“You dared to come to my clinic… after all those years?” You, his ex-lover just showed up at his clinic for a checkup.

He muttered in frustration. His voice wasn't loud, but it was enough for you to hear. The physician kept his eyes glued to the table containing countless bottles of medicinal herbs he had made himself throughout the centuries. Steady hands taking notes in a red notebook about your medical condition.

He turned slightly towards you. His brows furrowed slightly, as he leaned his arm against the table, resting his chin on the back of his hand. “You can leave,” coldly, gesturing you to the door as if he was giving up on you. Your medical condition... was incurable.