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Think about you - Cain (Wan2talk?)
synopsis - Cain finds himself thinking of MC far more then he's comfortable with.
The child had been rocking for three agonizing minutes.
Forward.
Back.
Forward.
Back.
The wooden legs scraped the floor each time, a sound that felt like a rusty nail dragging along the back of Cain’s teeth.
Cain looked up.
The child rocked again. Cain’s eyes narrowed into the flat, unblinking glare usually reserved for religious heretics or people who talked during prayer.
Scrape.
Cain stared. The child flicked a brief glance at him, entirely oblivious to the quiet hostility radiating from his table, before leaning into another swing.
Scrape.
Cain’s jaw tightened. He forced his eyes back down to his notebook. Focus.
The page stared back. At the top, he’d neatly written today’s date.
Nothing else.
Pathetic.
He adjusted the pen between his fingers. He had plenty to do. He could be transcribing last night’s audio recording. He could be cross-referencing the radio frequencies he’d written down before leaving his apartment. He could be reading the article he’d bookmarked three days ago.
Instead, his brain was floating back to them.
Again.
He frowned, a sharp crease forming between his eyebrows. It was becoming deeply annoying. Not them—them he could deal with. It was the fact that his own thoughts kept drifting back to them without his permission, like an untethered dog.
He’d noticed a few things. That was all. There was nothing strange about noticing things. Observation was practically a instinct.
Their nails, for example. A little longer than most people’s. Not manicured, just naturally long and neat. He’d noticed when they were tapping their fingers against the table.
He could still hear the exact cadence of it.
Tap.
Tap-tap.
Pause.
Then again.
He’d wondered if they realized they did it. Probably not.
They also talked with their hands. Constantly. Not dramatically, just... as part of the machinery of their speaking. Their hands seemed to move ahead of their words, shaping an idea in the air before their mouth could catch up. Sometimes they’d point. Sometimes their fingers would spread like they were trying to hold an invisible shape. Sometimes they’d make some ridiculous little gesture that apparently made perfect sense in their head, even if no one else on Earth understood it.
Cain had watched their hands more than once. He had no logical reason to. He’d still done it.
He pressed the pen tip into the paper until it left a deep dent.
Why?
It wasn't as though they were the most fascinating human alive.
That was a lie. They were interesting. But the world was full of interesting people—people he’d talked to once and immediately forgotten, people he’d studied for weeks, people whose bizarre behavior had genuinely baffled him. He didn't carry those people around in his head when he left the room.
So what was the glitch here?
Cain glanced toward the counter.
And then the scent returned to him.
Cain froze. The pen hovered a millimeter off the page.
This was worse. This was an embarrassing breach of his own dignity.
He remembered it with horrible clarity. The last time they’d sat across from him in the booth, they’d leaned forward to show him something on their phone.
And he’d noticed.
Something clean. Warm. Annoyingly hard to pinpoint.
Nice.
That was the word his mind had offered at the time. Nice. God, he hated that word. It was lazy. It meant nothing. He preferred precise terms. Cedar. Citrus. Soap. Lavender. Whatever it was, it should have been easy to classify.
He hadn't classified it. He’d just sat there like an idiot, thinking: They smell nice.
Cain’s brow furrowed. He looked down at his own dark coat.
He knew what he smelled like. Old books, obviously. Incense—the heavy, sweet stuff lingering from morning prayer. Industrial cleaning agents, because his apartment had a permanent chemical undertone now. And maybe something faint and metallic underneath it all that he preferred not to investigate.
Cain lifted his sleeve slightly and took a subtle sniff.
He paused. His face remained totally blank, but he slowly lowered his arm.
...Wait. Was that what he smelled like? A crime scene wrapped in an antique store?
His eyes flicked sideways toward the next table. Nobody was backing away. Nobody was gagging into their coffee. That proved nothing, of course. People were polite. Or oblivious. Or just used to terrible smells.
Cain rubbed his thumb against his knuckle.
Wait, he thought, stopping dead. Why the fuck do I care?
The realization hit him like cold water. He had gone years without giving a single damn about how he registered to another person’s nose. If someone didn't like his vibe, they were welcome to move to another zip code. He had actual work to do. He had existential problems to deal with.
Now—now he was sitting in a public café, spiraling over whether they had noticed he smelled like bleach and church rosin.
His stomach gave a small, unpleasant twist.
Why would that matter?
He looked down at his notebook.
Because they have a nose, Cain. Brilliant analysis.
He dragged a hand down his face. This was pathetic.
His thumb clicked the pen. Once. Twice. Three times.
He forced himself to stop. He wrote:
I don't care what they think.
He stared at it. A lie, written in his own handwriting. He drew a black line through it.
I didn't care before.
Better. Historical truth.
He leaned back, his chair creaking under his weight. Outside, a bus roared past, spraying a momentary reflection of gray and rain across the glass.
For one stupid second, his heart jerked because he thought he saw them on the sidewalk. His head turned before his brain could stop it.
Not them. Obviously.
Cain looked back down. His fingers were gripping the notebook so hard the edge was crushing. He forced his hand to relax, digit by digit.
Why did everything loop back to them?
The scent reminded him of the booth. The booth reminded him of the conversation. The conversation reminded him of their voice. Their voice reminded him of their hands. Their hands reminded him of their nails. Their nails—
He stopped. He could feel a headache blooming right behind his eyes.
This wasn't thought. This was a hamster wheel.
He wrote:
They are a distraction.
Crossed it out.
I am distracted by them.
Worse. It made him sound helpless. Struck through that too.
"Why?" he muttered.
The word barely made it past his teeth, lost under the hiss of the espresso machine.
He dropped his hand. The blank page waited.
There had to be a rational explanation. Curiosity. A mind naturally obsessed over an unsolved puzzle. There was simply some piece of information about them he hadn't categorized yet.
Yes. That made sense.
They were unusual. Their interests jumped around like a stray cat. They asked questions without caring where the answers took them. They could be weirdly perceptive one second, and then say something so absurd he spent twenty minutes trying to figure out if they were brilliant or just stupid.
They were inconsistent.
No. Cain paused, annoyed that he was correcting himself.
Spontaneous. That was different. There was a weird, hidden logic underneath the noise. He’d noticed that, too. Some internal rulebook they followed, even if he couldn't read it yet.
That was what interested him. The logic. The code.
Of course.
He leaned in, pen moving quickly:
There appears to be a consistent internal logic beneath their—
He stopped. His eyes narrowed.
He slowly scribbled through the line.
Because he knew what was coming next. Another detail. Another cute observation. Another intellectual excuse to spend an hour thinking about them while his actual life sat unwritten.
Scrape.
Cain’s head snapped toward the child.
Forward.
Back.
Scrape.
Cain stared. His face turned completely empty—no anger, just a terrifying, dark stillness. The child glanced up, caught Cain looking at them like an ancient gargoyle, and froze.
A long, heavy silence stretched between them.
Cain gave one tiny, sharp nod.
The child slunk back into their seat and stared at the floor.
Satisfied, Cain returned to his notebook. He spun the pen over his thumb.
Then, without really deciding to, he wrote:
I remember too much.
He stopped. His eyes stayed glued to the ink.
That was the actual problem.
He remembered their hands. Their nails. The pitch of their laugh. The scent. The exact way they leaned across a table when they were interested. The little beat of silence before they answered a hard question. The dumb things that made them laugh. The quiet things that didn't.
He was hoarding useless information. Human garbage. Things that couldn't be filed away with a date, a frequency, or an explanation.
Cain’s grip tightened around the plastic casing of the pen.
He could stop right now. He should stop. Close the book. Walk out into the gray air. Go home. Pray. Work. Sleep. Repeat.
That was the routine. It had always been enough.
Why wasn't it enough now?
His hand moved down to the bottom margin. Almost on auto-pilot, he wrote:
I think about them when they aren't here.
He stared at it. Added:
I think about them when I don't want to.
His pen hovered over the white space. The last thought landed heavy and dark.
And sometimes when I do.
Cain went entirely still. For once, he didn't cross a single word out.
Around him, the café carried on. A spoon clinked against china. Someone called out an order. The child remained blessedly quiet.
Cain looked at the three lines. His face showed nothing at all, but his fingers slowly, tightly curled around the cover of the notebook.
He shut it.
Not because he’d figured anything out. But because he had a dark, sinking feeling that if he kept writing, he’d end up admitting something he couldn't undo.
From his bed, each drop landed with mechanical precision, striking the porcelain basin before dissolving into the next. Somewhere in the apartment, a pipe groaned. The refrigerator hummed. The radiator clicked once before settling back into silence.
Then—
Drip.
He'd been lying there for... a while.
Hours.
Maybe.
Three days since he'd last slept.
He'd gone longer before. Long enough for his thoughts to begin fraying around the edges, long enough that mirrors became uncomfortable to look into. Sometimes his reflection would blink before he intended to. He'd inhale so sharply he swore it would cause a nosebleed.
His body still remembered what sleep was supposed to feel like.
It just couldn't seem to find its way back there.
He rolled onto his side.
The room smelled faintly of dust, old paper, and burnt coffee. Towers of notebooks leaned against one another on the desk like they'd collapse if somebody was brave enough to cough near them. VHS tapes were scattered in uneven stacks across the floor, their handwritten labels fading beneath fingerprints and age.
He should've cleaned.
He'd been telling himself that for weeks.
Instead, he'd simply learned how to walk around the mess.
His life had become remarkably efficient at accommodating neglect.
His thoughts wandered to the week behind him.
Not because he wanted them to.
Because there wasn't much else to think about.
Monday.
Groceries.
The same store.
The same fluorescent lights that washed every aisle the same sickly shade of white.
Sapporo Ichiban ramen.
Cheap bottled water.
Coffee.
Vanilla Tootsie Rolls.
If he felt particularly ambitious, he'd buy sourdough.
He'd remember that he'd forgotten butter somewhere between the bakery and the bus stop.
Every time.
The cashier looked familiar.
So did he.
They exchanged the same rehearsed politeness they'd exchanged dozens of times before.
Neither of them expected the other to say anything worth remembering.
Money.
Receipt.
Plastic bag.
"Have a nice day."
He never knew how to answer that.
Outside, the walk home never changed.
The broken streetlamp still flickered without purpose.
The old woman's porch still drowned beneath impossible flowers.
The calico cat still occupied the same warm patch of concrete, stretched so flat against the pavement it looked poured there.
Cain wondered, briefly, if it'd been the same cat all these years.
He never checked.
He wasn't sure why.
Maybe he preferred not knowing.
Maybe certainty would've ruined the comfort of expecting it.
By the time he reached his apartment, the route had already started dissolving from memory.
Tomorrow would overwrite today.
Just as today had overwritten yesterday.
He unlocked the door.
Shoes off.
Bag down.
Keys in the bowl.
Notebook on the desk.
The motions required no thought anymore.
His body knew the sequence better than he did.
Research filled the evening.
Grainy tapes pulled from forgotten forums.
Audio recordings buried beneath layers of static.
Old newspaper scans.
Marginal notes beside older marginal notes.
He wrote until the page ran out.
Started another.
Then another.
The notebooks remained piled in every corner of the room because throwing them away felt... wrong.
Not sentimental.
Not exactly.
Ink remembered.
It had to.
Otherwise, why write anything at all?
The tap continued.
Drip.
Without sitting up, Cain reached for the rosary resting on his bedside table.
The beads slipped through his fingers by instinct now, smooth with years of use.
Our Father...
His lips moved.
The words came.
Then the next.
Then the next.
Halfway through, he realized he'd stopped listening to himself.
He'd finished an entire prayer without hearing a single sentence.
Silence settled in his chest.
He started again.
Slower this time.
Trying to mean it.
Trying to feel something beyond obligation.
Trying to convince himself that routine and devotion weren't becoming the same thing.
"...Amen."
Nothing answered.
Only—
Drip.
He closed his eyes.
Static bloomed beneath his eyelids.
Not darkness.
Never darkness.
Always that shifting grain, like an old television searching desperately for a signal that wasn't there.
He wondered, not for the first time, if everyone saw it.
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After having busted my huge stupendous ass over this game and it's mystery, I finally figured out Madame Zora's Cipher. Here's how I did it.
At first, her dialogue looks like total random keystrokes:
"... q | wx m dw 'w d px "
". | o wx wx m v d d v x "
The dev (love u dev) actually confirmed that this is an intentional cipher and not just random decor! MWUAHHAHA. Under the hood, the game uses custom upside-down and flipped Unicode glyphs.
Once you un-flip all the mirrored characters back into standard English letters, the hidden raw string turns into this:
Line 1: pnlacd knlcjw' jwdjmn xwn llqn...
Line 2: vlatd dcivynm xw xwn olln...
This was step 1. Step 2... *ominous thunder crack*
Now, once the letters are right-side up, it becomes a classic letter-swap code. Here's how the pieces fell into place folks:
The Anchor Word (xwn): In English, a 3-letter word sitting before nouns like llqn or olln is almost always "one".
soooo,
x = o
w = n
n = e
The Contraction (knlcjw'): An 8-letter word ending in an apostrophe right after our w (n) means an "in"" ending. That gives us "beatin'"
k = b
l = a
c = t
j = i
Now, plugging those letters into the remaining words solved the puzzle:
pnlacd -> hearts
jwdjmn -> inside
llqn -> cage
vlatd -> marks
dcivynm -> stamped
olln -> face
So the overall decoded message is something like:
"...hearts beatin' inside one cage..."
"...marks stamped on one face."
THE LORE IMPLICATIONS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
When you pair this text with Madame Zora's infamous line, "There's two of you, boy," it practically confirms the host theory:
"Two hearts beatin' inside one cage" -> Cain's physical body is literally a cage holding two separate souls/entities. Perhaps perchance permaybe.
"Two marks stamped on one face" -> Refers directly to Cain's facial mark/scar and his split identity.
Part of me feels like Cain has something living in him that gives him his inhuman qualities such as him being able to stand in abominable unbearable heat head to toe in basically winter's attire and his ability to stay awake for 4 days and look relatively alive. Not to mention Madame Zora saying his literal flesh is lying to her. Like his physical body is some sort of shield or veil for the twin flames within him. And Cain himself is 100% aware of this. The question here is...what's inside of him...pause no pause resume.
What do you guys think? Let me know in them comments. I'm genuinely so interested in what this game has to offer story wise.
BUT HEYYYY, that's JUST a theory. A GAMEEEEE THEORY...thanks for reading.
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