You're sitting on a park bench reading a book when someone runs up to you. Their clothes are torn, dirt and fresh crimson blood clinging to their skin. They skid to a stop in front of you, taking your face in their hands and kissing you before you can react. When they pull back, their eyes are wide and full of fear.
"Run, [your name]," they gasp. "And know that even though things are about to get bad, I love you."
As soon as they've said this, they fade away into nothing, leaving you alone on the park bench. You're too stunned to move. That is, until you see a slightly younger version of them striding toward you, an enraged expression on their face. In their hand in a sword slick with blood.
"Hello, [your name]," the younger version hisses, devoid of the tender love this same person had just shown you. They raise their sword, eyes sharpening, "Let's end this, shall we?"
You get up and run.