12: Good Night, Sweet Prince
Vincent reclines in the plush comfort of his penthouse, savoring the aromatic steam rising from his chai. His eyes wander lazily over the cityscape before him, a vista of glittering lights and noisy streets far below, illuminated by the moon up above. What an enchanting evening, Vincent muses.
As he sips his drink, Vincent can feel the rich blend of spices and flavors that dance across his palate. He has always had a fondness for fine drinks, a weakness he readily indulges whenever the opportunity arises.
However, it is not just the taste that Vincent enjoys—it is the ritual of slowing down and savoring the moment, even amid his busy crime life. In a world filled with chaos and uncertainty, there is something comforting about the simple pleasure of a well-crafted beverage.
As he sits there, lost in thought and the gentle warmth of his chai, Vincent knows that he should be vigilant. Danger lurks around every corner, and his enemies are always watching, waiting for an opportunity to strike.
But for now, in this moment of quiet solitude, Vincent allows himself to forget about the threats that loom on the horizon. With his chai in hand and the city spread out before him, he feels a sense of peace wash over him, however fleeting it may be. And as he takes another sip of his drink, he is grateful—grateful for the simple joys that make life worth living, even in the face of uncertainty.
Vincent suddenly feels the need to go to the washroom. He quickly flees to solve the problem.
. . .
[flush]
Vincent returns from the washroom, strolling to the comfort of his penthouse. But as he enters the room, he notices something peculiar—the lights are off, casting the space into shadow. A playful smirk tugs at the corners of Vincent's lips as he realizes. It seems that someone has decided to play a little prank on him.
Vincent chuckles softly as he moves through the darkness, navigating the familiar space by memory alone. There is something strangely exhilarating about the darkness, a sense of mystery and anticipation that thrills him to his core.
With each step, Vincent feels a sense of energy coursing through him, his mind alight with the possibilities of what awaits him in the shadows. He knows that he should be cautious, that danger could lurk around any corner, but for now, he allows himself to revel in the moment's excitement.
As he reaches for the light switch, Vincent feels a sense of anticipation building within him. What surprises await him in the darkness?
[click]
Let there be light.
Slash.
The Guardian's sickle slices through the air in a graceful arc, finding its mark as it slashes Vincent’s chest, leaving an upward spray of red. A sharp intake of breath escapes his lips as he staggers backward, blood staining his shirt as he struggles to stay on his feet.
Vincent's voice is strained, his words tinged with pain as he speaks. "Have we met before?" he barely manages to gasp out, his eyes searching the assassin's face for recognition.
The Guardian remains silent as they watch Vincent's form weaken.
"I hope you could, at least, lemme enjoy some chai first before…” Blood sputters out of Vincent’s mouth, “ damn … this hurts…"
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With a swift, effortless motion, The Guardian delivers the final blow, their sickle slicing through Vincent with a finality that quakes the earth. Vincent's words fade into the darkness as he falls, his life slipping away with each passing moment.
The Guardian turns away from Vincent's mangled form, leaving behind nothing but the last resonance of his voice as they disappear into the night, a silent sentinel in the shadows.
Vincent's life ebbs away. His thoughts drift to what might have been.
Perhaps, in another life, we could have enjoyed this over a cup of tea, Vincent stares into the darkness, his thoughts a wistful whisper that hangs in the air like a fragile thread connecting him to the world he is about to leave behind.
But as the darkness encircles him, Vincent knows that such thoughts are nothing more than wishful thinking, a fanciful notion born of desperation and regret. In the end, the reality of his fate is unavoidable, and there is no turning back the hands of time.
"Goddamn it, Jack," Vincent mutters. "You and I never had our final showdown..."
With his last breath, Vincent lets go of the fleeting dreams of what might have been, embracing the inevitability of his fate. As he slips into the void, he finds solace in the knowledge that even in death, there is still a glimmer of hope for redemption and forgiveness, a faint echo of rebirth into another life.
Where, perhaps, anyone can survive without being the strongest.
***
Jack stands amidst the chaos, his heart heavy with disbelief as he surveys the carnage that surrounds him. SIA agents rush past him to secure the scene and gather evidence.
Between Vincent's penthouse and mansion, the aftermath of a brutal massacre unfolds before Jack's eyes. The bodies of more than sixty people—all Vincent's henchmen—lie scattered about, their remains mangled and destroyed beyond recognition. Blood paints the floors and walls, and the air is heavy with the metallic tang of death.
Jack slowly takes in the scene, his mind racing through a million questions. Who did this? And why? The cut traces left behind resemble those of a farming tool, suggesting a methodical and calculated approach to the slaughter.
But as Jack looks closer, he realizes that this is no ordinary crime scene. The precision and brutality of the attacks speak to a level of skill and expertise that is beyond anything he has encountered before. Whoever is responsible for this massacre is not to be underestimated.
With a sense of determination burning in his chest, Jack knows that he must uncover the truth behind this horrific crime. Lives have been lost, and justice demands answers. As he watches the SIA agents work tirelessly to piece together the puzzle before them, Jack vows to leave no stone unturned in his quest for the truth.
"Sir, should we burn the bodies?" a field agent asks.
Jack listens to the SIA agent's question, his brow furrowed in thought as he considers the best course of action. The temptation to dispose of the bodies quickly and quietly is strong, but Jack knows that even in death, these men deserve a measure of dignity and respect.
"No," Jack replies firmly. "We shall bury them, for even sinful souls deserve rest."
With that decision made, Jack instructs the SIA agents to prepare for the task ahead. Together, they work diligently to gather the bodies and transport them to a nearby burial site, where they are laid to rest with all the solemnity and reverence befitting them.
As the last shovel of dirt is placed upon the freshly dug graves, Jack stands in silent tribute to the lives that have been lost. In death, they are no longer enemies, but human beings whose lives were cut short by senseless violence.
As Jack looks upon the rows of graves, he vows to continue the fight for justice, not just for the victims of this massacre, but for all those who have suffered at the hands of crime and corruption. With each passing day, he is cruelly reminded of the importance of his work, and the responsibility he bears to ensure the safety of his beloved home.
With a final nod of respect to the fallen, Jack turns away from the gravesite, his resolve strengthened by the knowledge that even in the darkest of times, there is still hope for redemption and justice. And with that hope burning bright within him, he sets out once more, determined to make a difference in the world, one step at a time.
***
As the sun sets on the horizon, casting long shadows over the cemetery, a poppy rests upon Vincent's grave. Its vibrant red petals stand out against the backdrop of freshly turned earth.
Etched cleanly into the surface of the poppy are words. "From Jack. Enjoy your time in hell, and may we meet again."
In death, Vincent may have found peace, but his legacy lives on in the hearts and minds of those who knew him, for better or for worse.
As the wind whispers to the trees and the clouds, the lone poppy still stands, even in a world torn apart by violence and strife.
In the end, it is not just the battles we fight that define us, but the way we choose to honor the memory of those we have lost, for even the dead have plenty to teach the living.