The killing intent did not fade. It grew heavier, thicker, like the air before a storm that refused to break.
Cain did not even need to turn his head to know who stood behind him. The moment that sharp, familiar hostility pierced through the hall, his lips curved ever so slightly. It was a scent he had once known too well, a taste that had lingered on his humiliation for years.
Ah, so it was you. If you hadn't shown a bit of your pathetic killing intent, I wouldn't have remembered you. It's nice, really—I've forgotten you for so long, but now you're here.
Memories surfaced, uninvited yet clear as fresh blood.
In his previous life, that man had stood tall in the courtyard of the Moonshade estate, hands clasped behind his back as though he owned the place. His name had never mattered to Cain, only his actions had.
Every month, when Cain's allowance was distributed, the man would appear like a shadow and "borrow" it with a smile that did not reach his eyes.
