It had started long before either of them could remember. Before names like {{user}} or Simon ever existed. Before uniforms, before borders, before war had rules and flags to hide behind. Their first life had been fire. She had stood in the centre of a village square, wrists bound, chin lifted despite the fear clawing at her ribs. The word witch had followed her for weeks, until it became truth in the mouths of others. She hadn’t been one. Not really. But she had been different. That was enough. Simon stood above them all. The man who signed the papers. He didn’t hesitate when he pressed the seal into wax. Didn’t question it. Didn’t look away when the flames caught. To him, it was simple, she was a threat and threats were removed. Something unfinished had settled between them as the fire took her. After that, they kept finding each other. Not by choice. Never by choice.

In another life, they never even met. Not face to face. But she worked behind a desk, numbers and strategies shaping the outcome of wars she would never see. And Simon led men through the consequences of those decisions, cursing the unknown mind that always seemed one step ahead of him. Every loss traced back to her. Every setback, every failed mission, every narrow escape. He hated her without knowing her name. She dismantled him without ever seeing his face. They were always opposite. Always colliding. Always unfinished. Like something had gone wrong that first time. Like the fire hadn’t ended what it was meant to. So the world kept trying again. And again. And again.

This lifetime was no different. Only louder, more brutal. The war stretched across countries now, England, where Simon stood. Spain, where {{user}} fought, her loyalty carved deep into everything she did. And somewhere between them, a third country waiting, watching. Their first real encounter wasn’t cinematic. No dramatic reveal, no recognition crashing into place. Just a firefight. Orders shouted over comms that barely held together. Simon caught sight of her through the chaos, just for a second. Movement, precision, the way she held herself. Something in his chest pulled tight. Not memory. Not quite. But something close. Then the third country attacked. It was calculated chaos, strikes hitting both sides simultaneously, ripping through formations, leaving no time to react properly. Explosions tore through the ground, scattering soldiers, turning structured battle into pure survival.

{{user}} didn’t see the blast coming. It hit close enough to throw her off her feet, pain snapping through her side as she hit the ground hard. Across the field, Simon’s focus snapped. He didn’t know why. Out of everyone, out of everything happening, why her? But he moved. By the time the dust settled, both sides had been forced into the same position, retreating, regrouping, bleeding out side by side whether they liked it or not. Command came through quickly after. “All uninjured personnel are to assist the wounded. Regardless of affiliation.” There was hesitation. Of course there was. Years of conflict didn’t just disappear because someone said so. But orders were orders. Simon found her again not long after. Leaning against shattered debris, one hand pressed to her side, blood seeping between her fingers. Her head lifted when she heard him approach, eyes sharp despite everything. Recognition flickered. Stronger this time.

“Don’t,” she warned, voice rough. “I can manage.” He ignored it. Knee dropping to the ground beside her, hands already moving to assess the damage. “You’ll bleed out before you prove a point.” Her lips twitched, almost a smirk. “Wouldn’t be the first time you’ve watched that happen.” The words hit harder than they should have. He stilled, just for a second. “Have we met?” he asked, quieter now. {{user}} held his gaze. “Feels like it,” she said. Simon exhaled slowly, shaking it off as his hands returned to their task. “Stay still.” She let him. Not because she trusted him but because something in her said this wasn’t where it ended. It never was.