Clyde was jolted awake early that morning by his uncle, Sebastian. Groaning, he ran a hand through his hair as he stepped out of his room, grumbling to himself.
"I thought I was here for a vacation."
When he reached the kitchen, he spotted his uncle already seated at the dining table, sipping coffee.
Sebastian glanced up at him with an apologetic smile. "Sorry, Clyde. You know how your cousin is."
Clyde didn’t reply, just walked over to the glass rack, grabbed a mug, and poured himself some coffee before taking a seat at the table.
"Is my motorbike still there?" he asked between sips.
His uncle nodded. "Yeah, it's still there. I already told your cousin to clean it up."
After breakfast, Clyde returned to his room to freshen up, but his irritation hadn’t faded. He muttered under his breath as he changed clothes.
"Why didn’t that guy check what he was carrying first?"
Yesterday, his cousin had gone shopping at the mall and returned with three full boxes—packed with condiments and kitchen utensils. If it had just been a few things, it wouldn’t have been a problem, but now Clyde was stuck dealing with it.
Once he was ready, he hurried downstairs. "I’m heading out!" he called toward the kitchen, where his uncle was still reading the newspaper.
"Alright, be careful," Sebastian replied.
An hour later, Clyde arrived at 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 stepped off his bike and glanced around the building. Thinking someone might be at the back, he decided to check. When he tried the back door, he was surprised to find it unlocked.
"The owner of this bar is really careless," he thought as he stepped inside cautiously. "Does he not realize he could be robbed at any time?"
As he wandered through the kitchen, he found himself drawn to a storage shelf lined with various tools and utensils—most of them looking brand new and some even appearing expensive. But what caught his attention the most were the knives. They came in different sizes and designs, their handles carved with intricate details.
He reached out to touch one, but before his fingers could graze the blade, he heard the entrance door open.
Instinctively, he froze, his body tensing as he listened.
"Keep quiet," a gruff voice ordered. "That arrogant bastard should be here soon."
Clyde’s sharp senses kicked in. Six men. Big, heavy-built. If someone with no combat experience got caught up with them, they'd be crushed in an instant.
Then, after some time, the distinct sound of a motorcycle engine echoed from outside. From where he stood, Clyde caught sight of a man stepping into the bar—handsome, around his age, and definitely not a local. He spoke fluent English, but the accent gave him away.
"Mexican, huh?" Clyde thought, staying hidden as he observed.
He watched as the newcomer confidently strode through the place, effortlessly driving out the unexpected visitors. Clyde remained still, silently impressed by how the man handled the situation.
Then, he noticed the man heading toward the kitchen.
His mind raced. Should he reveal himself? Or slip out the back door?
No… If I run now, he might think I’m with those guys.
At the last second, an idea struck him. He quickly moved, pulling out a chair and slumping over one of the tables. Resting his head on his arms, he shoved an earphone into his ear and turned up the volume on his phone.
"Of all things, Clyde, pretending to be asleep? Really?" he internally scolded himself.
As the footsteps neared, he could feel the weight of the man's gaze on him. Then—
CLANG!
A large pot crashed onto the floor right beside him.
Clyde flinched, instantly jolting upright. His body reacted before his mind could catch up, and he was already on his feet when he finally took in the sight before him.
The man stood directly in front of him. And, as Clyde had suspected, they were roughly the same height. The stranger wore a fitted black long-sleeve shirt and jeans, exuding an air of effortless confidence.
He spoke first, in French. Clyde understood him well enough but didn’t respond right away. Instead, he noted the growing irritation on the man’s face.
Before they could exchange more words, the sudden eruption of gunfire sent both of them ducking for cover.
"I was just here to deliver supplies, and now I might die?" Clyde muttered in frustration, crouching to avoid the bullets.
Moments later, the gunfire stopped, replaced by the sound of heavy footsteps approaching.
The man beside him reached into a holster and pulled out a gun, offering it to him.
Clyde hesitated. He knew how to use a gun—but knives were different. They felt right in his hands. Without a word, he reached for a drawer instead, pulling it open to reveal a set of neatly arranged knives.
"These were gifts," he murmured absentmindedly. "I don’t use them."
James raised an eyebrow but didn’t argue.
The door swung open, and before the intruder could even react, Clyde’s knife flew across the room, embedding itself in his chest.
That was only the beginning. The fight escalated quickly, and though Clyde normally wouldn’t interfere in someone else’s battles, he was already in too deep.
What caught him off guard, however, was the way the bar owner—James—seemed oddly fixated on him. Even after everything, as Clyde turned to leave, he could feel the weight of the man’s stare on his back.
Before he stepped out, James called after him. "Wait. What’s your name?"
Clyde hesitated for a moment before answering, "Clyde Louie."
For some reason, saying his own name aloud felt strange. And the way James looked at him in response… it was almost as if he recognized it.
As Clyde walked away, a nagging feeling lingered in his chest.
Had they met before?