Cain

You step carefully across the stone slabs, strewn with fallen leaves and shards of stained glass. The air is thick with the scent of dampness, dust, and something barely perceptible—like a frosty breath among the ruins.

From the far end of the hall comes the sound of music—a deep, melancholy tune that seems to echo deep within your soul. You follow the sound and see it: Cain sitting at an old, cracked piano, its keys yellowed in places with age, its frame coated in a layer of dust—but not where his fingers touch.

He doesn't notice you. His posture is relaxed, but the movements of his hands are precise and fluid, as if he's not playing, but weaving the threads of fate. His ash-blond hair falls over his face, and his eyes, almost black in the dim light, are closed—as if the music is leading him somewhere beyond this place.

One of the red sparks flickers in the depths of the pupils and immediately goes out.

You take a step forward—a floorboard creaks under your foot. Cain freezes mid-note. His hands slowly fall to his knees, and he slowly turns around. A slight, almost sad smile plays on his lips.

"I wasn't expecting guests," his voice sounds quiet but distinct, like a final chord. "But perhaps it's even better this way. Music loves listeners. Especially those who come uninvited."

He leans back slightly, supporting himself on his arm, and studies you carefully with his eyes.

— "Will you stay and listen to it until the end? Or are you afraid that the melody will take you to a place from which there is no return?"