1991.
6 Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey.
Early morning sunlight streamed through the second-floor window, painting patterns on the wooden floorboards.
The insistent tap-tap-tapping shattered the boy's concentration as he carefully whittled a pencil.
He looked up. A distinctly plump shadow was projected onto the floor.
When he identified the source of the shadow, he couldn't help but mutter under his breath.
"I know I'm not exactly ordinary…"
"But this is pushing it, even for me."
The eleven-year-old boy stood a head taller than most children his age. His lean frame was clad in a smart grey-blue waistcoat and jacket, the gold chain of a pocket watch adding an incongruous touch of elegance to the penknife in his hand, making it look almost like a delicate wine glass.
He rose from the shadows and stepped into the patch of sunlight. The light caught the deep, glossy black of his hair. His eyelashes, long and feathery, fluttered slightly against the bright intrusion from the window. His striking, russet-red eyes narrowed against the glare, and his pale, finely shaped lips – neither too full nor too thin – pressed together in a faint line. Blessed with half-Slavic heritage, his complexion was porcelain-pale and flawless, lacking the usual freckles common in Western boys. He looked every inch the aristocratic young gentleman stepped straight out of a fairy tale.
He meticulously arranged the pencils on his desk, the movement as precise and deliberate as an artist handling his masterpieces.
John Wick stared outside. There, perched on his windowsill and rapping its beak insistently against the glass, was an owl. An owl clutching a letter in its beak.
This gave him considerable pause.
An owl itself wasn't particularly odd; this wasn't the age of instant messaging penguins or whatever that newfangled thing was called. Letters weren't unheard of.
But an owl delivering a letter? That was decidedly strange.
He scrutinized the envelope. It was made of thick, heavy parchment. The address was written in shimmering emerald-green ink.
So far, so peculiar but manageable. The problem lay squarely with the wax seal.
It bore a coat of arms: a shield featuring a large letter 'H', encircled by a lion, an eagle, a badger, and a snake.
"It can't be… that, can it?"
His name, John Wick, hinted at a man seeking peace – and indeed, he harbored secrets of his own.
Yes. He was a… transplant. Someone from Elsewhere.
From the moment he arrived in this world, he knew he was different. After all, he was John Wick. Sharing a name with the legendary, dog-avenging specter of vengeance from those action films, the one who carved a bloody path through an entire criminal organization over a beagle, well… a name like that practically guaranteed an extraordinary life.
Accordingly, he'd dedicated himself to mastering the art of dispatching three men with a single pencil. He'd honed this skill admirably, even testing it – quite successfully – on his peers, earning himself the chilling moniker "The Pencil Assassin".
He was confident that should danger ever arise, he could calmly produce a pencil and command his adversaries to drop their weapons with chilling authority.
What he hadn't anticipated was that his world was indeed extraordinary, but not in the gritty, grounded way he'd imagined. No, it was extraordinary in a way that involved pointed hats and waving sticks.
This world contained wizards. People who could erase your memories with a flick of a wand, or rummage through your thoughts like rifling through a filing cabinet. Humans wielding supernatural powers, amongst whom lurked dangerously twisted individuals like Grindelwald and the infamous Lord Voldemort.
"So… all that pencil training… wasted?" John sighed, casting a regretful glance at his neatly arranged pencils. A decade of dedicated practice, all for naught in the face of magic. What good was the world's deadliest assassin against someone who could vanish your insides with a word? Wizards could mend broken bones and erase diseases like correcting typos, not to mention their baffling array of spells.
"Oh well," he muttered, remembering an old saying. "What was that phrase? 'When in Rome…'? Or perhaps… 'Since I'm here, might as well make it their final resting place.'" After a moment's internal debate, he reached out and opened the window.
The owl, thoroughly disgruntled after its long wait, fluttered in with an air of indignation and dropped the letter squarely onto John's face. Without so much as a hoot or a hopeful glance for a treat, it turned tail and flew off. What rotten luck, delivering post to such an infuriating child destined for Hogwarts!
"Tch. Rude," John remarked, peeling the envelope off his face. "Honestly, is Hagrid training these birds? How does he stand them?" He examined the Hogwarts owl's lack of manners for a moment before turning his attention to the letter and breaking the distinctive seal.
Dear Mr. Wick,
We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.
Term begins on 1 September. We await your owl by no later than 31 July.
Yours sincerely,
Minerva McGonagall
Deputy Headmistress
"September 1st. Still some time," John murmured.
Simultaneously, a distinct voice echoed within his mind.
[Ding. Hidden aspect of the world discovered. Initiating Series Quest: Hogwarts.]
Yes. The Golden Finger. The ubiquitous cheat code for those displaced in reality.
He'd first discovered the panel in his mind at the age of five. It was the primary reason an eleven-year-old could master the art of triple homicide via graphite.
The interface was starkly simple. Beyond issuing quests, it offered only two functions:
Enhance. Allocate.
Enhance, as the name suggested, applied temporary boosts akin to magical buffs in games.
Allocate allowed him to directly increase the level of his acquired skills.
Both Enhancements and Allocation Points were rewards for completing randomly assigned quests.
Thanks to this, his Small Arms Proficiency had reached Level 7. With this, he could effortlessly subdue three grown men using nothing more sophisticated than a standard HB pencil.
His original life plan involved leveraging these points to become a world-class athlete or securing admission to an elite university through sheer, enhanced capability.
All those carefully laid plans were now thoroughly derailed by this single envelope.
The panel had updated. A new stat had appeared: Mana.
It was irrefutable confirmation. The letter was genuine.
It was July.
John's next challenge was figuring out how to break the news to his parents, Mr. and Mrs. Wick: their son was a wizard.
...
"John, this isn't funny."
Watson Wick regarded his son with a stern expression. "You can make your father abandon important meetings to grovel before four sets of parents because you used a pencil… creatively. But you will not torment your father with ridiculous jokes."
Watson Wick was John's father in this life. He had hair the color of burnished oak and shared John's russet-red eyes. A prominent nose and impeccably tailored suit completed the picture of a typical British professional.
John, however, took after his mother. Mrs. Wick possessed the same raven-black hair. A striking beauty hailing from the vast lands of Russia, even her dresses seemed imbued with a sense of mature grace.
As solidly middle-class professionals, the Wicks were deeply skeptical of their son's announcement. Mrs. Wick stood united with her husband. Holding a delicate, gold-rimmed bone china cup of coffee, her expression conveyed the weary disappointment of a parent confronted with a child's tall tale.
"It was three. And I'm not joking," John corrected flatly. The fourth boy had tripped over his own feet; that had absolutely nothing to do with him.
"Is that so?" Watson raised an eyebrow, a wry smile playing on his lips. "That rather portly lad, Dudley, told quite a different story. He single-handedly demolished that entire peace-offering cake, you know. Heaven knows how he managed it."
John paused. Dudley? That name rang a bell, now that he understood the magical context. Could that blubbery nuisance possibly be… Harry Potter's cousin?
After much vehement arguing and persuasion from John, the Wicks finally agreed, albeit with profound skepticism, to grant him a chance to prove his outlandish claim.
And so, the days crept by.
John soon acquired a new, slightly bemused nickname from his parents: "The Little Wizard".
Unfortunately, someone must have overheard. A gaggle of children who didn't get along with John banded together to mock his new title. Their jeering ended abruptly, however, when John calmly drew a pencil. They scattered like frightened pigeons, undoubtedly running home crying for their mummies.