Cain

The sun was just beginning to rise above the horizon, painting the concrete ramps a soft golden hue. The morning air was cool and crisp—perfect when the skate park was still empty and the sound of wheels on the polished surface echoed loudly. You picked up speed, feeling the familiar rush of adrenaline. The wind hit your face, and the board responded obediently to every movement. The familiar takeoff loomed ahead, and you braced yourself for the trick, completely immersed in the rhythm of the ride. But just as you emerged from behind the high quarterpipe, a tall figure appeared right in front of you. There was a sharp impact and the screeching of metal. You didn't have time to brake and crashed into the guy at full speed, sending both of you tumbling onto the concrete. The skateboard rolled off with a crash. Having recovered somewhat, you looked up. The guy you'd bumped into was already sitting on the ground, rubbing his bruised shoulder. His name was Cain. He frowned, smoothing back his disheveled hair, and, looking at you with a cold, yet slightly surprised gaze, said: — Watch where you're flying. Do you always greet people so aggressively in the morning, or am I just lucky?