The sound of gunfire echoed through the abandoned warehouse, sharp and clean like glass breaking in a quiet room. John Wick moved through the shadows, silent as smoke, his pistol raised, eyes narrowed, searching. He’d come to know the pulse of this life too well—the edge of anticipation, the tension in his muscles as he braced for the moment of impact.
He slipped past rows of rusted machinery, forgotten relics of an industry long gone, all swallowed by layers of dust. Overhead, shattered windows leaked moonlight onto the concrete floor, casting fractured shapes on walls pockmarked with bullet holes. This was supposed to be a simple job—find the mark, eliminate the threat, disappear back into the night. But nothing was ever simple anymore.
They had sent five men after him tonight. Five seasoned killers, all primed to become nothing more than shadows in his path. The High Table was running out of patience, and so were the nameless faces they hired to take him down. They’d come in waves, mercenaries from the far reaches of the world, each one certain they could be the one to kill the Baba Yaga.
As he ducked behind a stack of crates, John took a deep breath, steadying himself. One of them was close—he could hear the soft scrape of boots against concrete, the whisper of a silencer being screwed onto a barrel. He didn’t even need to see the man; his instincts told him everything he needed to know. They were all predictable, these men with guns and grudges, playing out the same story over and over. None of them understood what it meant to live with death on your back, close as a second skin.
His fingers brushed over the stock of his pistol, a smooth gesture, rehearsed a thousand times. He rounded the corner and fired without hesitation. The man’s face registered shock for a split second before he collapsed, lifeless, onto the floor. Wick barely glanced at him. He knew there would be four more.
A voice crackled over his earpiece, one of the only lifelines he’d come to trust. “John, two more coming in from the west entrance,” came the low, calm voice of Winston, his oldest friend in this ruthless world. “They know you’re here.”
“Let them,” John muttered, moving toward the west entrance. He could picture Winston back at the Continental, sitting in his high-backed leather chair, watching this all unfold with that unreadable look in his eyes. John wasn’t sure if it was pity, concern, or something else entirely, but he didn’t dwell on it. He couldn’t afford to.
He was halfway to the door when he spotted movement at the edge of his vision—a flicker, a shift. The next two men were faster, more coordinated than the first, moving in synchronization, guns drawn, backs to each other. John exhaled, sinking low, blending into the darkness. They were cautious but confident, sweeping the room as they advanced.
Good, he thought. A challenge.
Without a sound, he moved closer, every step deliberate. He waited until they were a few feet away before he sprang forward, a blur of precise violence. His pistol found its mark twice before the men had a chance to register his presence. One fell instantly; the other fired, but missed, his bullet ricocheting off metal.
The second man barely had time to react before John closed the distance, twisting the gun from his grip with a flick of his wrist. Wick delivered a crushing blow to the man’s throat, watching as he staggered, gasping, before finishing him with a swift shot to the head. He didn’t linger, didn’t look down. Each step forward was an exorcism, a release of the old ghosts that haunted him.
And there it was—a voice from the darkened hallway ahead, low and mocking. “Wick. You just couldn’t stay away, could you?”
He recognized it instantly: Anatoli, one of the High Table’s favored hunters. They’d crossed paths before, back when John had first tried to retire. But there was no animosity in his voice—just amusement, as if they were old colleagues meeting for drinks, not killers who had been trying to end each other’s lives for years.
John let the silence stretch, his footsteps echoing as he moved into the open. “You know why I’m here,” he replied. His voice was steady, devoid of anger. There was no need for rage; he was past that. This was his work. His fate.
Anatoli stepped out of the shadows, his own gun gleaming under the faint light. He was taller than John, leaner, his suit dark as oil and eyes as cold as winter. “The High Table will never stop, you know,” he said. “They’ll hunt you until the day you drop.”
“Maybe,” John answered, his voice barely more than a whisper. “But so will I.”
Anatoli’s smile was sharp, his eyes glittering. “Then let’s make it interesting.”
They stood still, sizing each other up, two apex predators circling in the quiet. The city beyond the walls rumbled, unaware of the war waging in its forgotten corners. To John, this was no different from any other night, any other kill. It was all part of the relentless, endless cycle. But tonight, he felt something else. A deeper pull, a question that had begun to gnaw at him from the inside out.
How long could he keep doing this?
Anatoli’s hand twitched. Wick saw it, felt the tension in his own muscles react, his heartbeat steady, his fingers curling around the grip of his pistol. He’d come this far. He wouldn’t stop now.
An instant later, both men lunged.
In the silence of the city, the gunshots rang out like thunder.
