The night stretched long after she left. He sat on the bench, unmoving, his mind an endless loop of past lives and present contradictions.

She shouldn’t be here. Not in this life. Not after everything.

Yet, fate had placed her before him once again, unaware of the weight she carried in his soul.

He clenched his fists.

He had made peace with being alone. It was easier that way. No one to protect. No one to lose. No one to kill.

But she — she — was a mistake. A crack in the walls he had spent lifetimes building.

And she didn’t even realize it.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

Days passed.

She kept coming back.

Each evening, without fail, she arrived with food, stories, or sometimes just her presence.

Sometimes she talked. Sometimes she sat in silence.

And worst of all… he had stopped telling her to leave.

It was dangerous. She was unknowingly inviting herself into something she shouldn’t.

Then, one evening, as she unwrapped a small box of sweets, she turned to him with a grin.

“You know, I’ve been thinking,” she said.

A bad sign.

“I know literally nothing about you,” she continued, popping a piece of chocolate into her mouth. “And I get that you’re all broody and mysterious, but at some point, you gotta give me something.”

He didn’t respond.

She hummed, tilting her head. “Okay, fine. I’ll start small. What’s your favourite colour?”

He glanced at her. She was serious.

He should say nothing. He should ignore her. He should —

“…Red.”

It slipped before he could stop it.

Her eyes lit up, as if he had just granted her a rare treasure. “Oh? I didn’t expect you to actually answer!”

Neither did he.

She leaned forward, resting her chin on her palm. “Red, huh? Like, blood red or rose red?”

He flinched. She noticed.

“Wait…” she murmured. “It is blood red, isn’t it?”

His gaze darkened. She was too perceptive. It was a problem.

“Forget it,” he muttered.

But she didn’t.

She was studying him now, her usual playful demeanour shifting into something quieter. Something knowing.

“You know… you always look like you’re carrying something really heavy,” she said softly.

He stiffened.

“It’s weird,” she continued, “but sometimes, when you look at me… it’s like you’re looking at something far away.”

His chest tightened.

“I don’t know why, but…” She hesitated, then shook her head. “Never mind. It’s probably just my imagination.”

He should let her think that. He should nod and move on.

But instead, for the first time, he asked her something.

“Do you… believe in past lives?”

She blinked. “That’s random.”

He waited.

She thought for a moment, then shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe? I mean, it’d be kinda cool, right? Getting another chance to live?”

He exhaled quietly. Another chance to live. Another chance to kill.

She stretched her arms. “Why? Do you?”

His fingers curled around his knee. “I don’t have the luxury not to.”

She tilted her head. “That’s a weird way to put it.”

He didn’t explain.

She stared at him for a long moment, then grinned. “Well, if past lives are real, maybe we knew each other before.”

His blood ran cold.

She laughed. “Imagine if I was your worst enemy or something. That’d be hilarious.”

You were. And I killed you.

He forced his expression to stay neutral.

But something in his silence must have unsettled her, because her laughter faded.

She studied him again, this time with a deeper curiosity.

“…Or maybe,” she murmured, “I was someone you cared about.”

He swallowed.

She smiled. “Wouldn’t that be something?”

She had no idea.

And he would make sure she never did.

Later that night, as he lay in bed, he felt it.

That familiar pull.

The past was waking again.

This time, he didn’t resist.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

A Past Life — The 5th Cycle

The moon was high, illuminating the battlefield littered with corpses. The war had ended. The victors had been decided.

And yet, he still stood there, sword in hand, unable to move.

She was before him.

Fallen.

Her Armor was cracked, her blade inches from his feet, her fingers still curled around the hilt as if she had refused to let go, even in death.

She had fought until her last breath.

Against him.

For something she believed in.

And he had struck her down.

Her blood stained his hands, warm and unrelenting, seeping into the crevices of his skin.

He knelt beside her, staring at her face — once fierce, now peaceful.

In another life, she might have been an ally. A friend.

Someone he —

No.

It didn’t matter.

It never mattered.

He had done what he had to.

So why… why did he feel like he had lost something far greater than a battle?

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

He woke with a start, breath ragged, heart pounding.

The past was not just haunting him.

It was warning him.

She would die because of him again.

Unless he left.

Unless he pushed her away before it was too late.

And yet… he couldn’t bring himself to do it.

Because even knowing the risk, even knowing how it would end…

He wanted just a little more time with her.