What Pain Leaves Behind

Vincent’s smile widened. “And isn’t keeping her away from pain your duty?”

“Only physical pain,” John replied coldly.

“Oh?” Vincent leaned closer. “But what if this kind of pain becomes so unbearable that she decides to…” He tilted his head. “Let’s just say—hurt herself.”

John’s jaw tightened.

What’s in that envelope? Could it help the case?

“Got nothing to say?” Vincent chuckled. “Figures. Then let’s have our match. If you win, I’ll show you what’s inside this envelope. You clearly have something to gain.”

“And if you win?” John asked.

“I need nothing from you. I just want to test my strength against you.”

John stood, shrugging off his coat, rolling up his sleeve.

“That’s it, Johnny boy,” Vincent said, removing his own coat. “I knew you’d care.”

They sat across from each other and planted their elbows on the table. Their hands clasped tightly, their free hands gripping the edge.

“On three,” Vincent said.

“One…”

“Three.”

Vincent pushed early, trying to cheat, but John was ready. Their arms locked in place, muscles straining.

“I knew you were strong,” Vincent said through clenched teeth. “That’s why I wanted this match—not because it was easy, but because it was a challenge.” His smile faded. “But no more games.” He pushed harder, forcing John’s arm down inch by inch. “Guess you’re not as tough as I thought,” Vincent sneered. “No wonder Dylan always had to cover for you.”

John’s grip tightened. His teeth ground together. With a sudden surge, he drove Vincent’s arm back until it slammed against the table.

The match was over.

“Damn,” Vincent muttered, shaking out his arm. “Fair’s fair.” He slid the envelope across the table. “Go on. Open it.”

John examined it. No stamps. No address. Just a handwriting: Pay 200K to the wallet below or all of them go online.

Ryo was being blackmailed…

John opened the envelope. His breath caught in his chest.

Inside were photos of Ryo Sera and Ai Kamazaki—more than the one that had leaked online. Them holding hands. Kissing. Entering a hotel together.

The paparazzi tried to blackmail him. Released one image, then hand-delivered the rest.

He didn’t know he was walking into a lion’s den.

“What happened to the sender?” John asked quietly. “The one who brought this.”

Vincent smirked. “Who knows?”

John put back the photos, his mind racing.

I don’t know if this ties Ryo to the case, but Aria needs to see this.

He stood to leave. Vincent’s hand shot out, gripping his wrist. His smile vanished, replaced by something cold. “I said I’d let you see it—not take it.”

They locked eyes. Then John struck.

He threw a punch. Vincent countered instantly, driving a kick into John’s stomach, shoving him back. The envelope slipped from John’s hand and hit the floor.

John dropped into a boxing stance. Vincent crouched low, shifting into a wrestler’s posture.

Vincent shot low, driving his shoulder into John’s waist and slamming him back into the desk. The wood cracked as papers and a monitor went flying.

John grunted but twisted, grabbing Vincent by the collar and ramming him face-first into a bookshelf. A wine bottle burst against the wall, spraying alcohol across the carpet.

Vincent laughed through it, elbowing John hard in the back. John staggered, grabbed the fallen monitor, and swung it. Vincent ducked just in time—the screen exploded against the wall behind him.

“Still predictable,” Vincent said, wiping blood from his eyebrow.

Outside the office, the music faltered. “Hey… what was that?” someone muttered beyond the door.

Inside, Vincent grabbed a desk lamp and smashed it into John, which he shattered using his elbow. He followed with a knee to Vincent’s stomach.

Vincent crashed into the chair, sending it skidding. He kicked it toward John, forcing him to step back, then rushed him and slammed him into the glass cabinet near the safe. The glass spiderwebbed but didn’t break.

Guests outside began to murmur.

“Is something going on in there?”

“Sounded like furniture breaking.”

John grabbed Vincent by the throat and drove him into the wall this time, the framed artwork falling and shattering at their feet. Vincent coughed, then slammed his forehead into John’s face. John staggered back, blood running from his nose.

Vincent said as he licked the blood on his lip, “I know about your past, John. I know what happened between you and your past missy—but don’t worry. I’m going to make sure you see this one breaking down.” He smiled wider. “Maybe I should collect her tears in a vial and send it to you. Something to remember her with.”

Rage consumed John. He rushed Vincent, tackled him to the floor, and locked his arm around Vincent’s neck, pulling him into a brutal chokehold.

“Yes… that’s it,” Vincent rasped. “Show me… the rage that—” Vincent’s voice cut off as his body went limp.

John released him instantly, rolling him aside and scrambling to his feet. He grabbed the envelope, yanked on his coat, and rushed out of the office—heart pounding, eyes scanning the party—

Looking for Aria.

*****

Aria was coming down the stairs, followed by Ryo with a bottle of water in each of his hands, when she heard John call her name.

She looked up.

John was pushing through the crowd toward her, his suit rumpled, his face bruised, dried blood smeared along his jaw. Guests turned, whispering. Phones lifted.

“Oh my God—John,” Aria said, rushing toward him. Her face fell as she took him in. “What happened?”

John stopped in front of her and held out an envelope. His voice was steady, but his eyes burned. “Look at this.”

Ryo’s expression shifted the instant he saw it. “Where did you get that?” he snapped, dropping the bottles, reaching for it. John stepped between them. “That was in my safe,” Ryo said, panic creeping into his voice. “You had no right—”

“Your bodyguard gave it to me. Take it up with him.” John answered.

Aria had already opened the envelope. She pulled out the photographs and slowly looked at them with no reaction. One by one, she dropped them to the floor. Guests leaned closer. Cameras clicked.

Then she reached the last image. Her hand stilled. Her head lowered.

Ryo’s face drained of color. “Aria, my love—listen to me. These are fake. AI generated. Someone’s trying to ruin us. They don’t want to see us together.”

She didn’t respond.

The murmuring grew louder. Media members rushed forward, snapping photos of the images scattered at their feet.

“You know,” Aria said with a low voice, “every time you did something that hurt me, I would justify it to myself.”

“You flirted with other women. I told myself you were trying to grow your network.

You only hold my hand and kiss me when cameras were around. I told myself it was part of your image.

He never wanted to hear what I had to say—but I always reassured him, well… at least I know he is true to me.”

Slowly, Aria lifted her head. Tears flooded her eyes as her voice cracked. “I guess I was wrong,” she whispered. “What a fool I am.”

“Aria, please,” Ryo said desperately. “Let me explain—this isn’t what it looks like.”

She threw the jewelry set at his feet, then she slipped the ring off her finger and flung it at his chest. “I don’t want to hear another word from you.” She turned to John. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Let’s go. I don’t want to be here anymore.”

Ryo lunged for her arm but John moved faster. One sharp punch to Ryo’s chest knocked the air from him. He collapsed to his knees beside the scattered photos, the ring clenched in his palm.

Vincent staggered into view, still unsteady from the fight. As he got to Ryo, him and John locked eyes once more before the elevator doors closed on them.

Inside the elevator, Aria’s hands trembled and her head was bowed. John watched her for a moment.

I'm sorry Aria, I tried to save you from that pain; by showing you the pictures sooner but the truth was always going to hurt you, regardless of its timing.

The doors opened. “I’m here,” John said quietly as he held her hand, guiding her toward the car.

Once inside, he draped his coat over her head. “Don't let the emotions bottle up. Cry as much as you want. No one can see your face with the coat on.” Her fingers clutched the fabric. “Thank you,” she whispered, her voice shaking.

As they drove away, the silence shattered. She sobbed—hard, broken sounds, like a child. “Someone’s trying to kill me. My best friend is dead. My other friends and media jornos saw the photos of my fiancé cheating on me. I hate this miserable life. I don’t want it anymore. I want to die.”

John’s hands tightened on the steering wheel. His chest felt heavy.

I always hated the sound of a woman crying, but why am I getting emotional about this? Why did I got so angry about the idea of Aria getting sad? Why do I feel so attached to her?

I’m just her bodyguard. But my heart doesn’t seem to understand that anymore.