The rain fell in sheets over New York City, relentless and merciless. The pavement gleamed like black glass, and the neon lights of the closed bars and clubs cast an otherworldly glow over empty streets. Silence hung thick, broken only by the occasional rumble of a distant train or the roar of thunder overhead. Somewhere in the shadows, John Wick watched and waited.
He was a ghost. His name was spoken in whispers, a myth that drifted through the criminal underworld—a man made of nightmares, born of loss, anger, and sharpened skill. The Baba Yaga. Once, he had tried to leave it all behind, a love born from the promise of a second chance. He had carved out a semblance of peace, filling the hollow spaces in his heart with memories of her. But fate, brutal as a broken bone, had torn that peace away.
Now, there was only the job. The contract. A target who’d danced too close to death for too long, out of luck and out of time. John could feel the weight of his old life settling on his shoulders like a well-worn coat. The quiet patience that had kept him hidden these last few months was gone, replaced by something familiar—a hunger, a resolve. There was no need to ask if he was ready. He'd been born for this.
At the edge of his sight, movement—a figure flitted from one shadow to the next, fast and careful. But he knew their steps, the rhythm of their breaths. An assassin from the High Table, sent to put an end to him once and for all. The mark was his, but they'd try to collect their dues in blood and bone if it meant keeping him in line.
They hadn’t learned, even now. The High Table believed in rules, in the weight of power held through fear. But they didn’t understand that some things couldn’t be controlled. That once a man like John Wick was set free, he became a force. A storm.
Lightning flashed, illuminating the city skyline, casting long shadows in the alleyway where he stood. His fingers brushed the holster at his side, steady as stone. They were coming, one after another, and he knew they would never stop. Not until one of them lay dead.
He closed his eyes for a brief moment, a single, silent prayer for a peace he knew he would never find.
Then John Wick stepped out of the shadows, his purpose written in fire and steel.
There would be no rest for the wicked tonight.
