Kissed by the Killer

Chapter Twenty-Two: Splintered but Standing. Vincent Virenson. The outskirts of the city never felt so quiet, yet so loaded with tension. My movie setup stretched across the abandoned warehouse lot, lights flickering in the dusk, the smell of dust and celluloid mixing with the metallic tang of adrenaline. It was supposed to be my sanctuary-my way to escape, to focus-but my mind refused to obey. Every shadow felt like a threat, every creak of the scaffolding a harbinger of betrayal. After everything that had happened with Marco and Caroline, I could no longer trust a soul, yet here I was, surrounded by my own illusions of control. I ran a hand through my hair, flexing my fingers against the familiar ache of my shoulder from the sniper's bullet. Pain was nothing new. But guilt-guilt had a way of sticking like glue. And Violet's face kept flashing across my mind, her tears, her whispered "I choose you," her defiance that had shattered every ounce of pride I thought I had. I moved among the props, checking the cameras, the angles, the lights. Every detail mattered. This was my domain, my world where I could decide what happened next. And yet, even here, even among lights and reels, I felt... vulnerable. A laugh broke my concentration. I turned sharply, expecting an intruder, but it was only Daigo, grinning like a mischievous imp. "You sure this is about making movies, boss? Or are you just planning to brood dramatically while everyone pretends they understand your genius?" I narrowed my eyes. "I am brooding dramatically, thank you. And it's called method acting." "Method acting for whom?" he teased. "Because your leading lady is probably hiding behind the nearest bush, crying over your... heroic bleeding." I scowled, rubbing my temple. "Don't remind me. That girl..." My voice caught, rough with the memory of her lips on mine, the desperation in her gaze. "...she's a storm I didn't anticipate." Daigo chuckled. "Storms are fun. Until they wreck your set." I glared. "This isn't a set to wreck. This is control. Something I need more than air." And yet, I felt none of it. I checked the cameras again, fiddling with the dials. Each shot I framed, each angle I adjusted, was a reminder: I could control the story here. Out there? Not so much. Out there, chaos reigned, Caroline plotted, Dominic flitted around like a virus, and Violet... Violet was caught in the crossfire, stronger than she knew, yet fragile in ways I couldn't fix. I closed my eyes and let my mind drift to something simpler, something human. Movies. Old films. The way light fell on a face, the quiet intimacy of a shared laugh, the tension of a scene building like electricity in the air. I should've known she'd enter my thoughts-she always did. Violet. The girl who refused to be caged, who kissed me in the midst of chaos as if daring the world to stop us. I opened my eyes to see the cameras flicker, the sound of the old film reel whirring, and I allowed myself a small, private smirk. Maybe this was my penance, maybe my chance to create something that mattered outside the battlefield. "Boss," Daigo said, voice unusually serious now, "you planning to eat, sleep, or brood all day?" I grunted. "Brooding is a full-time job." "Full-time," he repeated. "Right. Just don't forget there's a girl out there who actually... y'know... cares about whether you live or die." My hand tightened on the control lever. I felt my chest tighten, but I refused to succumb to weakness. Weakness had a price, and I'd already paid enough. Then, from the corner of my eye, I saw it: a film reel, dusty and forgotten, labelled in spidery handwriting. "Weekends with Dad," it read. I froze. My pulse stuttered as memories came rushing back, unbidden. Violet. Her dad. The old Saturday mornings, the projector's hum, the smell of buttered popcorn filling the small living room, the way she'd snuggle against him, completely lost in black-and-white worlds where nothing hurt. I swallowed hard. How fragile she had been then. How fierce she was now. And how much danger she would be in if I allowed the shadows of my past to follow me here. Daigo noticed my pause. "Boss... you good?" I nodded, a lie so automatic it felt like a reflex. "Yeah. Just... setting up the perfect shot." But I knew better. This wasn't about shots or reels. It was about redemption, about proving-to her, to me-that even in a world splintered by betrayal and blood, we could still stand. I walked over to the old projector and dusted it off, fingers trembling. "I'm not letting the past dictate what's left of the future," I muttered to myself, almost like a prayer. "Not for her. Not for me." A sudden clatter of equipment made me spin. Daigo rolled his eyes. "Careful, boss. If you drop that reel, you'll literally have splinters for breakfast." I smirked despite myself. "Then let it be breakfast." Because, somehow, amidst the lights, the dust, and the memories, I realized something crucial: Splintered as we were, we were still standing. And standing wasn't enough-I intended to thrive. --- Violet Virgilson. The outskirts smelled like dust, sun-baked asphalt, and memories that weren't entirely mine. Yet the sight of the movie set made my heart twist, a strange pull of nostalgia that I hadn't expected. I stopped at the edge, watching Vincent move among the cameras, so focused, so alive. And for the first time in days, I let myself breathe. When did you discover this , I asked Vicent, pointing at the screen I just got back from jail and I was bored, so I decided to do something meaningful with my time, he responded. Then it hit me-my childhood, the old Saturday mornings with my dad. He'd set up the tiny projector in our living room, buttered popcorn in hand, a mischievous grin that promised worlds far beyond our small town. I remembered the black-and-white films, the crackle of celluloid, the way the room smelled of popcorn and happiness. I swallowed hard. It hurt. Nostalgia never failed to do that. "Violet?" Vincent's voice called from across the set, pulling me back to the present. I walked toward him, trying to mask the swirl of emotion with a casual smile. "Just... looking." "Looking," he repeated, eyes narrowing, a teasing smirk forming. "You mean spying on me while I brood dramatically?" I rolled my eyes. "Dramatic brooding seems to be your default setting. Honestly, I'm impressed you can still focus on movie-making at all." He laughed, a low, rough sound that made my heart skip despite my efforts to remain detached. "Impressive, huh? I'll take that as praise." "Praise, sure," I said, sidestepping a tripod with exaggerated care. "Don't think I'm letting you off easy because I'm sentimental. Memories are dangerous, you know." "Memories?" he asked, stepping closer, and I could feel the heat from his body even from a distance. "What memories could possibly be dangerous?" I hesitated, then shrugged. "Childhood ones. Old films. My dad. You know... the usual trauma disguised as weekend joy." He tilted his head, studying me. "Your father?" I nodded. "Yeah... he used to make me watch these black-and-white films every Saturday. Popcorn. Soda. The works. It was... sacred." Vincent's lips twitched. "Sounds like torture." I laughed, the sound brittle but genuine. "Torture that I secretly loved." He stepped closer. "You're still standing, Violet. That little girl who clung to the projector's light... she's here. Watching me brood, judging my dramatic flair. She's survived." I felt heat rush to my cheeks. "I'm not here to survive, Vincent. I'm here to live. And maybe... tease you while I do it." He grinned. "Fair enough. But..." His voice softened, almost dangerously low, "seeing you here, remembering your dad... makes me wish I could've been there too. Protecting you from the shadows, not just from me." The words struck a chord I couldn't hide. "Vincent... some shadows are worth facing. Some memories are worth keeping. And some... some people are worth standing with, no matter how splintered the world feels." He reached for my hand, brushing it lightly. The warmth was grounding, terrifying, exhilarating. "Then stand with me, Violet. Stand with me, splintered and all. We can face this... whatever this is... together." I let him hold my hand, feeling the pull of the past, the chaos of the present, and a tentative hope for the future. Because maybe, just maybe, amidst splintered hearts, betrayal, and bullets, we were still standing. And maybe... that was enough to start building something unbreakable.