Chapter 47: Cain, Son of Eve
Aron couldn't hold it in. A low, rough laugh rolled out of his chest and bounced off the marble walls of the chamber.
The sound was dark, almost fond, like he was watching a kid throw a tantrum instead of facing down one of the oldest monsters walking the earth.
"Cain," he said at last, the word thick with amused disbelief. "My cute little nephew."
Cain had been leaning against the heavy chains that held Baal just a minute ago, arms crossed, looking bored. Now he froze solid.
His eyes flicked fast between the demon and the man standing in front of him—the slayer, the one who was supposed to be family. The pieces clicked together in his head, one after another, each one landing like a hammer blow.
He got it now. Why Baal had suddenly offered him half his territory out of nowhere. Why the summons had come with such a polite tone. That slimy bastard had walked him straight into a trap and then handed him over like a delivery package.
"…Aro—" Cain started.
"Call me Uncle," Aron cut in, his voice light but carrying an edge that made the air feel heavier. "You rude little brat."
Cain's face twisted. He rubbed the back of his neck, trying to play it cool even as his stomach dropped. "Why the hell are you even here? This place is supposed to be private. God damn it, Baal… you piece of shit. You set me up."
Baal's human-looking skin started to glitch. His pupils stretched into thin slits, and faint red sigils glowed under his collar and along his jaw.
He stood up slowly, the chains around him falling away like they had never really held him. "I prefer my life over yours, Cain," he said, flat and honest. No drama, no threats. Just facts.
He walked over to Aron and stopped just out of easy reach, forcing a tired grin onto his face. "I knew you wouldn't stop coming after me.
You never do. So consider this my gift. A ticket straight to your trial. And do me a favor—stay the hell out of my life and my territory from now on."
His voice cracked at the end, not from anger but from pure exhaustion. Then, like flipping a switch, Baal's demonic features smoothed out.
The glowing sigils faded, his coat shimmered back to a clean white, and he looked almost ordinary again.
Without saying anything else, he turned and walked out. The heavy door clicked shut behind him, the sound loud in the sudden quiet, like the final lock on a prison cell.
Aron's eyes moved back to Cain.
The younger immortal hadn't moved an inch. He stood there rooted, shoulders tight, dark eyes locked on the closed door like he was calculating how fast he could reach it.
"Child," Aron said, his tone soft but carrying weight, "I only have a few questions."
Cain swallowed hard. His gaze darted to the locked door again, then back. His body was already starting to ache in that familiar way—the curse waking up, burning under his skin in all the old places.
Every scar from every death he'd ever suffered itched and pulled, thousands of years of punishment that never quite healed right. Immortal.
That was the joke his grandfather had played on him. Live forever, bleed forever, hurt forever. All because he'd done what any angry older brother might do when pushed too far.
He let out a shaky breath. "Fuck you. Get the fuck away from me, Ar—"
"I said call me Uncle," Aron snapped, voice cracking through the room like a whip. "Have some respect and decency."
Cain flinched hard. The air itself seemed to shake for a second.
Silence stretched between them. The only sound was the faint buzz of the overhead lights.
Cain's jaw worked. He looked down at the floor, then forced the words out, low and reluctant. "O… Okay. Uncle." He swallowed again, throat tight.
"Uncle, what do you want? What do you want from me?"
"Nothing much," Aron answered, calm in a way that made it worse. "Just one simple question."
He leaned forward a little. "Where's your mother?"
Cain blinked, thrown off. "Mother? You mean Eve? You think I keep tabs on that wh—"
The knife appeared in Aron's hand so fast Cain didn't even see the draw. One clean motion. The blade drove straight through Cain's left palm and sank deep into the wooden armrest of the chair he'd been standing beside.
Blood welled up instantly, hot and dark, and started dripping onto the marble floor. Drip. Drip. Drip.
Cain grunted once, teeth clenched, but he didn't scream.
"Uncle," he hissed, voice rough with pain, "I swear, I don't know whe—"
The second knife came down just as fast. It punched through his right palm and pinned that hand too.
Cain's whole body jerked. His breath hitched in his throat, but still no scream. Just heavy breathing and the steady sound of blood hitting stone.
"Pain doesn't bother me anymore, Uncle," Cain spat, eyes blazing even as sweat beaded on his forehead. "You of all people should know that."
Aron didn't reply right away. He walked over to the corner, grabbed another chair, spun it around, and sat down facing his nephew.
His expression was relaxed, almost bored, but there was a tiredness in his eyes that hadn't been there before the mess in Middle Heaven.
His back still ached from that fight, a dull throb that reminded him he wasn't as untouchable as he used to feel.
He sighed. "Cain, Cain… I always liked you, you know. You're a hell of a lot better than your father ever was.
Or your mother, for that matter." A small smirk tugged at his mouth. "I never did understand why God picked Abel over you. Always seemed backwards to me."
Cain's eyes narrowed, suspicion cutting through the pain. "Why… why are you sympathizing with me now?"
Aron rested his elbows on his knees and leaned in closer. "Because I've had a lot of free time lately."
His voice dropped lower, quieter. "And what I'm about to do next might actually test that pain tolerance you're so proud of."
Cain's face changed. The tough front cracked wide open. His mouth went dry. A thin line of sweat slid down the side of his face.
His hands twitched around the knives still buried in them, blood running freely down his wrists and soaking into his sleeves.
"No…" The word came out small. "No. Not again. Please…" His voice cracked, turning into a whisper. "Not again."
Aron watched him for a long moment without moving. The chamber felt smaller now, the marble cold and unforgiving under their feet.
Outside, Baal was probably already halfway across the city, breathing easier for the first time in weeks.
Inside, the air grew thick with old memories and older grudges.
Cain's mind raced. He knew this game. He'd played versions of it for centuries—hunters, angels, other demons, even his own family. They all wanted something. Information, revenge, a show of power.
But Aron was different. Aron wasn't here for territory or worship or even simple payback. He was here because he could be. Because time had given him the luxury of curiosity and the strength to satisfy it.
The curse in Cain's body flared hotter. It always did when he was pinned down like this. The wounds in his hands weren't closing. They wouldn't for a while.
That was part of the package—slow healing when it mattered most, endless pain when he least wanted it.
He could feel the bones grinding against the metal, the nerves screaming, but he kept his face as steady as he could. Showing weakness to Aron was like bleeding in shark water.
"You think this is new to me?" Cain muttered, trying to regain some ground. His voice came out rougher than he wanted.
"I've been stabbed, burned, drowned, torn apart—more times than you've had hot meals. You're not special, Uncle."
Aron tilted his head slightly, studying him like a puzzle with one piece missing. "I know. That's why I'm not rushing. We've got time. All the time in the world, really. You're immortal. I'm… well, close enough these days."
He reached into his coat and pulled out a small cloth, wiping a spot of blood off his fingers with slow, deliberate movements.
"Tell me about Eve. When's the last time you saw her? What name is she using now? Where does she hide when she doesn't want to be found?"
Cain laughed once, short and bitter. Blood dripped from his chin where he'd bitten his lip. "You really think I know? She ditched me the second things got messy.
Same as everyone else. 'Oh, Cain killed his brother. Better pretend he doesn't exist.' She changed her face, her name, her whole damn story. I stopped looking for her a thousand years ago."
Aron didn't look convinced. He leaned back in the chair, crossing his arms. "You're lying. Or at least leaving parts out. I can tell. You've got that same twitch in your left eye your father used to get when he was bullshitting."
"My father was a coward who hid behind God's skirt," Cain shot back. "Don't compare me to him."
"Fair point." Aron nodded once. "Still doesn't answer the question."
The pain in Cain's hands was building now, steady and deep. It wasn't the sharp stab anymore—it was the slow burn of metal against raw flesh, the pull every time his heart beat. He could feel his pulse in the wounds, hot and insistent.
Part of him wanted to rip the knives out and lunge, but he knew how that would end. Aron wasn't some low-level hunter. He was the reason whole pantheons whispered in fear these days.
"Why her?" Cain asked instead, buying time. "After all this time, why chase Eve? She's nobody now. Just another ghost pretending to be human."
Aron's eyes hardened just a fraction. "Because she started this mess. You, Abel, the mark, the wandering—none of it happens without her choices. And I'm cleaning house. Starting at the root."
Cain sneered, even as sweat stung his eyes. "Cleaning house? Is that what you call it? You wiped out half of Middle Heaven because they looked at you wrong. Now you want to play family therapist with a knife in each hand?"
"I call it necessary work," Aron replied evenly. "And you're stalling."