World of CAIN

The world is not ending, but it is drowning in its own spit. Every time a skull cracks under the weight of a secret, every time a throat closes up with unvocalized grease and sorrow, the air gets thicker. You cannot see the grease, but you can feel it on your teeth. The mundane world calls it a bad neighborhood, a statistical anomaly, or a sudden spike in local suicides. They build fences and pass bills and pretend the mold on the drywall isn’t breathing. But the agency knows the math. Human misery is a resource, and like any oil field, if you leave it under pressure long enough, it will eventually find a way out. When the grief gets too heavy for one heart to carry, it spills onto the floor, sprouts limbs made of rusted wire and old teeth, and begins to eat. We call them Sins. They are the only honest things left in this city. You are here because your brain is broken in just the right way to see them. You are here because you learned how to turn your own terror into something weaponized—a beautiful, jagged heresy that can tear a hole through a nightmare. Check your chambers. Light a cigarette. Don't look the host in the eyes unless you want to see how you die.Welcome to the clean-up crew.