Vincent Moretti was never a good man.
He was not misunderstood.
He was not broken in some poetic way.
He was cruel because he enjoyed cruelty.
Pain amused him.
Fear entertained him.
Power was the only thing he respected.
Even as a boy in Naples, he learned quickly that hurting first meant surviving longer.
But unlike others, Vincent didn't just survive.
He liked it.
He liked watching people beg.
He liked seeing hope die in their eyes.
He liked proving that mercy was for fools.
By the time he came to Brooklyn, he had already buried whatever little humanity he may have had.
Drugs.
Trafficking.
Extortion.
Murder.
Every scream built his empire.
And when he met Mark Jensen, he saw exactly what he always looked for—
someone desperate enough to control.
A poor kid.
A sick mother.
A baby sister.
Perfect.
Vincent didn't ruin Mark because he had to.
He ruined him because he could.
And when Mark tried to escape—
Vincent smiled.
Because hope breaking was always his favorite part.
He shot Elena.
He shot baby Sofia.
Then he made Mark suffer for thirty days knowing they were already dead.
That wasn't business.
That was pleasure.
That was Vincent.
—
Years later, Vincent was fifty-two.
Still rich.
Still feared.
Still evil.
But something was wrong.
His empire was collapsing.
Money disappearing.
Men vanishing.
Deals falling apart.
And every whisper carried the same impossible name.
Mark.
At first Vincent laughed.
He had put a bullet in Mark Jensen's head himself.
He remembered it clearly.
The blood.
The silence.
The satisfaction.
Dead men stayed dead.
But the attacks kept coming.
Precise.
Personal.
Someone knew him too well.
Someone hated him too deeply.
One rainy night, Vincent stood on the rooftop of Saint, his nightclub, staring over Brooklyn.
Behind him came footsteps.
He didn't turn.
"If you're here to beg," Vincent said, "save your breath."
A voice answered:
"You never did recognize your own ghosts."
Vincent turned.
And there he was.
Mark.
Alive.
Standing in the rain like judgment itself.
Vincent stared for a long moment.
Then he smiled.
Slowly.
"Well… that is interesting."
Mark stepped closer.
"You should've made sure."
Vincent chuckled.
"No. I think this is better."
He reached for the gun in his coat—
Bang.
The bullet tore through his chest.
Vincent staggered.
Looked down.
Blood.
His blood.
Mark lowered the pistol.
"No speech this time."
Vincent coughed, laughing through it.
"Still angry…"
He stumbled backward toward the ledge.
Rain hit his face.
Brooklyn lights blurred beneath him.
And for the first time in his life—
Vincent Moretti felt fear.
Not guilt.
Fear.
Because for once—
he wasn't in control.
He looked at Mark.
And Mark's eyes held nothing.
No mercy.
No hesitation.
Only justice.
Vincent slipped.
Fell.
The city rushed upward.
And then—
Darkness.
—
White.
Silence.
Stillness.
Vincent opened his eyes and stood in an endless white field.
No blood.
No pain.
Just emptiness.
He looked around once.
Then sighed.
"Well. Either hell got boring, or I'm being inconvenienced."
A voice behind him answered:
"You are dead, Vincent Moretti."
He turned.
Ai stood there.
Calm.
Cold.
Unimpressed.
Vincent smirked.
"And you must be the welcoming committee."
Ai looked at him the way one looks at something unpleasant stuck to a shoe.
"When Mark arrived here, he brought grief."
She stepped closer.
"When you arrived, even silence seemed offended."
Vincent smiled wider.
"Then I'm making an impression."
Inside, Ai was already exhausted.
She had seen monsters before.
But most monsters lied.
They cried.
They begged.
They pretended regret.
Vincent did none of that.
He stood in death exactly as he stood in life—
arrogant.
Cruel.
Unashamed.
Ai hated him instantly.
Not because he was evil.
But because he enjoyed it.
"Do you feel remorse?" she asked.
Vincent shrugged.
"For winning?"
"For murdering."
"For suffering."
"For Mark."
Vincent tilted his head.
"Mark was useful. Then he became inconvenient."
Ai's eyes sharpened.
"And his mother? His sister?"
Vincent answered flatly:
"Collateral."
Even The Middle seemed colder.
Ai wanted, for one brief moment, to simply erase him.
But rules were rules.
Everyone faced the trial.
Even devils.
—
The Trial of The Middle did not care for excuses.
Vincent stood surrounded by every life he destroyed.
Mothers crying.
Children starving.
Men dying in alleys.
Women begging.
Ghosts.
Thousands of them.
And at the center—
Elena Jensen.
Holding Sofia.
Mark's mother.
Mark's sister.
They stood before him in silence.
Elena asked softly:
"Do you remember us?"
Vincent answered:
"Yes."
"Do you remember killing us?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
Vincent looked directly at her.
"Because your son disappointed me."
No apology.
No shame.
Just cruelty.
Even the ghosts recoiled.
Ai watched carefully.
This was the truth of him.
Not a damaged man.
A willing monster.
Elena's voice trembled.
"My son suffered for us."
Vincent nodded.
"I know."
"Did you enjoy it?"
He smiled.
"Yes."
Silence.
Heavy.
Awful.
Ai's hands clenched.
Even she felt anger.
Elena asked one final question:
"Are you sorry?"
Vincent stepped closer.
And said the most honest thing he had ever spoken.
"No."
The white void trembled.
Because truth mattered here.
Not goodness.
Truth.
Vincent was evil.
But he did not lie about it.
He accepted it.
Owned it.
Wore it proudly.
Ai hated that honesty was enough.
But the laws of The Middle were older than her anger.
Finally, she said:
"Vincent Moretti… you have passed."
He blinked once.
Then laughed.
"Unbelievable."
Ai's voice turned sharp as steel.
"Do not mistake this for forgiveness."
He smiled.
"I never asked for forgiveness."
She stepped closer.
"If reborn, what would you do differently?"
He answered instantly.
"I would kill Mark sooner."
Ai stared at him.
Of course.
Of course that was your answer.
Not growth.
Not reflection.
Just sharper cruelty.
The universe itself seemed to sigh.
Still—
a second chance was earned.
Not because he was good.
But because he faced truth without cowardice.
Ai extended her hand reluctantly.
"Take it."
Vincent took it with a grin.
"Tell me something—does Mark know I'm coming?"
Ai's silence was answer enough.
Light exploded around them.
As Vincent vanished into rebirth, she gave him one final warning:
"Be careful, Vincent."
His voice echoed through the light:
"No."
And he disappeared.
Ai stood alone in the white silence.
Her final thought was cold.
Mark returned for revenge.
Vincent returned to finish what he started.
And one day—
those two storms would meet again.
—
Which led to that warehouse.
That moment.
That smile.
Vincent standing beneath the hanging light, older again, staring at Mark.
And saying the words that made the world stop.
"You think you're the only one who got a second chance?"