This story has shifting time frames. I hope it's not confusing and that you'll be able to understand what's going on  =)

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He runs through the forest as fast as he can, stampeding through the thick overgrowth of bushes and shrubbery. His feet catches on stray roots and rocks that throws him off balance, trying to deter him, but he’s up and running again within seconds. He knows the consequences of slowing down. He knows what he’s going to lose if he lets the exhaustion take over him. With new found strength he pushes forward through the darkness.

His surroundings whip past him in a blurry mess. The low hanging branches smacks and scrapes across the exposed skin of his arms and face leaving behind a light sting as sweat invades the scratches.

Fatigue overtakes his limbs and he stumbles, but manages to catch himself against the nearest tree.

He allows himself a brief moment of rest as he tries to make direction of where he is and where he’s going. His chest heaves as he takes in large gulps of precious air into his depraved lungs. He strains his ears trying to catch any disturbances in his surroundings but it’s almost impossible with the way blood pounds through his ears, with the way his heart thuds erratically.

His ears clear after a while and his breathing evens out. Silence greets him, broken only by the chirping crickets and cicadas.

And then he hears it.

Those footsteps that had been haunting him all through the day.

Following him… perusing him… coming for him…

So he starts running again without any direction.

He runs… his mind constantly aware of the footsteps that follow him.  

It was hard to run anymore. His lungs were screaming with the lack of air, muscles seizing with every step he took. His body was starting to shut down, exhausted by the seemingly impossible feat of trying to outrun his aggressor.

His steps falter, feet catches on a web of stray roots and he goes flying through the air, landing face first on the damp soil. Laboured breathing pierced the silence- a dead giveaway of his position.

He cares little about that however, and just lays there, body and limbs uncooperative.

Blood stops flowing through his veins as the distant sound of twigs and leaves crunching reaches his ears. His body freezes as those footsteps come to a halt right behind him.

With the last of the strength left in him he pushes himself up into a kneeling position and slowly turns to face his aggressor.  

He stands there bathed in moonlight. It’s easy to make out the indecipherable malice in those small eyes and it’s almost impossible to miss the look of pure hatred painted across his face.

He’d worn that same expression countless times; cold, hard and demeaning, gloating at a helpless victim’s demise.

How ironic…

“Please don’t do this. Don’t do this…” he begs, hands clasped in front of his chest. He hates how he sounds, hates how his voice shakes and cracks with every syllable. But what else was there left to do other than beg?

The man in front of him smirks; face that same, never changing, perpetual mask.

And the last thing he sees is the barrel of a gun pointed straight at his face.

                 ~~~~~~

Pain…

Like someone shoved a white hot iron rod through his body… searing and burning his flesh. Scalding his insides; bringing with it excruciating torment.

He lets the darkness consume him…

                 ~~~~~~

“Minwoo-yah… Minwoo…  Lee Minwoo…” that singsong voice was distant; just a whisper… just another sound in the wind.

But it brought back memories he’d tried so hard to compress. It evoked those feeling engraved into his skin like some tattoo. It stirred those emotions settled deep within his bones. It gnawed at an underlying ache that ran through every inch of his body, a throb he felt with each and every breath he took, something that had become a permanent part of his life.

And with it came the pain, the guilt and the anger, the hatred and the loathing. All of those feelings had long since intertwined together and came out in one jumbled mess.

There was no antidote for it, there was no escape.

He squeezes his eyes shut trying to trap those images in his mind a little bit longer. Because he knows the moment he opens them the real world would rush in, drag him away from those precious moments he’d had and lost, those precious moments that were now only resigned to memories.

He holds a white shirt in his hands, one of the few belongings left of him; possessions he’d claimed for himself after he was long gone. They were the things that kept him going through the darkest of days. When he felt as if he should give up, as if he couldn’t carry on for another minute, those simple mementos kept him alive, they kept him sane.  

He gathers the fabric closer to his chest and squeezes it with all his might, inhales that scent he’d long since lost, tries to recall what it felt like to wrap his hands around that same fabric when it was covering warm flesh; tries to remember how it was to be surrounded by that smell.

The fabric still oozed his scent. It still felt like him. It still smelled like him. The scent he’d grown to love and crave, that smell he had been addicted to.

It was so hard now... to be stuck in a world without him.

                 ~~~~~~

He circled around the man kneeling in the middle of the room, trying to instill more fear into him. With the way the man kept flinching with every step he took, he knew he had succeeded.

Pathetic… How this man gave orders to kill someone without a second thought, yet when the tables were turned… he had transformed into this deplorable worm of a man, whimpering on the floor, begging and pleading for another minute of life.  

He stops directly in front of him and looks down at him, scrutinizing his terrified face.

“Look at you. Do you even realize how pathetic you look?” his voice is laden with sarcasm.

“Not the king of the world anymore, are you? You’re just another man begging for his sorry, miserable, sad excuse of a life.”

His words are vile, repugnant. And he hurls them at the trembling figure without any remorse. He relishes in his shivering, takes pleasure in the way he cowers in the face of him, finds amusement in the way sweat rolls down the pale face. He takes pride in the fear emanating from him.

He smirks and then bends down to his level, leans in to whisper in his ear.

“I’ll enjoy killing you…” his voice is icy, the venom apparent.

“I’ll enjoy every. single. second. of it”

                 ~~~~~~

“I left a picture of the next target on your table” the voice was steely, clipped. It complimented the gloomy atmosphere of the dimly lit hallway; a scene straight out of some creepy horror movie.

Only it was not.

This was his home. This was where he grew up; this was where he spent his youthful years. And he was used to it. Just like the way he’d gotten used to the icy voice that held no affection towards him, that commanded him to do unspeakable things.

It didn’t matter to him anymore, didn’t bother him in the slightest.

No. what bothered him now was his next target.

Who was the man who’d had the misfortune of rubbing some rich spoiled brat the wrong way? Who was that miserable soul who’d have to pay for his mistakes with his life?

He spares the man a nod before he moves forward.

Once entering the room he rushes to the table and picks up the brown manila envelope, tearing it in his haste to look at his next victim.

Those eyes… Those lips… That smile…

That face…

He knows this man…

                                 Eric…