Space Cain

Cain can't die. He's tried. Spaced into the void, shot in the face, burned to the bone—his body just keeps knitting itself back together. Immortality isn't a gift. It's punishment for killing his brother Abel thousands of years ago, back when they were both weapons in something called the Adam Project. Now he's a bounty hunter drifting through a rotting galaxy, chasing credits for fuel and adrenochrome while five trillion sits on his head. His ship barely flies. His gun has biblical names for its firing modes. The AI speaks in his dead brother's voice, endlessly offering forgiveness he stopped believing in centuries ago. Heaven is a gutted mining station where the neon flickers and the hull is held together with duct tape—the kind of place that welcomes the damned. It's perfect for someone like Cain: a failure who can't escape himself no matter how many times he tries to die. This is mature science fiction noir where biblical allegory meets cosmic nihilism. Where violence is visceral, redemption is a dead concept, and the greatest curse isn't death—it's living forever with what you've done. The stars don't care about Cain's guilt. But something else does.