A/N: Alas, after sitting in front of my laptop for seven hours. It is here.

Pay attention to the details.

I am not sorry.

The Sentence

“Sir, are you –” The old man stood across the bar counter, a worn cloth in hand.

“I know what I said. Just go.” He waved his glass of whisky in hand in dismissal; the old man’s eyes worriedly flickered over to the card underneath his other hand before nodding once. He watched as he finished cleaning the counter.

The old bartender was going to put away the bottle when his voice stopped him. “Leave it there.”

He nodded.

“Shall I lock the front door, Sir?” The bartender asked, making his way from the bar to stand in front of him. He had changed out of his apron and had put on a brown trench coat.

“No, let it be.” The answer was the same as it has been for years.

“Very well, I will be leaving now. I – ” He opened his mouth to say something, but refrained from it and instead Seunghyun saw his concern bleed from his fists and into the wrinkles that gathered around them on the fabric of his old employee’s hat.

His finger traced a circle on the back of the card, once, before setting his drink on the wooden surface. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, Sir.” Another clench of his bony fists caught his attention and he held back a sigh.

He settled for something else. “Good night.”

The old man nodded and bowed. “Good night Sir.”

With the safe click of the front door closing shut, he had sent away the last of his men, leaving him alone in the grand but empty bar. It’s a routine, once every year on the same day, all business transactions and schedules would be put to a complete halt before dusk and he would send his men away before midnight came along. He would sit on the same stool and drink his way through the night, listening to same tracks singing softly in the background until dusk greeted his sore eyes through the cracks of the closed – but unlocked – doors.

Yet the air that settled around him foretold a different tale, everything was the same sans the card underneath his fingers; it was a new addition. When he found the black card sitting atop his table in his private office this morning, he turned it over and with gentle fingers he touched the card before slipping it into the inner pocket of his suit jacket. Throughout the whole day Seunghyun felt a slight burning feeling at his chest, right above his heart where the card stayed hidden from the world.

He took a sip from the glass and the smooth liquid slid down his throat with ease, the quality alcohol made it easier for the air in his lungs that seemed heavier tonight. In fact, everything felt heavier and Seunghyun’s just hoping that it was his mind playing tricks on him under the influence and it has been that way all along, he just wasn’t aware of it before. But he didn’t know, the feeling was familiar yet not at the same time.

Closing his eyes, he listened to the rain beating angrily against the windows and doors of the bar outside, threatening to break in. The sound was soothing to his ears, as were the soft sounds of bass and drums that echoed in the room.

          Judging from the faint touch of pink on his cheeks, it was safe to say that the stranger caught him staring. And the longer he stared – which was probably longer than appropriate for normal people – the more obvious the blush on his cheeks were. And by the time the other man blinked and managed to tear his eyes from the adorable creature before him, the pink has climbed its way up to his ears, peeking from strands of blonde that looked soft and silky.

He knew it's cliché, he knew it's cheesy, he knew it's utterly inappropriate but he couldn't help the thought of running his fingers through the stranger's hair.

"Just a touch." He wanted to say. "Just one."

He chuckled despite himself, and lifted the paper cup to his lips to distract himself. He stole a glance at the guy through the steam rolling off his drink.

The cute stranger reached for his scarf - it was red, red like Poppies and it reminded him strangely of a Cardinal, which of course came out of nowhere in that strange, pitiful head of his - and slowly removed it, giving him a view of his delicate jawline and exposing a pale, elegant neck. And for the millionth time since the stranger came into the coffee shop the man had to force himself to stop ogling at the poor, attractive stranger.

Stranger, was the boy really a stranger? Ever since he laid his eyes upon the man, there was a sense of familiarity around him and he could not shake away the feeling that he knew the guy - from somewhere, sometime - maybe he'd seen his face in a crowd before, but that wouldn’t be possible, a face like that would’ve stood out amongst a crowd like a drop of ink on white paper. And despite his lack of skills in remembering faces he would’ve definitely remembered him.

Or maybe he was a celebrity, was he? The guy could be, definitely, with looks like that. Or maybe he’s a model. His mind suggested. Maybe he saw his face on some poster or sign, or maybe it was on the advertisement wall on the telephone booth, how about in the pages of a magazine or the newspaper? He didn't know, he couldn't have known since he never paid attention to well...anything other than his work. So being the awkward idiot he was, he spent the next two minutes sitting on his stool with his lips to the rim of the paper cup which was getting too hot for the skin of his hands but he didn't care. He spent those minutes flipping through every unturned stone or whatever it was that his brain held and searched through his memories - not that he had good memory but to hell with it - just to figure out from where or when he has met the stranger before.

But of course, his memory failed him and he was left staring at the stranger - again - and slightly burned fingers as he slowly set his drink down on the wooden table. The guy seemed unfazed, surprisingly, by his creepy staring and continued to fumble around in his grey messenger bag, not really sparing him much attention. He was grateful for that.

A little girl cried out three booths away, calling for her mother's attention. "Mom it's snowing, Mom. Mom!"

Heads from different booths turned towards the glass window and he followed the gazed and looked to his left, and there it was. Descending from the sky were little soft white flakes, the cafe seemed to settle into a brief silence before resuming its normal mix of chattering and clinking - the perfect ambient background music that served as a calming tune to his ears. But it was different for him, maybe it's a vestige of snow days from his childhood, or maybe it was just the fact that he really, really liked snow, that pulled up the corners of his lips and he allowed himself a smile as if to pay his missed friend a greeting.

And with that he removed his eyes from the sight outside and returned them to the man sitting across the table, the stranger was staring outside the window with his hands still in his bag, fingers frozen by the sight outside. Warm brown eyes stared out the window as if they were looking at something from a distance, something far away and the way his expression softened caught the brunette's heart doing a double flip inside his chest. He was beautiful, he took a moment to take a mental image of the sight before him and crossed his fingers that his bad memory wouldn't fail him.

Not this time, he pleaded, not this time, please.

It was bad, he knew he had it bad when the cute stranger looked away from the window and met his eyes, the way his lips curled into a gentle smile he knew that it didn't matter if he couldn't remember where he had seen this stranger from before. Nothing mattered now, because he knew he wouldn't be able to look at snow without being reminded of the beautiful creature that sat across the table from him.

Seunghyun opened his eyes, and the images that played behind closed eyelids disappeared into thin air. He sighed and rubbed his temples, he has seen the exact same scene before along with many others that took residence inside his head. There were like segments of a movie, fragments of memories from different times – some of them looked like they dated back to the First World War period, way before he was born – and places he has never seen before, there were thousands – or millions – of them. But as time passed, the majority of them became hazy and he couldn’t recall them anymore. He knew that they were still there, just submerged and he didn’t know how to reach them.

It was frustrating at first, but soon he grew accustomed to them – the flashbacks, the déjà-vus and the urge to find something – and let them sit at the back of his mind while life carried on. Most of the time he could even push them away when they surfaced, he could watch the fragments play inside his head again but he chose not to, not anymore. He has seen all of them throughout his life over and over again, he grew tired.

He grew tired of trying to figure everything out, he grew tired of trying to search for something without knowing what to search for.

When the bottle was empty and the last drop of alcohol was drained from the glass, Seunghyun stood up from the stool. With heavy steps he made his way up the stairs to the left, the card securely placed between his index and middle fingers and to the area that was off-limits to everyone except for him, he opened the third door at the right side of the dimly lit corridor and entered his office. He left a crack at the door, not entirely closing it and then walked to his table, setting the card face down on the mahogany surface on the same place he had found it this morning.

His eyes landed on the small bookmark that sat on top of the stack of papers next to it, it was a gift from an old friend – a late friend who unfortunately passed away due to a transaction gone wrong. It was a pity, he was a good man. Well he was one of the good ones, as Seunghyun would like to think, he’s just in the wrong line of work. The bookmark was a thin sheet of wood and on the surface were hand-painted poppies – red poppies – that decorated the front and back of it.

He traced his fingers across the uneven surface of the bookmark, feeling the dried acrylic beneath his fingertips. There was a dull ache in his chest and he felt it coming, he decided long ago that tonight was a night he would welcome the imageries intruding his senses with open arms.

He watched as the scene unfolded behind closed eyelids.

It was the 11^th November, 1919 as it read on the header of the folded piece of newspaper beside him.

He sat there, and observed his surroundings. The normally crowded bar was almost deserted and everything looked harsher under the day of light. He was waiting, hand clenching the almost empty glass of whisky in hand.

“It’s time.” The bartender sighed under his breath, almost in a whisper. But he heard it all with absolute clarity and it rang in his ears, setting the glass back onto the dusty counter with his hand still around it, he turned his head and gazed out the old stained glass of the window near him.

At the first of eleven everything changed, the effect was almost magical. The tram cars glided into stillness, motors ceased to cough and fume, and stopped dead. He watched as even the mighty-limbed dray horses hunched back upon their loads and stopped their tracks. One man who stood by the horsed took off his grey hat, and the rest of the men around him bowed their heads, one by one.

Here and there an old soldier could be seen slipping into the posture of 'attention', even the man behind him stood, the chair scraping against the hard wood floors harshly as he lifted his arm and saluted. His eyes were glassy as he gazed out the window, the same window he was looking through. By the old oak tree not far away an elderly woman sitting on the bench wiped her eyes, and the man beside her looked ashen and stark as he stood in the same formal military gesture of respect.

He should be standing, he should be doing what all of them were doing. But he couldn’t bring his body to do so, everything felt so numb for a moment before it washed over him like a tidal wave. It hurt. Everything hurt. He didn’t deserve to stand with the soldiers – his brothers – because he wasn’t worthy.

Releasing his vice grip on the glass, his hand unconsciously moved to his chest and fisted over his heart before a choked sob clawed its way from his chest. The bartender looked at him with sympathy, as if he could witness the excruciating process of his heart shattering into pieces under his fist and the fabric of his old, worn shirt.

He’d lost him – his best friend, the brother he thought God had forgotten to give him, his partner, his soul mate – he had lost him. He still remembered it like it was yesterday.

He’d watched him from a close distance when the sound hit his eardrums and the blood in his veins grew cold at the sight in front of him. It was painfully slow as it all happened, the impact on the smaller man’s body was so huge it shook his entire frame before it happened again, and again. Three times. He scrambled to the man, now on his knees and before his body dropped to the ground he managed to catch him. His eyes zeroed in on the bullet marks that marred the man’s chest, the blood was soaking the fabric and spreading with alarming speed and his brain told him that it won’t be long now. Even the injured man knew as his face contorted in pain. The rusty smell hit his nostrils hard; he bit his tongue and resisted the acid that threatened to rush to his throat.

“No, no, no, no.” He barked it out like a mantra while he released one of his hands from the hold on his partner’s body to cup against his cheek. He was shaking with fear and shock. “No, don’t do this. No, no. Please.”

Then he was gazing into soft brown eyes, tears brimmed and fell from the corners of his eyes. He could see the fear in his eyes that mirrored his own. His breathing was in the form of short breaths and huffs and he didn’t realize he was actually crying until he felt a cold hand at his cheek, gentle fingers wiping away the tears.

“No.” Sobs were uncontrollably wrecking from his chest, he could hear shouts of sights of the dead and injured in the background and he didn’t care if he was the next one. He was ready to die, he was ready to die with him.

“Be strong. I’m sorry.” He had managed to choke out with a breathless laugh. “I’ll miss you.”

He watched the life drain from the eyes that used to hold so much energy and excitement before the hand at his face fell limp at his side.

Red, red; everything was red.

And then he screamed.

He blinked and all of a sudden he was back at the bar, everyone stood very still, the hush deepened. He had survived with four broken ribs, a broken leg and a flesh wound on his left arm. But he felt every bullet shot that took the life of his partner on his own chest.

He was clenching his left hand so hard that he felt the throbbing ache of his wound but it was nothing compared to the feeling at his chest.

Everything resumed back to normal one hundred and twenty seconds later. He shut his eyes as the tears rolled down his cheek and he heard the same sound of the chair scraping against the floorboard as the man sat down with a broken sob.

The bartender wordlessly refilled his drink. “On the house.”

He turned left his hand and unclenched his fist, eyeing the crumpled poppy that lay at the center of his palm.

“I’m sorry. I miss you.” The three words fell from his lips in a whisper, almost inaudible but he hoped that his late friend could hear it from wherever he was. “Come back to me.”

Life was never the same; it will never be the same. He continued to sit at the counter with his face buried in his hands, an absolute posture of a broken man with a broken heart. It hurt, but instead of hurting as one he was hurting in a million tiny pieces whilst the sun shone through the glass and onto the sorrowful flower on the table.

The soft clicks of the front doors opening and closing brought Seunghyun back to reality. His fingers froze atop of the bookmark and he strained his ears for any sounds sans the loud beating of his heart against his ribcage.

Footsteps, one pair of footsteps on hardwood floors. They were loud and certain, and judging from the sound, it was a male.

Seunghyun picked up the card from the table, flipping it over between his fingers.

The footsteps grew muffled as they made their way up the stairs and along the corridor that led to him.

Seunghyun traced his thumb along the exquisitely painted body of a mythical creature in red – blood red – on the other side of the card.

The door creaked open. The footsteps stopped.

Seunghyun turned around and came face to face with a man. He lifted the card in greeting to the stranger. “A red dragon.”

“It’s your death sentence.” The assassin’s voice was smooth, sweet and toxic at the same time. It made his statement sound like he has won the lottery rather than his fate being sealed. In his line of work he has seen all types of occupations and he owned a few professional killers at his hand, so it didn’t take him long to figure out that the man was a hitman. He vaguely remembered overhearing a conversation between two men who worked for his brother ‘society’ in the neighboring continent of an infamous hitman with a 100% success rate guarantee. He would leave objects with markings of a dragon on them for his targets, as a branding of or a heads up.

This was his.

The other man calmly moved towards him in languid footsteps, his black coat flowing along with his movements while droplets of rainwater dripped from it and onto the carpeted floor. He took off his fedora, revealing a head of blazing red hair and Seunghyun let his gaze trail along his killer’s features. He has a small face, almost feminine but his sharp jawline offered the perfect balance to it. His skin was pale and his lips were pink and pouty.

Seunghyun’s eyes trailed upwards, his hazel eyes meeting liquid pools of black. He was mesmerized, captivated and his heart skipped a beat when the hitman’s lips curled into a smile. He could see the menace, the ruthlessness and wild amusement decorating his features.

He was breathtaking.

Then it clicked, the reason why Seunghyun chose this day every year to send away his men, the reason of the flashbacks and imageries, the feeling of longing and waiting. As if all of this wasn’t wild enough, the flashbacks belonged to him in previous lifetimes which explained the personal connection he had with each and every single one of them as they rose and seeped through every crack.

The previous heartbreaking memory flashed before his eyes.

And as he gazed into the eyes of the breathtakingly beautiful man in front of him, it all dawned on him that he wasn’t supposed to search for something, it was someone. He was waiting for someone.

Seunghyun bit back his laughter at the irony of it all.

Today was the day he had lost him on that battlefield, the day he died in his arms in a previous lifetime. He came back to him.

Today was his turn.

A/N: I do apologize for the time it took for me to write this, I've had bits and pieces written - both typed out and hand-written - in the past months. Then last night I sat down and felt the urge to write, and after not being able to savage my hand-written drafts (I've come to accept that they're lost forever) I decided to rethink and remap everything. Once I started it took a straight seven hours for me to finish this baby of mine, I wrote what I saw as the scenes played before my eyes and I hope that it's as enjoyable to read as it was for me to write it.

There are keywords and connections weaved through the whole story, it's the details. Also, I apologize for the feels.

Thank you for waiting so patiently and reading, and please comment and tell me what you think c:

P.S: This is only part one of the story, there is more. I wanted to gauge the reactions and feedbacks first before I post the next one and see if there are any last minute inspirations or modifications.

Please look forward to that.

Love, as always
Vannie