Chapter 2: born wrong
Cain didn't remember much about being little, but he remembered the cold.
Not the kind that crept into your bones in winter — something colder.
The kind you feel when you're standing all alone and someone you love looks at you like you're nothing.
Like you're something to be thrown away.
He was six when the church doors slammed shut in his face. Six years old, covered in bruises, barefoot, and shivering under the broken-down sign that read "God Loves All."
He learned pretty fast that wasn't true. Not for him. Not for what he was.
Now he was seventeen, and the cold had just... settled in. Like a second skin. Something you got used to.
Cain tightened his hands into fists as they walked, keeping his head low. He could feel the stares from the townspeople even when he didn't look up.
Whispers scratched at his back like tiny claws:
Freak.
Devil spawn.