can be done! If you can kill angels, then we can too. Teach us how to fight back!”

“Yeah!” someone else chimed in. “We’re tired of hiding every damn year when those winged bastards come to wipe us out! If you really wanna help sinners, help us survive!”

The room erupted again—shouts, cheers, anger, desperation.

Charlie’s smile faltered. “That’s… not what this is about,” she said quietly.

But the crowd didn’t hear her.

Vaggie shouted again, trying to regain control. “Everyone, listen! Violence isn’t the answer—”

“Oh, fuck off,” a sinner in the front row snapped. “Easy for you to say, Miss Goody Two shoes ! You weren’t the one who got half your family fried during the last Extermination!”

The tension was thick now. Even Vaggie hesitated.

Charlie looked out at them—all those broken, bitter faces—and her heart ached. She could see their pain, their fear, their rage… and part of her understood it.

She clasped her hands tighter. “I… I know what you’re feeling,” she said softly, her voice cutting through the noise. “I hate what they’ve done too. But if we respond with more hate, we’re no better than them.”

The sinners fell quiet again, but not convinced. A few scoffed. One muttered, “That’s easy for a Princess to say.”

Charlie forced a smile, though it trembled at the edges. “Please, just… give me a chance to show you. There’s another way.”

The crowd didn’t cheer, but they didn’t riot either. They just… stared. A room full of the damned, all torn between disbelief and the faintest flicker of hope.

Cain was halfway down the hall, fixing his coat and adjusting his cufflinks, when the rising murmur of voices caught his attention. From the main hall below came a mixture of shouting, frustration, and Charlie’s trembling but determined voice echoing above it all.

He paused by the stairway, crimson eyes narrowing with mild amusement. Down below, the young princess of Hell was standing before a sea of angry, restless sinners—her golden hair shining faintly under the chandelier, her expression a fragile blend of hope and desperation.

Cain leaned against the railing, one hand on the polished banister. “Well,” he muttered under his breath, “this is going well.”

Eloa fluttered up beside him, her small wings twitching with mild concern. “M-Mr. Cain,” she stuttered softly, tugging at his sleeve, “m-maybe… you should… um… let her handle it?”

Cain smirked, his gaze still fixed on the chaos below. “You think I was going to jump in? No, no, no, little hare. Let’s see what the Princess of Hell is made of.”

He crossed his arms, the red glow of his eyes dimming as he observed. “After all,” he murmured, “redemption isn’t just a word to throw around. It’s a battlefield.”

Eloa looked at him skeptically, sensing that he wanted to interfere, but she decided to stay quiet. She had learned that arguing with Cain was like trying to bottle a storm.

Below, Charlie was trembling. She stood at the center of the crowd, trying to steady her breathing. Vaggie was by her side—angry, defensive, ready to strike at anyone who dared come too close—but Charlie slowly raised a hand, asking for silence.

“Please,” she said softly, her voice breaking through the grumbles. “Just listen to me.”

The room quieted a little—not out of respect, but out of curiosity.

Charlie swallowed hard, her heart hammering. “I… I know that I can’t understand the pain you’ve all gone through,” she began, her tone trembling with sincerity. “I wasn’t there when they burned your homes, when the skies opened and the exorcists came down. I didn’t lose what you lost. I didn’t suffer like you did.”

The sinners’ faces softened, some just slightly.

Charlie’s hands clenched together in front of her. “And maybe I don’t deserve your trust. Maybe it’s unfair for me to ask for it. But please believe me when I say—revenge won’t fix it. It won’t bring your families back. It won’t stop the pain. All it does… is make it last longer.”

A sinner in the back muttered, “Easy for her to say,” but another nudged him quiet.

Charlie pressed on, her voice stronger now, steadier, her optimism burning through her fear. “I’ve seen what vengeance does. It devours you. It turns you into the same kind of monster you hate. But redemption—real redemption—takes strength. It’s not about pretending everything’s fine. It’s about facing your pain, learning from it, and choosing to rise above it.”

Her arms opened wider, golden light beginning to shimmer faintly from her hands.

“That’s why I built this place,” she said, her voice echoing softly. “Not to start another war. Not to make Hell stronger than Heaven. But to give you all a choice. A chance to be better. Even if it’s hard. Even if no one believes in it yet.”

Silence fell. The fire in her voice faded, replaced with a gentle sadness.

“I know it sounds impossible,” she continued, her eyes glistening. “But I believe that every single one of you can change. And I’ll be here every step of the way if you decide to try. You don’t have to do it for Heaven, or for me. Do it for you.”

Her words lingered in the air like the afterglow of a dying candle.

The sinners stood still, exchanging uncertain glances. Some crossed their arms, unimpressed. Others looked down at the floor, conflicted. A few even shifted awkwardly, as if something in her words had struck a nerve they didn’t want to acknowledge.

But then a low voice spoke from the crowd: “You really think talkin’ like that’s gonna change anything?”

Charlie hesitated, looking out over the room. The speaker was a broad-shouldered demon with jagged horns and ash-grey skin. He sneered. “Hope don’t mean shit down here, Princess. We’ve been damned for a reason. You can’t polish a turd and call it gold.”

A few sinners laughed, though half-heartedly.

Charlie forced a shaky smile, still trying to reach him. “Maybe not… but I believe that even the worst soul can shine again if it wants to.”

The laughter died down again, replaced with quiet skepticism.

Upstairs, Cain watched all of it unfold—the way her words hung in the silence, the flicker of doubt, the stubborn defiance of the damned. His expression softened slightly, though only for a moment.

“She really believes it,” he said quietly, almost to himself.

Eloa looked at him curiously. “W-will you help her?”

Cain chuckled lowly, his voice carrying that deep, smooth sarcasm. “Help her? No, not yet. Let’s see if that hope of hers can survive the weight of Hell’s reality.”

He straightened his collar, leaned against the railing again, and muttered under his breath, “But if it can’t…” He grinned faintly, eyes glowing like coals. “Then maybe it’s time for the old monster to show them how words really change the damned.”

He stayed there, patient as ever—watching, listening, waiting for the right moment to step into the light.

Charlie’s voice filled the hall—bright, hopeful, trembling with sincerity. The melody rose like a prayer among the damned, echoing through the marble pillars and cracked stained-glass windows of the hotel. Her hair shimmered faintly, eyes catching the faint glow of Hell’s smog-filtered light as she sang.

She wasn’t singing to impress. She sang because she believed—every note, every word—believed that even the lowest soul deserved the chance to stand in the light again.

The sinners fell into silence as she sang, some mesmerized, others rolling their eyes but staying put. It was impossible to ignore the passion in her voice.

“I know it’s hard,

To change what’s broken inside—

But even in the dark,

A spark of hope can survive…”

Vaggie stood beside her, proud but cautious, gripping her spear lightly as she scanned the crowd. She could see doubt in their faces, but also something else—something fragile.

When Charlie finished, she spread her arms wide, smiling softly through tears. “And that’s why I know we can do it! I know it’s possible to change. Because one of us already has.”

The sinners looked at her, confused murmurs rising.

Charlie’s smile brightened. “Sir Pentious,” she said clearly. “He used to live here—he was one of our residents. And now he’s in Heaven.”

A ripple of disbelief passed through the room.

One sinner scoffed. “Bullshit. Ain’t no snake creep getting through the pearly gates.”

Vaggie stepped forward, tone firm but calm. “It’s true. We all saw it happen. He worked hard, followed the process, and… he changed.” She placed a hand on Charlie’s shoulder. “He earned it.”

Charlie nodded eagerly. “It’s proof! Proof that redemption isn’t just a dream—it’s real! If he could do it, so can all of you!”

A few murmurs of interest spread through the crowd now, mixed with hesitant hope. Some looked at each other uncertainly, others stared at Charlie like they wanted to believe but didn’t dare to.

Up on the balcony, Cain watched it all unfold. His smirk softened into something subtler—still smug, but laced with curiosity.

“Well,” he muttered, “she’s got the same fire in her eyes as Abel used to. Blind, gentle, unshakable faith in the good of others.”

For a moment—just a fleeting, imperceptible moment—something shifted in Cain’s expression. A shadow of remorse, quiet and tired, flickered behind his crimson eyes. It was gone as quickly as it came, replaced once more by that mischievous, knowing grin.

Eloa, sitting on the railing beside him, looked up. “M-Mr. Cain?” she asked softly, noticing the change.

He cleared his throat. “Nothing, little hare.” He tapped his temple, thinking aloud. “Just… inspired, I suppose.”

Then he leaned down. “Pass me a pen and paper.”

Eloa blinked. “Oh… um—okay.” She dug into her satchel and handed him both.

Cain began to write quickly, his handwriting sharp and deliberate, each stroke purposeful. His grin widened as he scribbled a few final words, folded the paper, and handed it to her.

“Give this to the one with the spear,” he said, standing up and adjusting his coat.

Eloa looked at him, confused. “Y-you mean Miss Vaggie?”

“Yes, yes, the one who keeps glaring at me,” he said dryly. “Tell her to read it at the right time.”

Eloa hesitated but nodded, clutching the folded note to her chest before fluttering down from the balcony.

Down below, Charlie was finishing her song—her voice soft now, almost like a lullaby.

“…and even the fallen can learn how to rise,

If someone believes they can still touch the skies…”

As the last note hung in the air, the crowd remained silent—half in awe, half in confusion. Charlie smiled nervously, hoping she’d finally broken through.

Then—

“Miss Vaggie!” Eloa’s small voice rang out.

Vaggie turned as Eloa flew toward her, landing and holding out the folded paper with both hands. “Th-this is from Mr. Cain…”

Before Vaggie could ask, Eloa quickly zipped back toward the entrance, where Cain was already standing in the doorway, leaning casually against the frame. He gave her a small salute and a wink before stepping outside, closing the door behind him with a soft click.

Vaggie blinked, unfolding the note. Her eyes darted over the words. The handwriting was neat, almost elegant, but the tone was razor-edged—Cain’s words burned with authority, sharp wit, and a venomous sort of charm.

When she finished reading, she exhaled, shaking her head. “Son of a bitch,” she muttered. “He’s good.”

Charlie turned to her, still trying to read the crowd. “Vaggie? What’s that?”

Vaggie smirked slightly, folded the note, and stepped forward. “A little… assistance.”

Then, with a confident tone, she addressed the sinners: “Alright, listen up! The Princess gave you her heart—but let me give you something more practical.” She raised the paper slightly. “A message—from someone who knows how to survive Hell better than anyone else.”

The crowd stirred, intrigued.

Vaggie’s voice took on a firm, commanding tone as she paraphrased from the note: “You think redemption is weakness? You think learning restraint makes you prey? Wrong. It takes more guts to change than to keep killing. The strong ones aren’t the ones who burn the world down—they’re the ones who live long enough to build something out of the ashes.”

Some of the sinners actually nodded. The phrasing was harsher, more biting—real enough to reach them.

Vaggie continued, her voice steady: “You want to prove you’re better than Heaven? Then be better. Don’t give them what they expect. Don’t be beasts—they already think you are. Show them they were wrong.”

Charlie stared at her, wide-eyed, surprised at how effective the words were. The room had gone quiet again, but this time, the silence was thoughtful.

When Vaggie lowered the note, she saw a few of the sinners actually looking around at each other, muttering about “maybe giving it a try.”

Vaggie looked at Charlie and smiled softly. “Guess you’ve got a partner in speeches now.”

Charlie blinked. “Who… wrote that?”

Vaggie sighed, looking toward the closed door. “The silver-tongued bastard himself.”

Outside, Cain was already halfway down the street, whistling a faint tune as Eloa floated beside him.

She looked up at him shyly. “W-why did you help them?”

Cain smirked. “Help? I just gave them a nudge. Let’s see what the little princess does with it.”

Then, with a soft chuckle, he muttered, “Maybe redemption isn’t a lost cause after all.”

Pentagram City burned in its usual chaos — neon lights cutting through the endless smog, infernal music spilling from open bars, and sinners stumbling through alleys like they were all part of some endless carnival of decay.

Cain and Eloa walked through it together — the tall, broad-shouldered “Father of Murder” in his long coat that swayed with every step, and the smaller, long-haired hare angel trotting beside him, clutching her robe and glancing around with wide, nervous eyes.

Cain shoved his hands into his pockets, his expression one of casual amusement mixed with something darker. “You know,” he said, his tone low but edged with dry humor, “this place got huge. When I first came here, this was just an empty wasteland. Not a single bar, not even a lousy sinner selling snake oil. Now look at it — full of idiots with ambition.”

Eloa looked around, trying not to make eye contact with the more aggressive demons staring at her halo faintly flickering under her hood. “W-well, M–Mr. Cain,” she began softly, “th-that’s what civilization d-does… it g-grows and, um, evolves…”

Cain shot her a sidelong smirk. “You’re telling that to the guy who invented civilization, Eloa. You think I don’t know how it works? I built the first city before all of these bastards even learned how to walk upright.”

Eloa blinked and tilted her head. “Oh, um—y-you mean the c-city of N–Nod?”

Cain stopped mid-step, turning his gaze toward her. The usual playful glint in his eyes dulled for a moment. “Enoch,” he corrected quietly. “It was called Enoch. I named it after my son.”

Eloa froze, realizing she had touched a nerve. “R-right, sorry, M–Mr. Cain, I d–didn’t mean—”

He lifted a hand lazily to cut her off, voice softer now. “Don’t worry about it. I don’t mind talking about him.”

They resumed walking. The city buzzed around them — laughter, screaming, and the sound of some distant explosion. But for once, Cain wasn’t listening to the noise.

“I don’t mind talking about my boy,” he said, eyes focused ahead, his tone quieter. “He was the only thing I ever made that didn’t come from blood or sin. When Enoch was born, Lucifer and Lilith themselves came to congratulate us. Even gave their blessing. Back then… things were different.”

Eloa looked up at him, a small, genuine smile tugging at her lips. “Th-that’s… lovely to hear, M–Mr. Cain. I’m s-sure he was very proud of you.”

Cain let out a short laugh — not bitter, but weary. “Proud, huh? Maybe. Or maybe he just learned to live with what I was.”

They walked past a billboard glowing with Vox’s smirking face, and Cain rolled his eyes. “And this—this is what progress looks like now. Half the ring plastered with advertisements for egos and lust. I built cities for survival, for meaning. Now they build ‘em for noise.”

Eloa adjusted her hood nervously. “P–progress is still progress, right?”

He glanced down at her with a crooked smile. “If this is progress, then I miss the caves.”

She gave a shy laugh, trying to lighten the mood. “Y-you’re just mad that n-no one named a city after you, M–Mr. Cain.”

He smirked. “Please. A place called Cainville would get nuked within a week. Even Hell’s got standards.”

That made Eloa giggle — a sound so soft and genuine that it made Cain’s smirk falter into a real smile for just a second. He didn’t laugh often, but when he did, it sounded almost human.

For a while, neither of them spoke. The city glowed like a sea of dying stars around them. Then Cain looked up at the distant skyline — the chaos, the lights, the life — and murmured almost to himself:

“Funny thing about cities… they all start the same. With hope.”

Eloa blinked, ears twitching. “H–hope, M–Mr. Cain?”

He nodded faintly, his eyes glowing faint red beneath the streetlight. “Yeah. Hope. The one thing I never trusted… and yet, the only thing that ever made people build anything worth keeping.”

Eloa tilted her head. “Th-that’s… surprisingly optimistic coming from the L–Lord of D–Despair.”

Cain chuckled, his tone dipping back into sardonic calm. “Even despair’s gotta have a sense of irony, sweetheart.”

He turned to her again, his smirk back in place. “Come on. Let’s find something to eat before I start getting philosophical and make you cry again.”

Eloa laughed nervously, ears twitching. “I–I don’t cry th-that easily!”

“Sure you don’t,” he teased, striding ahead.

And as they vanished into the pulsing neon of Pentagram City, Cain’s voice could be heard muttering something under his breath — almost fondly, almost mournfully:

“Hope... always the first thing to build a city… and the last thing to die in it.”

The edge of Pentagram City was quieter — if “quiet” could ever describe a place where the skyline still bled red and the air smelled faintly of smoke and sin. Cain and Eloa wandered through the lesser streets, the neon fading into cracked stone and forgotten alleys where only the desperate and the nostalgic still lingered.

Eloa’s long ears twitched as she hugged her arms nervously, looking around. “M–Mr. Cain, a-are we… l–lost?”

Cain chuckled under his breath, his boots crunching over scattered bones and wrappers. “Lost? No, sweetheart. I just like to wander. It’s how I find the interesting places no one’s dumb enough to look for.”

Then his crimson eyes caught something: a flickering sign that read in crooked letters — “Lil Mesopotamia – Authentic Sumerian & Akkadian Cuisine!”

Cain stopped dead in his tracks. He blinked, rubbed his eyes, then leaned in like a curious tourist. “You’ve got to be kidding me…”

Eloa tilted her head, squinting. “S–Sumerian? A–as in… y-your S–Sumerian?”

“My Sumerian,” he said proudly, tapping his chest. “I taught half those people how to farm, fight, and make decent bread, and now some poor bastard’s pretending he can cook like them?” He grinned, teeth flashing. “Oh, I have to see this.”

Eloa sighed, but there was a small smile tugging at her lips. “Y–you’re actually e–excited, M–Mr. Cain.”

Cain shrugged. “It’s been a few millennia since anyone’s even mentioned the words ‘authentic Sumerian cuisine.’ If they can make ziqqurrātu-tibsu—”

Eloa blinked. “W–what’s that?”

“A stew made with roasted lamb, dates, and spiced barley,” he explained dreamily, like an ancient food critic remembering his glory days. “They used to serve it in Sumer’s royal halls before some idiot decided honey was more fashionable. Haven’t tasted it in forever. If they’ve got it, I might actually start believing Hell has something worth saving.”

Eloa giggled, covering her mouth. “S–so if the food’s good, you’ll j–join Hell’s s–side again?”

Cain smirked and spread his hands dramatically. “If the stew’s perfect, I’ll crown myself Lord of Fine Dining and call it redemption through flavor.”

She laughed softly as he pushed the creaky door open.

The smell hit first — a thick, damp mustiness mixed with old grease and something that might’ve once been herbs. The place looked… ancient, but not in a good way. The wooden tables were half-collapsed, cobwebs hung between chairs, and the dim light flickered like it was trying to die.

Cain stopped at the doorway, hands on his hips. “Well, Eloa, I think we found authentic—authentically abandoned.”

“U–um…” Eloa whispered, glancing around. “D–do you think it’s open?”

As if summoned by the question, an ancient-looking sinner demon shuffled out from behind the counter, rubbing his eyes and muttering. He looked up — then froze, blinking at the sight of the imposing man with crimson eyes and the glowing little hare angel beside him.

“...Oh, for fuck’s sake,” the demon croaked. “You two here to rob me? ’Cause if you are, tell your boss I already paid my protection money! I got receipts!”

Cain burst out laughing, deep and genuine. “Rob you? young man, I’m not here for your pennies. I’m here for your cuisine. Your sign says you make authentic Sumerian dishes — and that’s a bold claim. You realize you’re talking to the guy who ate the originals, right?”

The demon blinked again, squinting. Then his jaw dropped. “You’re—wait—you’re him!”

“Yep,” Cain said casually. “The Immortal. The first murder. The culinary critic of the Bronze Age. Now—got any lamb stew that can make me feel young again?”

The old sinner gasped and scrambled toward the kitchen, shouting at the top of his lungs, “WAKE UP, YOU USELESS LOT! WE GOT ROYALTY IN THE HOUSE! THE IMMORTAL’S HERE! THE REAL DEAL!”

Chaos erupted behind the counter. Cain and Eloa could hear frantic footsteps, clanging pots, and confused voices.

A younger sinner woman peeked out, saw Cain, and immediately squealed. “Oh my Satan! That’s Cain! He’s like, all over the news! The Heaven guy in Hell!”

“Stop staring and clean the tables!” the old demon barked. “Wipe everything! Make it shine like we’re not broke!”

Eloa stifled a giggle as she watched the small staff suddenly spring to life — sweeping, wiping, even pulling out candles that hadn’t been lit in centuries.

Cain leaned against the counter, grinning. “See, Eloa? All I gotta do is walk in, and suddenly people start working again. I’m basically good for business.”

Eloa smiled nervously, watching as one of the demons tripped over a chair and cursed loudly. “Y–you r–really revived the place, M–Mr. Cain.”

He smirked and tapped the counter. “Guess even despair can have an economic benefit.”

As the sound of frantic cooking filled the air and the restaurant started looking alive for the first time in decades, Cain sat back in one of the dusty chairs, looking amused and oddly at ease.

He looked to Eloa, one brow raised. “See? Told you this would be fun.”

She smiled softly. “Y–yes, M–Mr. Cain… I–I think it w–will be.”

The mood in the lobby of the hotel was tense, and the usual warmth Charlie tried so hard to fill the place with felt muted by uncertainty. The group had gathered after the other sinners went home, and the Princess of Hell sat at one of the round tables, nervously tapping her fingers against the wood. Her golden red eyes darted to the stairs every few seconds, as if half expecting Alestor or even Cain to stroll down in that unnerving, casual confidence of his.

“So…” Charlie began, her voice a little too bright to sound natural. “We’ve got new sinners coming in later today, and we need to figure out the best way to… um… introduce them to the hotel’s goal.”

Angel Dust, lounging upside down on the couch, spun one of his guns around his finger and smirked. “Sweetheart, it’s simple — tell ’em they either shape up or ship out. Gotta put some fear in their hearts before you give ‘em the whole sunshine-and-hug speech.”

Charlie frowned, tapping her chin. “That’s… not really the tone I want to set, Angel.”

“Eh,” Husk muttered from behind the counter, polishing a glass without looking up. “Tone doesn’t matter much down here. People respect power. Fear first, then kindness.”

Cherri Bomb, who was sitting cross-legged on a table and chewing on a matchstick, added, “Or you could make it more fun. Blow something up, show ‘em what happens when they mess around — dramatic stuff! Then you hit ‘em with the cute redemption talk. Bam. You’ve got their attention.”

Charlie pressed her palms together, looking more nervous by the second. “I don’t think explosions are… very redemptive,” she said softly.

While the others debated ridiculous ideas, Vaggie sat off to the side, quiet — too quiet — her one visible eye locked on a folded piece of paper in her hands. Charlie noticed the furrow in her brow and tilted her head curiously.

“Vaggie?” she asked. No response.

“Vaggie?” she repeated, louder.

Vaggie blinked and looked up, startled. “Huh? Sorry, I—what were you saying?”

Charlie gave her a gentle smile. “I was asking what you think we should do. You’ve been awfully quiet.”

“Oh.” Vaggie sighed, glancing at the paper again. “Sorry, I was just… thinking about this.”

Angel flipped over on the couch and pointed at it. “That love letter from Cain, huh?”

“It’s the note he gave me,” Vaggie corrected sharply, though a faint blush crossed her face. “And no, it’s not like that. It’s… confusing.”

Husk chuckled, flicking his tail. “Confusing like it’s written in some freaky old language or confusing like he’s a lunatic?”

Vaggie shook her head. “Neither. It’s actually good — too good. The arguments are solid, the logic is sharp… He even phrased it all in a way that would help us convince others to try redemption. That’s what’s bothering me.”

Charlie tilted her head. “Why would that bother you?”

“Because,” Vaggie said, standing and pacing slightly, “he told us he despises both Heaven and Hell. So why would he want to help either side? Why help us?”

Angel puffed out smoke and shrugged. “Maybe he’s tryna’ play the long game. Y’know — make us trust him before he does somethin’ wild. Wouldn’t be the first time someone pulled that.”

Charlie, ever the optimist, clasped her hands together and said gently, “Or… maybe he means it. Maybe he actually believes in redemption — that everyone deserves another chance.”

Husk snorted, wings twitching. “That guy? The walking middle finger to Heaven and Hell combined? No way. He doesn’t believe in second chances. You can see it in his eyes — that’s a man who has nothing to lose and just laughed about it.”

There was a beat of silence before Angel Dust grinned mischievously. “Well, if we’re all so curious, we could, uh… go check what he’s up to.”

Charlie blinked. “Check…?”

“You know,” Angel said, gesturing toward the stairs, “for safety reasons. What if the guy’s up there making bombs? Or, like, performing creepy rituals or some shit?”

Charlie gasped. “Angel! That’s an invasion of privacy! We can’t just—”

“Can’t just what?” Cherri cut in with a smirk. “Make sure he’s not planning to blow up the hotel again? I mean, c’mon, princess — you saw how influential he is. He sneezes wrong, and this place is dust. We gotta at least check the room.”

Angel grinned wider. “Yeah! We’ll call it a security inspection. Totally professional.”

Charlie looked conflicted, her hands fidgeting in front of her chest. “I-I don’t know… Cain trusted us, and it feels wrong to go behind his back like that. Besides, he literally gave me his word that he won't do anything that will harm us or the hotel.”

Vaggie finally folded the note and sighed, her tone cautious but serious. “Charlie… I agree with you, but Cherri and Angel aren’t completely wrong. If he’s hiding something dangerous, we need to know.”

Charlie’s expression wavered, caught between her unshakable optimism and her growing worry.

“Well…” she murmured softly, “maybe we can just… knock first?”

Angel smirked. “Yeah, sure, let’s knock on the door of the guy who killed his brother and upset the Seven Sins. Real smart move, doll.”

Charlie frowned, crossing her arms, her foot tapping nervously. “We’ll be respectful! We just need to make sure everyone’s okay with this.”

As she stood there, trying to convince herself more than anyone else, the rest exchanged knowing glances — half amused, half uneasy — while Vaggie looked once more at Cain’s note in her hands, her thoughts lingering on the strange and unnerving man who wrote it.

Charlie stood in front of Cain’s door, her hands clasped tightly in front of her chest, her expression a mix of guilt and anxiety. Behind her stood Vaggie, arms crossed, looking far less guilty and far more focused. Angel Dust leaned lazily against the wall with a smirk that screamed “this is a bad idea and I love it.” Cherri Bomb, bouncing a small explosive between her hands, grinned wide. Husk just muttered something under his breath about needing another drink.

“Okay,” Charlie whispered, wringing her hands, “we’re only doing this to make sure everything’s safe. We’ll just… look around. Respectfully.”

“Respectfully snooping,” Angel added helpfully.

Vaggie shot him a glare. “It’s not snooping. It’s precautionary.”

“Sure, sure,” Husk muttered. “Call it what you want. Still feels like snooping.”

Cherri snickered. “Can we just open the damn door before Cain comes back and vaporizes us?”

Charlie took a deep breath, raised her trembling hand, and slowly opened the door.

The group peeked inside… and froze.

They were expecting something sinister—a demonic lab, cursed symbols, maybe a shrine to himself. But what they found was… ordinary.

The room was tidy. Almost unnervingly so. Bookshelves lined the walls, each filled to bursting with dusty tomes in languages none of them could recognize. A small desk sat by the window, neatly stacked with papers and an old quill pen. The bed was made—immaculately, in fact—and a faint scent of parchment and incense lingered in the air.

“Well,” Angel said, blinking. “This is… disappointin’.”

Charlie stepped in carefully, looking around like she’d just walked into a church. “It’s… clean,” she whispered. “Really clean.”

Vaggie followed her in, scanning the books. “He’s been doing nothing but reading,” she murmured, running a finger over a spine titled ‘The Metaphysics of Suffering and the Self.’ “Figures.”

Husk, poking through a small pile of papers, muttered, “No bombs, no guns, no hellfire grenades. Just books. Lots and lots of books.”

Angel leaned on the bedpost and grinned. “Maybe he’s writing his memoir—‘Cain: My Brother and Other Mistakes.’”

“Angel!” Charlie gasped, scandalized.

“What? I’m just sayin’!”

Then Cherri, who had wandered toward the far wall, suddenly stopped. “Uh… guys?”

Everyone turned to her. She was pointing at a sheet of parchment resting on a small shelf, pinned under a smooth black stone.

It wasn’t a photograph—but a drawing. A beautifully detailed pen illustration of the Sin of Sloth, Belphegor, though not as anyone had seen her recently. She looked younger — vibrant even — sitting in a field of lilies, her serene smile captured in delicate ink strokes. The precision was almost divine; every line was drawn with care, the shading subtle yet full of life.

Angel whistled low. “Well, I’ll be damned… Cain’s got a crush.”

“What?!” Charlie yelped, nearly tripping over herself as she leaned closer. “No, no, that can’t be it!”

Vaggie squinted at the drawing, tilting her head. “Why would he have this? It’s definitely old. Look at the lilies — those are Heavenly lilies. And the technique… this must’ve taken days.”

Cherri smirked. “Maybe they used to date. Y’know, back before the whole ‘murder and banishment’ thing.”

Charlie’s face went red. “No! That’s—that’s impossible! I mean… Cain doesn’t seem like the type to… to… draw people he—”

Angel interrupted with a grin. “He totally is. I mean, come on, look at this—shaded, polished, no mistakes. That’s love, baby.”

Charlie covered her mouth, looking horrified. “Oh no… we invaded his privacy and now we found something personal! This is so wrong!”

Husk snorted. “Now you feel bad?”

“Yes!” she squeaked. “We shouldn’t be in here at all! Oh my gosh, what if he comes back and sees we touched his stuff? What if he knows?!”

Vaggie folded her arms and sighed. “He probably already knows.”

“WHAT?!” Charlie squealed.

“He’s Cain,” Vaggie said flatly. “If he’s half as perceptive as he pretends to be, he’ll know we were in here the second he steps foot inside.”

Cherri shrugged. “Eh, what’s the worst he’s gonna do? Give us a lecture?”

Angel chuckled. “Yeah, he’ll probably go all ‘I am disappointed in you, children of Hell,’ and then write another poem about despair or some shit.”

Charlie turned toward the door, waving her arms. “Okay, okay! Everyone out! Now! Before he comes back!”

The group scrambled out, trying to leave everything exactly as they’d found it. Charlie lingered for a second at the door, taking one last look at the drawing of Belphegor.

“I really shouldn’t have come in here…” she whispered to herself, closing the door gently. “I just hope he doesn’t find out…”

From the end of the hall, Niffty peeked her head out of another room, holding a feather duster. “Find out what?”

“NOTHING!” Charlie and the others shouted in unison.

The hotel went silent again — except for Angel’s quiet snickering and Charlie’s guilty groaning as they walked away from Cain’s door, completely unaware that somewhere across Pentagram City… Cain had suddenly smirked mid-bite of his food, as if he’d just felt someone snooping through his things.

The smell of spice and broth hung in the air like an echo from another era. Cain sat at a small wooden table, his long frame almost comically large for the old, creaking chair beneath him. The steam from the bowl rose lazily toward his face as he scooped a spoonful of the thick stew and brought it to his lips.

It wasn’t exactly what he remembered.

“Hmm,” he hummed to himself, savoring the taste before swallowing. “Not bad... though it’s missing that smoky, bitter note.”

The dish — “Nin'Ka'Ur,” as Cain had called it — had been a beloved Sumerian stew made from lentils, crushed dates, and a fermented root that hadn’t existed for millennia. It was something his people used to eat after long days of building, their laughter echoing across the half-formed plains of the world. Back then, it had been cooked over open flame in clay pots, not these stainless contraptions powered by electricity and sin.

Across from him, Eloa poked at her salad with a fork half her size, her little ears twitching in delight as she took a bite. “M-Mr. Cain! Th-this is delicious!” she said between small, happy bites. “Th-the lettuce! It’s s-so crisp!”

Cain smirked faintly at her enthusiasm. “You’re the first cherub I’ve ever met who gets this excited over lettuce,” he said dryly, leaning back in his chair. “But I suppose it’s refreshing to see someone enjoy Heaven’s least controversial plant.”

Eloa giggled nervously, brushing a strand of her soft hair aside. “Y-you talk like it’s a b-bad thing to enjoy something simple.”

“Simple things are fine,” Cain replied, stirring his stew thoughtfully. “It’s when people start worshipping simplicity that it becomes a problem.” He took another spoonful and sighed. “Still, this isn’t bad. Not authentic, though.”

The old sinner who ran the place — a wiry, gray-skinned demon with cracked horns and tired eyes — stood by anxiously, wringing his hands. “S-so, uh... what do you think, sir? We tried our best with the recipe from the old tablets, but, well… ingredients don’t grow like they used to.”

Cain dabbed his mouth with the napkin, setting the spoon down neatly. “It’s good,” he said, his tone surprisingly genuine. “Not as authentic as I hoped, but good. You captured the soul of it — that’s more than most can claim.”

The old sinner’s face lit up with relief and pride, bowing deeply. “Th-thank you, sir! It’s an honor to—”

The door suddenly slammed open with a crash.

Everyone froze.

Four shark demons swaggered in, their sharp suits gleaming under the dim yellow lights. They smelled of cheap cologne and gunpowder, and their toothy grins cut through the air like blades.

“Well, well,” drawled the tallest of them, his voice dripping with mock civility. “Look what we got here. Lil Mesopotamia, huh? Thought this dump was dead. Guess the rumors were wrong.”

The old sinner stiffened immediately. “O-oh, g-gentlemen! You’re— you’re here early! I, uh— I was just about to—”

The lanky shark demon waved a claw lazily. “Relax, pops. We ain’t here to collect. Yet.” He turned to glance around the place, noting the lights, the tables, the faint murmur of customers who weren’t usually there. “Funny thing though… you got folks eatin’ now. Which means you ain’t doin’ that bad.” His grin widened. “Which means we’re raisin’ your fee. Y’know, protection costs go up when business booms.”

The other sharks chuckled darkly, slapping their knees and nudging each other. The old sinner’s hands trembled.

“P-please! I—I just got lucky tonight! It’s not what you think! They’re just travelers!”

The lanky one’s grin faded. He leaned closer. “You tryna lie to me, old man?”

Eloa’s wings tensed, her little halo flickering faintly as she hid closer to Cain. “M-Mr. Cain…” she whispered. “Th-they’re going to h-hurt him…”

Cain didn’t look up. He lifted his spoon and took another calm sip of the stew. “Rule number one,” he muttered softly. “I don’t intervene unless I’m personally threatened or attacked.”

Eloa frowned, confused and worried. “B-but—”

He finally looked at her, eyes glinting faintly crimson under the restaurant’s dim light. “If I killed every fool who made threats, I’d have no one left to talk to,” he said with a faint smirk. “Senseless violence is wasteful. Every life I take has to mean something. Otherwise, it’s just slaughter.”

Eloa quieted, her little hands gripping the edge of the table. “S-so you’ll just… w-watch?”

“I’ll wait,” Cain corrected. “Sometimes the world corrects itself. Sometimes it doesn’t. Either way, patience always reveals the truth.”

The old sinner, meanwhile, was trying desperately to placate the sharks. “I swear, it’s not what it looks like! Look, I—I can pay next week!”

The lanky one scowled and jabbed a claw toward him. “You’d better. Or maybe we’ll just take your fancy guest’s wallet to cover the difference, eh?”

At that, the old sinner stammered, turning toward Cain in panic. “N-no, wait! Don’t! Please, he’s— he’s not someone you wanna mess with! Th-that’s Cain! The— the Immortal himself!”

For a moment, the restaurant went silent except for the faint bubbling of the stew pot in the kitchen.

The second shark — shorter, rounder, with a half-chewed cigar between his teeth — squinted at Cain. “What, that guy? You sure? Looks like some guy who lost a staring contest with a statue.”

Cain didn’t react. He just continued calmly eating, spoon scraping against the bottom of the bowl.

“Check it,” the shorter shark said, nudging the tall one. “Go on, see if he’s for real.”

The lanky shark adjusted his jacket, his grin returning as he stepped toward Cain’s table.

Eloa’s breath caught, her tiny wings fluttering nervously as she watched him approach. Cain, meanwhile, wiped his mouth one last time and sighed, muttering just loud enough for her to hear:

“Well… patience only lasts so long.”

And as the shark’s shadow fell over his table, Cain finally looked up — that same calm, tired smile stretching just a little too wide.

The lanky bull shark’s grin widened as he and his crew surrounded the table — four hulking silhouettes closing in like circling predators. The restaurant went silent; even the flickering neon sign outside seemed to hold its breath. The old sinner owner had backed into the kitchen doorway, trembling and whispering silent prayers to every god he could think of.

The lanky shark leaned in first, his long snout inches from Cain’s face. He smelled of saltwater, cheap liquor, and arrogance. “So… you’re the big deal everyone’s talkin’ about, huh?” he said, his voice low and mocking. “The Immortal. Tell me, old man, who the hell are you supposed to be?”

Cain slowly lifted his eyes from his empty bowl, his face unreadable — a faint shadow of a smirk tugging at his mouth. “An immortal man,” he said evenly, “enjoying a meal in peace.” He paused for a beat, then added with dry amusement, “Well, I was enjoying it before the place started smelling like bad shark fin soup.”

The smaller, squat dwarf shark let out a snort, the kind that turns into a wheeze halfway through. “Ha! Got some mouth on him, eh, boss?”

The lanky one grinned, showing rows of serrated teeth. “Oh, he’s got jokes. That’s good. Keeps things interesting.” He rested one elbow on Cain’s table, his tone turning more venomous. “We heard about you, pal. Whole city’s talkin’ about the ‘Immortal Cain’ who fell from Heaven and now walks around like he owns the place. But lemme tell ya somethin’—” he jabbed a claw toward Cain’s chest—“that reputation of yours? It don’t mean shit here. Not in my city.”

Cain tilted his head slightly, his gaze narrowing just enough to show faint amusement. “Your city?” he repeated, his tone almost gentle — dangerously so.

“Yeah,” the shark replied proudly, puffing out his chest. “Here, there ain’t no angels, no fancy kings, no Heaven laws. Down here, power comes from fear. You want somethin’? You take it. You hold onto it until someone bigger takes it from you. That’s the way of Hell. Always has been.”

Cain’s expression shifted, that faint smirk fading into something colder, sharper — like a blade sliding free of its sheath. “Interesting,” he murmured, folding his hands together on the table. “Tell me something then… define power.”

The lanky shark blinked. “The fuck you talkin’ about?”

“Power,” Cain repeated, his voice calm yet cutting through the air like thunder in a whisper. “Define it. Who gives it? Who allows you to have it? And what makes it real?”

The big hammerhead shark, who had been looming quietly behind the others, tilted his massive head. “It’s when you can beat the shit outta someone until they do what you want,” he grunted.

Cain gave a soft, approving nod. “Ah. So violence, then. The language of the desperate.”

The lanky shark frowned. “The hell’s that supposed to mean?”

Cain leaned back slightly, his voice taking on a cadence — not loud, not forceful, but with the rhythm of something ancient and dangerous. “It means you mistake force for authority, chaos for control. You speak of ruling, but you’re still servants — not to Heaven, not to Hell, but to fear. You only know how to take, never to be.”

The dwarf shark scowled. “You tryna get philosophical on us, old man?”

Eloa shifted uncomfortably beside him, her small hands fidgeting at the hem of her robe, whispering softly, “M-Mr. Cain…” but he didn’t look at her. His crimson eyes stayed fixed on the sharks, calm yet burning.

“Authority,” Cain continued, his tone rising just enough to fill the room, “is an illusion. A crown means nothing without belief. The people make kings, faith makes gods, and fear makes monsters.” He paused, letting the weight of his words hang before adding, “But tell me… who makes men like me?”

The lanky shark opened his mouth to respond — some half-formed insult — but stopped when he noticed the subtle glow beginning to pulse beneath Cain’s skin. It was faint, like embers under flesh.

Cain’s gaze fell on the hammerhead shark as the brute reached into his coat.

“Ah,” Cain said softly, almost to himself. “There it is.”

The big shark froze mid-motion, hand brushing the handle of his weapon.

“Who gave you the authority to threaten me?” Cain asked suddenly, voice sharper now, eyes beginning to gleam like molten gold behind the red.

No one spoke.

Cain smiled faintly — and it wasn’t the warm, amused kind. “No one did,” he said, rising slowly from his chair, his shadow stretching across the tiled floor like a growing storm. “Because I was the one who gave myself power. And with that…”

He flexed his hand slightly, the air around him tightening, rippling with invisible pressure. The lights flickered.

“I gave authority to myself,” he finished, voice low, almost reverent. “Because I am the master of my own existence.”

The lanky shark’s grin faltered, replaced by a twitch of unease. Eloa looked up at Cain, her small halo flickering nervously as the atmosphere thickened — heavy, suffocating — like the moment before a lightning strike.

Cain tilted his head slightly, his voice dropping to a whisper.

“Now… let’s see if you truly understand what that means.”

The restaurant had gone still. Even the candle flames trembled as Cain stood over the mobsters, his gaze dark and intent. The smell of smoke and dust clung to the air like a whisper from the Pit.

He exhaled, slow and calm, his voice quiet enough to make the silence ache.

“Do you know,” he said, his crimson eyes unfocused as if staring into a memory, “what I truly wanted once?”

The sharks hesitated. The lanky one’s grin twitched, but he didn’t speak.

“I wanted,” Cain continued, “to liberate people from their cages. From fear. From rules. From the voices that tell them what they can and cannot be.” He raised his left hand slowly, and the dim light of the restaurant began to pulse and bend, as if drawn toward him. “I wanted them to reach enlightenment, to create themselves, as I did.”

Eloa’s ears perked nervously. “M-Mr. Cain…?” she whispered.

But he was no longer listening.

He turned his palm outward, and the Mark of Cain shimmered faintly, like embers under skin. Then the air cracked — thin sigils began carving themselves into reality, glowing like molten glass, circling his hand in a dance of spiraling fire. The room grew hotter, the light blood-red.

“And this,” Cain said softly, his voice steady but filled with something old and terrible, “is how I broke free of their chains. How I created my own sorcery — one that needs no permission from Heaven, nor blessing from Hell. A craft older than the Angels’ hymns, deeper than the Demons’ abyss.”

The lanky shark finally barked out a laugh, masking his unease. “You’re full of shit, old man.”

Cain smiled faintly — the kind of smile that promised an ending.

“This,” he said, spreading his fingers as the symbols ignited brighter, “is the Magic of Qayin. The Qayinitic Sorcery.”

The sharks drew their weapons in panic — guns, blades, even a crude crowbar — but before any of them could move, a sudden heat seared through their foreheads. All four of them cried out, clutching their skulls as invisible marks burned into their flesh. The stench of scorched skin filled the air.

“What the fuck—what is this?!” the lanky shark snarled, his eyes wide as he tried to steady his shaking hands.

Cain looked to Eloa, his tone casual, almost paternal. “Close your eyes, little hare.”

“Y-Yes, M-Mr. Cain…” she stammered, squeezing them shut and covering her ears.

Cain turned back to the sharks, his eyes burning crimson, pupils now serpentine and radiant. “You enjoyed causing pain,” he said calmly, his voice deepening with power. “You built your small empire on the screams of others… so I’ve taken that from you.”

The lanky shark sneered, trying to sound tough even through his fear. “What the fuck are you—”

Cain tilted his head. “Now, you can only feel pleasure from pain.”

For a moment, there was silence. Then the short shark snorted, laughing nervously. “Pfft! How the hell’s that a curse, huh?”

Cain picked up his empty bowl of stew, balanced it lightly in his hand, and smiled — a slow, devilish grin that didn’t reach his eyes. “Because now,” he said softly, “you’ll never die in pain.”

Before they could respond, he flung the bowl straight into the hammerhead’s face. It shattered with a crack of ceramic and bone. The big shark staggered back—then froze, trembling—before a moan slipped out of his throat. His expression twisted not in agony, but in ecstasy.

“Ohh… oh fuck,” he gasped, shuddering. “Oh, gods, that feels—ah—so good!”

The others stared in disbelief as the hammerhead grabbed a chair and smashed it against his own arm, groaning with euphoric delight.

“W-What the fuck?!” the dwarf shark shouted, but before he could move, the hammerhead slammed the splintered wood into him. The smaller demon gasped — and then burst out laughing, his body shaking with wild joy. “Ahaha—oh shit—hit me again!”

The skinny one tried to back away, but the hammerhead turned and bashed him with the crowbar, sending him sprawling. The skinny one arched his back, moaning with bliss. “Oh hell, it’s—ha—amazing!”

Eloa whimpered behind her hands, trembling. “M-Mr. Cain, t-they’re hurting each other!”

Cain didn’t answer her. He sat back down at his table, folding his hands and watching quietly as the chaos unfolded. His expression was distant, detached — more observer than executioner.

The lanky shark raised his gun, his hand shaking. “You—what did you—”

But before he could finish, the dwarf shark lunged at him, giggling hysterically, and stabbed him in the leg with a shard of glass. The lanky shark screamed — then froze mid-cry, a shiver of pleasure rolling through his body. His breath hitched, his pupils dilated, and he began to laugh.

The four of them fell into madness — laughing, shrieking, hitting, stabbing, clawing, all while grinning like lunatics. Their blood spattered across the tiled floor in a grotesque dance of crimson and laughter. One by one, their bodies gave out, but their smiles remained, fixed and glassy, even in death.

Cain leaned back in his chair, eyes half-lidded, the faintest smirk on his lips. “And that,” he murmured, “is the painless killing.”

Eloa uncovered her eyes, trembling. The smell of blood and heat filled the air. She stared at the corpses, then at Cain, her voice small and frightened. “W-Why… did you…?”

Cain looked at her, his expression unreadable — almost sad. “Because,” he said quietly, “there is no lesson sharper than consequence.”

He stood, adjusted his coat, and tossed a stack of money on the counter for the old sinner. “For the meal,” he said, before glancing at the bodies. “And for the cleaning.”

Then, turning to Eloa, he offered his arm with calm politeness. “Come, little hare. Let’s go for a walk.”

And as they stepped outside into the neon haze of Pentagram City, the sound of laughter still echoed faintly from within the restaurant — long after every voice inside had gone silent.