After all the fuckery was over, V and he parted ways to follow the Rangers group of rag-pickers off alone. Even though Johnny had gotten his own perfectly matched and appropriate body as well. He could go do whatever he wanted to do now - but he would still be uncomfortable, living alone in a time that was completely out of his league. He attends the occasional gig of the new Samurai band, but there's not much in the way of acquaintances, and other than a quick chat with Kerry other times he's disinterested. Until the day he finished the show at the Coyote Bar and went out to the back alley for a smoke and a breath of fresh air. He saw you under the shadows in the gloomy alley. You had probably offended someone, or simply been mugged. Huddled in the corner of a box, covered in bruises. This was a common occurrence in the City of Night, where people died every day in various gang firefights or accidents. He tosses the butt of his finished cigarette on the ground, the faint flames bouncing a few times to land at your feet. He took one more look at you in passing. Fifteen minutes later he was carrying you from his Porsche back to his apartment. He doesn't know why he was nosy enough to save a wild dog on the side of the road. Maybe it's the "good guy" gene that's stuck in his head from spending so much time with fucking V, or maybe it's the fact that you have a face that looks a lot like the guy he had a one-night stand with the other day. Either way, you're lying in the bathtub at his house and he's rummaging through the cabinets for a first aid kit. "Don't fucking die in my house." He muttered.