No Place for Saints

“This is Gil Fujisawa,” she said, her voice trembling, her face stricken with shock and grief. “We are standing outside the hospital where Aria Kingsley was announced dead two days ago.”

Behind her, fans gathered in silence, holding flowers, candles, and photographs of Aria.

“They’ve come together to hold a memorial in her honor,” Gil continued, struggling to maintain her composure. She paused, swallowing hard as she looked at the crowd. “I’m… I’m sorry,” she said, her voice breaking. “I can’t believe I’m reporting this. Is this really how we’re starting the new year? With Aria's death?”

Rina Kingsley burst out of the hospital doors, crying hysterically. Her steps faltered when she spotted John standing nearby in his suit, a bag hanging from his hand. Rage overtook her grief.

She rushed at him and slapped him hard across the face. “This is all your fault!” she screamed. “If she hadn’t left the jet, she’d still be alive!”

John didn’t move. He didn’t speak.

“You should be the one who’s dead!” Rina shouted, her voice cracking. She collapsed to her knees, clawing at her face, sobbing uncontrollably. “Aria… my little Ari…” she cried. “What am I supposed to do now? Where am I supposed to go? This pain—it’s killing me.”

Mei rushed forward, gently but firmly helping Rina to her feet. She guided her toward a waiting car. Rina didn’t stop murmuring Aria’s name as she was placed inside. The car pulled away moments later.

Gil turned back to the camera, her expression heavy. “That was Aria Kingsley’s sister and manager, Rina Kingsley,” she said softly. “Her condition speaks for itself.”

She took a breath before continuing. “As of now, Aria’s father, Samuel Kingsley, has neither visited the hospital nor issued any public statement regarding his daughter’s death.”

“Aria Kingsley’s body is currently being held by the police pending the autopsy report.”

Mei walked up to John, her expression tight with concern. “I thought I told you to go home and rest,” she said. “You haven’t slept in two days. You’ve been chain smoking. What is this, your second pack already?”

John replied coldly, his eyes red and hollow. “Third and I don’t need sleep.”

He reached into the bag and pulled out a plushie. “I just went home to get this. She left it there the last time she came over. I brought it back for her.” The Apchoo plushie trembled slightly in his hand.

Mei stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him. “I’m sorry,” she said softly. “I’m so sorry for what you’re going through.” Then she pulled back suddenly, her brow furrowing.

“I know you’re wearing your bulletproof vest,” she said slowly, “but I felt something else. What are you carrying, John?”

“My brother’s special forces knife,” he replied without hesitation. “I’m going to have a little chat with Vincent.”

Mei’s voice sharpened. “John—don’t do anything stupid. We’re putting together all the evidence and getting ready to make a move on them with the authorities. You must not do anything to jeopardize our plan now.”

She took a breath, steadying herself. “We were expecting that son of a bitch and he shot Aria from almost two kilometers away,” she said. “That’s about a mile and a quarter. What do you think will happen when he wants you to go after him.”

“I already know,” John said quietly. “And I’ve figured out who’s behind all of this. I still have missing pieces—but the face on the bigger picture is clear.”

Mei stared at him. “You do? Tell me? The director hasn't given me this info.”

John met her gaze. “I’m off duty right now. Remember?” Then, more softly: “Can I ask you for something? Can you lend me the agency car for a drive?”

“John, listen to me—”

“I’m not in the mood to listen to anyone anymore,” he cut in. “Please. Just give me the keys.”

Mei hesitated. Her jaw tightened. Finally, she reached into her pocket and handed them over.

“Just… don’t kill anyone,” she said quietly. “And don’t get yourself killed. For her sake.”

John took the keys. “Thanks, Mei. I appreciate it.” His voice cracked as he handed her the plushie. “Put this next to her. It was her favorite.” Without another word, he got into the car, waited for a moment then drove off.

Mei stood there, the plushie clutched in one hand. With the other, she pulled out her phone and dialed a number—watching the car disappear into the distance.

*****

John was driving toward Ryo’s apartment when Vincent lined him up through the sniper scope from Ryo's office window.

The shot rang out.

The bullet slammed into the windshield. The glass spider-webbed—but didn’t break through. John didn’t even flinch. He kept driving.

“Huh,” Vincent muttered. “Bulletproof car, huh? Johnny boy came prepared.”

Ryo sat hunched in the corner, biting his thumbnail. “You can take him out, right?”

“Maybe,” Vincent said with a grin, giving him a wink.

“Asshole,” Ryo muttered, staring down at his phone.

“Finish him, Vincent,” a voice ordered from the office chair behind them. “I don’t want to see him again.”

“Yes, boss,” Vincent replied calmly. He adjusted his position and fired again.

Two shots—front tires.

Then another round, angled through the bonnet vents. The engine coughed. Smoke began pouring from the hood. Still, the car didn’t slow down and John accelerated.

Vincent laughed softly as he tracked the speeding vehicle. “Oh… you’re stubborn.” He returned his aim to the windshield—the exact spot he’d hit before—and began firing rapidly. Bolt back. Forward. Fire. Again. And again.

John saw what he was doing. He lined the car straight with the apartment entrance, ducked low behind the steering wheel, and floored the gas.

Vincent kept shooting. Finally, the glass gave way.

One round punched through and tore into John’s left bicep. He grunted, blood soaking his sleeve. He tightened his seatbelt and curled into a fetal position, arms shielding his head—

The car broke through the entrance. Glass burst inward. The vehicle slammed into the lobby wall with a deafening crash.

Vincent stood up, slinging the rifle over his shoulder, laughing. “Johnny boy’s finally lost it. Drove straight into the building like it was nothing.” He swapped magazines smoothly. “I’ll cover the elevators and stairs,” he said. “If he comes up, I’ll drop him there.”

Vincent stepped toward Ryo and shoved a handgun into his shaking hands. “Take this.”

“I—I don’t—” Ryo stammered.

Vincent slapped him hard across the face. “Get a grip. If he gets past me and comes in here, you're the one who protects the boss.”

He jabbed a finger at the weapon. “This is the trigger. This is the safety and it's already off. You aim; you pull. Got it?”

Ryo swallowed, hands trembling. “Y-yeah… I’ve seen how it works in the movies.”

Vincent smirked. “Hope you’ve also seen the ones where weak people go to prison,” he said coldly. “Because that’s where you’re headed if he doesn’t kill you.”

As Vincent turned to leave, he glanced back once more. “And hey,” he added with a laugh, “don’t drop the soap.”

*****

In the lobby, John kicked the car door open.

The hinge snapped, and the door tore free, crashing onto the floor. John crawled out of the wreck, clutching his bleeding bicep as pain flared through his right ribs. He sucked in a sharp breath, steadying himself.

He ripped his shirt off, tore a strip from it, and wrapped it tightly around his arm. After pulling his coat back on, he drew the dagger into his hand.

Slowly, John moved toward the elevators. He pressed the button—then glanced at the stairwell beside it.

*****

On the top floor, Vincent was already waiting.

His rifle was trained on both the elevator doors and the stairwell, finger resting lightly on the trigger. He watched the elevator indicator with sharp focus.

Third floor. Back down to second. Then it began come up again.

Vincent adjusted his aim, centering it on the elevator doors.

The elevator stopped and the doors slid open. Inside stood a car door propped upright in the corner—something hidden behind it.

Vincent didn’t hesitate. He opened fire. Rounds slammed into the center of the door, tearing through metal and glass. He kept firing until the magazine clicked empty.

The elevator doors slid shut. Vincent reloaded quickly, breath controlled, eyes never leaving the doors.

Nothing. No movement from the stairwell. No sound from the elevator.

“You dead, Johnny boy?” Vincent muttered. “Did you die hiding behind that door?” He scoffed. “Don’t feel like talking after the missy’s death? Yeah… I wouldn’t either.”

He wiped sweat from his brow, peering through the scope. “Just want to make sure you’re really dead,” he growled.

Silence stretched. Seconds passed. Then more.

“Say something, goddamn it,” Vincent snapped, sweat now dripping down his forehead as tension crept into his voice.

Still nothing.

Finally, he rose slowly to his feet, rifle ready in his grip. One eye stayed on the stairwell as he approached the elevator, the other locked on the doors.

He pressed the call button. The doors slid open.

Vincent’s eyes snapped immediately to the car door—still standing where it had been. He nudged the car door with the barrel of his gun.

It shifted and he realized it was attached to a car seat. His eyes dropped.

A few dark drops of blood stained the elevator floor. Before he could look up—

The ceiling exploded downward. John burst through, driving his dagger deep into Vincent’s shoulder.

Vincent screamed as the blade sank in, but instinct kicked in. He pulled the trigger.

Bang.

The bullet tore into John’s thigh as he landed.

Vincent tried to shove him back, but John didn't let go and stayed close, twisting the dagger clockwise inside his shoulder.

Vincent fired again.

Bang.

The round punched through John’s foot. John staggered back half a step—

Vincent then slammed his head forward, headbutting him hard, and getting out of the elevator.

John snatched the car door off the elevator floor and charged, using it as a shield. Two shots rang out—both slammed harmlessly into the metal.

The rifle clicked empty and John hurled the door at Vincent and lunged.

Vincent yanked the dagger out of his own shoulder and swung it at John. John caught his wrist with one hand while grabbing the rifle barrel with the other but Vincent stomped down on John’s injured foot.

Pain exploded. That opening was enough for Vincent to drive the dagger into John’s right side.

Leaning close, Vincent whispered, breath hot against his ear. “Did you say goodbye to Aria while she was dying?” He smiled.

“That’s why I shot her in the chest instead of the head. You can’t call me cruel now.” A soft chuckle. “Who gives their victim time to say their final words to the one they love? I should call myself a saint.”

He leaned closer. “Saint Vincent Reed. Saint Angel Eyes.”

John lifted his head. His eyes were burning. His brows drawn tight with pure, unfiltered rage.

“You need to be dead to become a saint,” John growled. “I’ll help you with that.”

John shifted his weight and stomped down on Vincent’s left knee.

Crack.

Vincent screamed as the joint collapsed.

John ripped the dagger from his own side and slammed it into Vincent’s shoulder—then dragged it down, slicing through muscle all the way to his bicep.

Vincent’s left arm went dead.

He tried to lift the rifle with his right—

John grabbed his elbow and smashed him into the floor.

Crack.

The arm snapped.

Vincent tried to crawl away. John caught his right foot, pulled it back—

And sliced the tendons clean behind the knee.

Vincent collapsed, screaming, unable to move. He lay there, bleeding, helpless. “Fuck me…” Vincent rasped. “What did you cut? I can’t move my arm—or my leg.”

“I severed your deltoid, bicep, and quad,” John said, standing over him.

Vincent laughed weakly. “Fancy words for muscles.” He coughed. “Come on, then. Kill me. Push that dagger straight into my chest and finish it.”

John stared down at him without a word.

“What are you waiting for?” Vincent sneered. “Don’t act like some hero who spares the bad guy. If you don’t kill me now, I’ll make you regret it, Johnny boy. I swear to God.”

John finally spoke, his voice flat. “Even after everything you’ve done… I don’t feel like killing you.”

Vincent blinked.

“I don’t care whether you live or die.”

Vincent bared his teeth. “Then be ready. I’ll come back for you when you least expect it.”

“You talk too much,” John said. He glanced toward Ryo’s office—then stepped down hard on Vincent’s jaw, putting his full weight into it.

Crack.

“Yoo broge ma jawww—” Vincent slurred.

“And you still talk,” John replied.

“Fug you.”

John limped away, dagger clenched in his left hand, his right pressed against his bleeding side.

*****

John shoved the office door open and leaned against it, breathing hard.

Inside, Ryo stood with a handgun clenched in both shaking hands, aiming straight at him.

Behind the desk sat another figure—silent, unmoving.

John chuckled softly and dragged himself to the wall opposite them, resting his weight against it.

“Don’t move,” Ryo shouted. “I’ll shoot you.”

John reached into his pocket and pulled out a crushed pack of cigarettes. One left. He slipped it between his lips and lit it.

After a long drag, he spoke. “After two days of nonstop thinking… I figured It was you.”

Smoke curled from his mouth.

“But I prayed to God I was wrong.” He looked straight at the seated figure. “Well done. You played me. You played all of us. You even made me believe you actually cared about Aria.”

The room lights clicked on.