Clyde was jolted awake early that morning by his uncle, Sebastian. Groaning, he ran a hand through his hair, grumbling as he swung his legs off the bed.
“I thought I was here for a vacation,” he muttered under his breath.
By the time he reached the kitchen, his uncle was already seated at the dining table, sipping coffee with the calm composure of someone who had long accepted the chaos around him.
Sebastian glanced up and gave him an apologetic smile. “Sorry, Clyde. You know how your cousin is.”
Clyde didn’t reply. He walked over to the glass rack, grabbed a mug, poured himself some coffee, and took a seat at the table, his mind still half in his dream.
“Is my motorbike still there?” he asked, taking a careful sip.
His uncle nodded. “Yeah, it's still there. I already told your cousin to clean it up.”
After breakfast, Clyde retreated to his room to freshen up, but irritation lingered. “Why didn’t that guy check what he was carrying first?” he muttered as he changed clothes.
Yesterday, his cousin had gone shopping at the mall and returned with three full boxes—packed with condiments, kitchen utensils, and all manner of small appliances. If it had only been a few items, it wouldn’t have been a problem, but now Clyde was stuck dealing with the aftermath.
Once ready, he hurried downstairs.
“I’m heading out!” he called, no
 looking back.
“Alright, be careful,” Sebastian replied, eyes still on the newspaper.
An hour later, Clyde pulled up outside the bar where he was supposed to deliver the goods. Parking his motorbike, he frowned at the sight of the locked doors.
“Looks like I got here too early,” he muttered.
He stepped off the bike and glanced around, then tried the back door. It was unlocked.
“The owner of this bar is really careless,” he thought, entering cautiously. “Doesn’t he realize he could be robbed at any time?”
Inside, the kitchen was neat, almost pristine. Yet his eyes were immediately drawn to a storage shelf lined with tools and utensils. Most looked brand new, some expensive. But it was the knives that caught his attention—their handles intricately carved, the blades sharp, gleaming even under the dim light.
He reached toward one, fingers hovering over the polished steel—but before he could touch it, the front door opened.
Instinctively, he froze, body tensing as he listened.
“Keep quiet,” a gruff voice ordered.
 “That arrogant bastard should be here soon.”
Six men—big, heavily built—were inside. Anyone inexperienced would have been crushed in seconds. Clyde’s heart beat faster, but his mind stayed sharp.
Then, the distinct roar of a motorcycle echoed from outside. A man—handsome, around his age, and clearly not local—stepped in. The newcomer’s confident stride, fluent English with a foreign accent, immediately caught Clyde’s attention.
“Mexican, huh?” he thought, remaining hidden as he observed.
The man wasted no time, effortlessly driving out the intruders with a precision that left Clyde silently impressed. Then he turned toward the kitchen.
Clyde hesitated. Should he reveal himself? Slip out the back?
No. If I run now, he’ll think I’m with those guys.
At the last second, an idea struck. Clyde moved, slumping over a table, shoving an earphone in and turning the volume up on his phone. “Of all things, Clyde, pretending to be asleep? Really?” he scolded himself internally.
Footsteps neared, and he felt the weight of the man’s gaze on him.
CLANG!
A large pot crashed to the floor beside him.
Clyde flinched, jolting upright, already on his feet as he took in the man standing before him. Roughly the same height, fitted black long-sleeve shirt, jeans, exuding effortless confidence.
The stranger spoke first—in French. Clyde understood enough to get the gist but held his tongue, noting the growing irritation on the man’s face.
Before more words could pass between them, a sudden eruption of gunfire forced both to duck for cover.
“I was just here to deliver supplies, and now I might die?” Clyde muttered, crouching to avoid the bullets.
Moments later, the gunfire ceased, replaced by the heavy thump of approaching footsteps.
The stranger reached into a holster and pulled out a gun, offering it to Clyde.
Clyde hesitated. He knew how to use a gun—but knives? Knives felt right in his hands. Without a word, he pulled open a nearby drawer, revealing a pristine set of knives.
“These were gifts,” he muttered absentmindedly. “I don’t use them.”
James raised an eyebrow but didn’t argue.
The door swung open. Before the intruder could react, Clyde’s knife flew across the room, embedding itself deep in the man’s chest.
The fight escalated quickly. Clyde normally wouldn’t interfere, but now he was too deep in the fray.
Through it all, he couldn’t ignore James’ strange, fixed gaze. Even as he turned to leave, the intensity of it stayed with him.
Before stepping out, James called after him.
“Wait! What’s your name?”
Clyde hesitated. Then: “Clyde Louie.”
Saying his own name aloud felt odd. And James’ reaction—almost like recognition—lingered in his mind.
As Clyde walked into the night, a nagging feeling pressed at his chest:
Had they met before?