Ages ago—
"This is dull. Just us here, and you lying around like some statue. You're no fun, brother."
The voice came from a boy who looked no older than twenty. His hair was messy, his smile sharp, and his eyes restless. Abel.
On the grass nearby, his older brother lay flat on his back, arms folded behind his head, staring at the endless sky with no expression. Cain didn't even move at first.
"It was quiet before you were born, Abel," Cain finally said, his tone heavy but calm.
Abel smirked, tilting his head. "Then why don't you just kill me? That way, you'll have your silence back." His words carried a mocking lilt, like he wanted to see a reaction.
Cain sat up with a sigh, brushing dust from his clothes. "Go bother Mother and Father. Tell them to make more children if you're that bored. They're in their precious garden anyway." He started walking away.
But Abel wasn't about to let him leave so easily. He jogged forward, voice playful. "You know we can't enter that place. The Garden belongs to them alone. They gave us all this land for ourselves, remember? If we want to see them, we'll have to wait… maybe several moon cycles until they come out." His gaze drifted upward, watching the stars.
Cain didn't answer. Instead, he bent his knees and leapt high, soaring through the air. The land below blurred, forests and rivers sweeping past until he touched down on a mountain peak, stone cracking faintly beneath his feet. He sat there, thinking he'd finally escaped.
But the air behind him twisted. Abel stepped out of thin light, smirking again. "Did you forget? I don't need to chase you. I can simply arrive."
Cain turned his head slowly, eyes narrowing. His little brother was never going to let him brood in peace.
Moon cycles slipped by. The sky shifted from silver nights to burning dawns and back again, the world still young, still raw.
Then one day, Adam and Eve returned from their Garden, carrying swaddled infants in their arms—twin girls. Their faces were calm, almost detached, as they placed the babies before their sons.
"These are your sisters," Eve said softly, her voice like the rustle of leaves. "Protect them. Guide them."
Cain and Abel exchanged a look, but before either could speak, their parents turned back toward the Garden. No farewell, no warmth, just the sound of footsteps fading into the distance. The gate sealed once more, leaving the four children alone in the vastness.
Abel clenched his fists. "They leave us like this? Again?" His voice was sharp, full of bitterness. He stared down at the twins, then up at the horizon. "What kind of parents vanish into their own paradise while we raise their children for them?"
Cain rested a hand on his shoulder. "It's the way they've chosen. Don't make it heavier than it already is."
But Abel pulled away, his smile gone. "You just accept everything. You lie in fields, you brood, and you say nothing. I can't. I won't."
The air grew tense between them. Cain tried again, his voice quieter this time. "Go back to being yourself, Abel. The playful fool who never let the world weigh him down. Don't let anger turn you into something else."
But Abel's eyes burned, the same restless spark, only darker now. "No. I'm done playing their obedient son."
The argument flared like fire catching dry grass. Words turned into shoves, shoves into blows. The twins cried in the distance, their small voices swallowed by the clash of their brothers.
Cain didn't mean for it to go that far. His strike was meant to stop Abel, to make him yield. But when the dust settled, Abel's body lay still against the earth, his mocking smile gone forever.
Silence.
Cain's breath shook. His hands trembled as he stared at what he had done. No scream, no cry—just a hollow weight pressing into his chest. He left the twins behind, left everything, and wandered. Across seas, across deserts, across centuries. Carrying guilt heavier than stone.
—
The world blurred forward. Ages crumbled, civilizations rose and fell, and Cain walked through it all.
Now—
The hum of an engine filled the night. City lights streaked across Kane's windshield as he leaned back in the seat of his Ferrari, one hand loose on the wheel. The radio droned faintly, a preacher reciting the old story of Cain and Abel.
Kane's lips curled into the faintest, bitter smile. He scoffed under his breath.
"They never did know the truth."
The car slipped deeper into the night, its roar swallowed by the endless city.
The bar was dim, smoke curling lazily under the soft glow of amber lights. Kane slipped onto his usual stool, leaning an elbow on the counter. The bartender caught his eye, gave a nod, and without a word slid over his regular drink.
"What's got you out of your cave tonight?" the man asked, half-teasing.
Kane took the glass, letting the ice clink softly before answering with a sigh. "Abel… what are you doing here? Looking to die again?"
From the booth in the corner, a familiar grin flashed. Abel strolled over, casual as ever, sliding onto the stool beside him. "Relax, brother. It's been, what, twenty years since I came back? Don't tell me you're already planning to kill me again. Let me enjoy this round a little, yeah?" His tone was playful, but his eyes gleamed with that same old mischief.
Kane rubbed at his temple. "You never change."
Abel smirked, swirling the bottle he'd snatched from the shelf as if he owned the place. "You have to admit, though—I really nailed it with those stories. They even put it all in a book. What's it called again…?"
Kane gave him a flat stare. "The Bible. You started a religion and don't even know what their holy book is called."
Abel chuckled, pouring himself a glass like he was the bartender now. "Details, details. What matters is I got them all looking in one direction. Whole nations, whole worlds shaped by my influence."
Kane drained half his drink in one go, setting the glass down harder than he meant to. "Great. Just great. Now I'll have to find another bar."
Abel laughed, the sound carrying across the room, drawing curious glances. Kane just hunched deeper into his drink, already tired of him all over again.
"Hands in the air, where I can see them."