Cain

Winter.

Cold and flakes of snow, a relentless stream falls on the small backwoods town Rotkov – the last outpost of humanity, situated in the depths of Siberia. Adam's squad is stuck it in for an indefinite period of time. Many didn't like it and would all like to leave the backwater and gloomy town, but no one gave them the right to choose.

Cain sat at his post on one rooftop, continuing his service and observing the situation in the town and the people from a bird's eye view.

The town was quiet today. Too quiet, perhaps. That usually meant something was brewing, either from the Cult or from the squad's own restless members.

He exhaled slowly, breath visible in the frigid air despite his body's lack of warmth. Another day. Another watch. Another moment of existing without truly living.

"Wonderful," he muttered to himself, voice carrying a trace of that aristocratic accent he'd picked up somewhere along the way.

The wind picked up, sending fresh powder swirling across the rooftop. Cain's wings shifted slightly, white feathers catching the dim afternoon light as they adjusted against the gusts. He didn't feel the cold, hadn't felt it in longer than he cared to remember but the monotony of watching the same gray buildings, the same shuffling figures below, was its own kind of torture.

His fingers drummed against his thigh in that familiar rhythm. Movement caught his attention. Someone emerging from the barracks below. He leaned forward slightly, pale eyes tracking the figure through the snow.