September 24. Raccoon City. Church basement.
The echo of the last silenced shot dissipated in the dense, metallic air of the basement. The inert body of Father Ben lay on the floor, a dark stain on the gray cement. John Wick stood still for a moment, his breathing constant, his pulse undisturbed. There was no hurry. The job was done.
The first thing he did was the ritual. He took a folded and clean cloth from his inside pocket and began to meticulously clean his pistol. It wasn't just about the grime. It was an act of purification, of closing a cycle. The blood and brains of Father Ben were wiped from the grip, and the steel regained its cold shine. Every movement was fluid, like a dance of shadows. John checked every part of the weapon, disassembled it, and reassembled it with inhuman speed. It was his form of meditation.
While he worked, his gaze fell on Sarah, the girl who was unconscious on the metal gurney. Her face, covered by a dirty sheet, was the only trace of innocence in that nightmarish place. John finished cleaning his weapon and approached the metal cell where she was. The door had a reinforced lock. He took out his pistol, aimed precisely at the lock, and fired three times. The sound was three whispers, and the lock was shattered. The metal door opened with a screech, revealing the girl's pale and sweaty face.
John leaned over her. His touch, which was usually a tool of destruction, became soft and careful. Despite years of killing and the distance he had put between himself and human emotion, the sight of the helpless girl moved him. He wondered how many other victims had passed through this place, and his gaze shifted to the other cells. He saw ten of them, all empty. Fear invaded him. Where were they? Had they been taken away? Or was Father Ben right and things were going to be "much worse"? He was a man based on logic and facts, and the idea that Umbrella was doing something so cruel without reason infuriated him.
John gently shook her shoulder. "Hey. Hey, wake up."
There was no response. He tried again, with more force. "Get up. You can't stay here."
But she didn't move. John stopped, his mind already searching for a solution. His instinct told him that the answer was not in brute force, but in information. He went to the scientists' desk. There were computers, papers, test tubes, and flasks with strange liquids. The smell of chemicals was overwhelming. John, with his analytical and methodical mind, sat down in front of one of the computers. It was locked.
But for a man like him, the concept of "locked" was just a challenge. With a series of clicks and commands, he accessed the files. The first thing he saw was an untitled audio file. He opened it. "Lord Spencer, grant us strength..." was the voice of Father Ben in his last breath. The audio was a reminder that the truth was not in what the priest had told him, but in what he had hidden. John saw several files with strange names: "Project G," "Project T," "Progenitor." But what really caught his attention was a folder called "Test Subjects."
With his hand trembling for the first time in years, John opened the folder. There were dozens of files of missing people from Raccoon City, each with a photo and a detailed report of their "progress." But what really made him shudder were the video recordings. The videos showed the test subjects transforming into violent, mindless creatures. John, a man who had seen the worst atrocities in the world, couldn't help but be surprised. The creatures had pale and putrefied skin, their eyes were milky white, and their bodies writhed in agony.
At first, he thought it was a very bad joke, a trick to scare him. He had seen men go crazy and do horrible things, but what he was seeing on the screen was not human. A guttural moan, a crunch of bones, and then the test subject, a middle-aged man, got up with a skeletal and putrefied look. His limbs were twisting at impossible angles.
"Damn it," John whispered to himself, his voice a grave murmur. Never in his life, neither in the wars of his past nor in the worst jobs of the High Table, had he seen something so grotesque. What he had in front of him made no sense. It was not a killer, it was not a killing machine. It was... a monster. And there were ten empty cells. Which meant there were ten of those things somewhere, ready to be released.
In one of the recordings, a scientist said, with a cheerful voice: "It is a blessing, Father. The 'T' virus is the key to creating biological weapons that will dominate the world. Father Ben had the mission of getting us the test subjects. One day, with the power of Lord Spencer, Umbrella Corporation will make this world its playground. Don't worry about the High Table, it no longer matters. John Wick, the Baba Yaga, is on the run, and we are here, in the church that no one wants to see, creating something that will end everything the High Table protects."
John turned off the video, feeling a mixture of frustration and disgust. The priest knew his past, but never told him the truth. And now, a pharmaceutical corporation called Umbrella was using terror to create a hell on Earth. And he, a man who only wanted peace, was in the center of it all.
His gaze returned to Sarah. His heart, which beat with the constancy of a predator, now felt a pang of indecision. "What do I do with you, girl?" he asked himself, his voice barely audible. There were two options, and both were bad. He could leave her. It was the logical option, the one his training dictated. She was a loose end, an uncontrollable variable. A body in the trunk of a car, a trace he couldn't erase.
But his conscience, that hunter's instinct that had brought him here, whispered something else to him. A man of peace does not let an innocent girl be a victim of an experiment. A man of peace does not allow a group of scientists to play God.
John knelt beside the gurney. He put two fingers on her neck, looking for her pulse. It was weak, but steady. That meant she was still alive. And that the virus had not acted. Yet. Or had it? Was she in the process of becoming? The images from the videos came to his mind. The body contorting, the skin turning pale. What if she woke up that way? Would he have to kill her? He didn't know. And not knowing was the hardest part of his dilemma.
The second option was to take her. It was the noblest, but the most dangerous. His car had been left in a warehouse in New York, abandoned so as not to leave a trace. The only way to get her out of here was in a vehicle, and stealing a car was the fastest way to attract attention. The night was advanced, but the city was not completely asleep. A man, with an unconscious girl in his arms, would not go unnoticed. The police, the High Table, and now Umbrella. Everyone would be looking for him. What if he took her to a hospital? What if he called an ambulance? It would be crazy. It would be the same as giving his location to the enemies.
His mind, so used to solving problems, was in a dead end. The most sensible thing was to leave her, but his morals, the little honor he had left, told him not to. He was at a crossroads. The peace he had sought had been shattered into a thousand pieces, and now he was not just the hunter, he was the protector of someone he didn't even know. And the only question he asked himself was: "Is it still worth fighting for peace?"
A third option came to his mind, and that was to stay. To stay in the basement until she woke up. He had the necessary resources to wait. He had food in his backpack, and water. He had weapons to defend himself. But what if she didn't wake up for days? What if the "ten" missing test subjects came looking for them? Father Ben had told the girl that "the path to redemption had no return," and that sounded to him like the blessing was something permanent. John couldn't afford to stay there. It was a stupid, reckless move. It would be like putting a sign on the door that said: "I'm here, come and get me."
After a long moment of reflection, the answer came to his mind with the clarity of a blow. None of the options were perfect, but one was the least bad. He couldn't steal a car. He couldn't wait. But he could be invisible. He could use the rules of ordinary people to hide in plain sight. He got up, carefully took the girl in his arms, and headed for the basement exit, closing the door behind him. In his arms, the girl looked like a rag doll, light and fragile.
He climbed the stairs with a deadly silence. Once outside, the coolness of the night greeted him. The street was deserted, except for a few flickering streetlights. John moved through the shadows, carrying the girl as if she were a bundle. He walked away from the church, from the crime scene. He walked about three blocks, enough so that the church was not visible. He took his phone out of his pocket, dialed a number, and put it to his ear. He pretended to be talking to someone, laughed, and then said: "Yes, I need a taxi. I'm on Main Street, about three blocks from the church."
John waited on the sidewalk, with the girl in his arms, waiting patiently. A few minutes later, a yellow taxi stopped in front of him. The driver looked at him with curiosity. John smiled, a smile as fake as young Sarah's in the church, and said: "My friend had a little too much fun. Don't worry, I won't give you any trouble." The taxi driver looked at him with suspicion, but John took out a wad of bills and said: "I'll give you double the fare. Just take me to the Grand Hotel in Raccoon City." The taxi driver accepted, and John got into the taxi, leaving the church, the bodies, and the hell he had just discovered behind.
As the taxi drove away from the church, John Wick rested his head against the window, watching the streetlights pass by as blurs. His mind, which never stopped, began to professionally analyze the situation. He had left no trace. His black leather gloves, a habit from his years of work, made sure there were no fingerprints. The bullets were his own fabrication, impossible to trace. He had cleaned the weapon, and the trace of gunpowder had already disappeared. He was a ghost in motion.
But he knew it wasn't that simple. Father Ben knew him. Not only did he know the Baba Yaga, but he also knew his connection to the High Table. And what's more, Umbrella knew of his existence. "They won't care about the High Table," the priest had said. That was what worried him most. It was not a hunt for a High Table assassin, it was something different, something bigger. John had always trusted his instinct, and his instinct told him it would not be easy to escape from Umbrella. Father Ben was not afraid of him, but rather it was he who was afraid for John.
"And they won't care about the High Table," he repeated to himself. He said it to himself, as a way of understanding the magnitude of the problem. The High Table had rules. It had a code of conduct. But Umbrella, a pharmaceutical company, had no rules. They were unpredictable, and that was the most dangerous thing. He was a man of rules, of codes. And now he was in a world where the code didn't exist, a world of monsters and experimentation.
The taxi stopped in front of the hotel. John got out with the girl in his arms and headed for the entrance. The receptionist, a man with glasses and an impeccable suit, looked at him with curiosity. "Good evening, sir. Your friend seems to have had a very lively night."
John gave him one of his fake smiles and took a stack of bills from his pocket. "Yes," he said, in a low voice. "A very lively night. Would you be so kind as to forget about tonight? What happened here, what you saw, is none of your business. And I guarantee you, sir, that silence has a price." The receptionist looked at the money and nodded. John went up to his room, and in his arms, Sarah was still unconscious.
Once inside the room, John carefully placed Sarah on the bed. His eyes scanned the room, looking for any sign of danger or listening devices, but he found nothing. He had a sixth sense for these things, a sixth sense that had saved him more than once. He knelt beside the bed, looking at Sarah. Her eyes were closed and her breathing was slow and shallow. He didn't know if the "T" virus had already spread through her body or not. He had no way of knowing.
As a precaution, and also for safety, he took a thin but very strong rope from his backpack. With a quick and methodical movement, he tied Sarah's hands to the bed rails and her feet to the legs of the bed. Once he made sure she couldn't move, he stood up, and a small smile formed on his lips. The situation was ridiculous. The scene looked like something out of a horror movie. He, the legendary assassin, a man who hadn't seen a woman in months, was tying an unconscious girl to a bed. The irony of the situation did not go unnoticed by him.
He imagined someone entering the room and seeing him in this situation. A moment of amusement in a life full of pain. His mind told him that the image would be that of a pervert, a depraved man, but his logic, his logic, screamed at him that it was a necessary act. For the girl and for him. A laugh escaped him, a dry and bitter sound that dissolved into the silence of the room.
John, having finished securing Sarah, went to the room door. He took a small piece of metal and a pistol with a silencer from his pocket. With a quick movement, he hooked it to the top of the door. Then, with a thin metal wire, he connected it to the pistol so that when the door opened, the wire would tighten, and the pistol would fire automatically. A trap. A simple but very effective trap. It was almost impossible for a stranger to enter the room without getting shot.
Finally, with the girl tied up and the room secured, he went to the bathroom. He took a quick shower and put on his silk robe. Then, he sat in a chair, put a bullet in the magazine of the pistol he had in his hand, and left it on the table next to the bed. The night would be long. He took off his suit, stained with blood and dust, and put it in a plastic bag to then put it in the hotel washing machine. He couldn't leave a trace of his location. He sat in the chair, which gave him a complete view of the room. From the two windows facing the street, the entrance door, to the bed where Sarah lay, tied and unconscious. The pistol with the bullet in the magazine was on the nightstand, within his reach.
He had no intention of sleeping. A dream for him was an unnecessary risk. He closed his eyes for an instant, not to rest, but to meditate. He was in a chess game, and his life, and Sarah's, were the pieces. One wrong move and everything would be over. The long night of waiting began.
The morning sun crept through the curtains, a yellow flash that crossed the room. John Wick had not moved. The night had passed without incident, a tense silence that was almost more exhausting than a shootout. The trap on the door was still intact, the pistol on the nightstand was still where he had left it. And Sarah was still asleep, tied to the bed, a silent enigma in the midst of the chaos he had unleashed.
John got up from the chair. There were no signs of tiredness on his face. His body, a perfectly tuned machine, was used to sleep deprivation. His routine was unbreakable, a discipline forged over years of work. First, the exercises. Push-ups, sit-ups, stretches. He didn't need a gym. His own weight was enough. Every movement was fluid, controlled, a constant reminder that his body was his most lethal weapon. There was no room for flabbiness or weakness.
After the exercise, a quick shower. It wasn't to relax, but to refresh himself, to wash away the traces of the night before. He came out of the bathroom and put on a dark gray V-neck shirt, black denim pants, and sports sneakers. It was casual wear, but even so, a layer of Kevlar was under the shirt, a reminder that peace was only an illusion.
Then he went to the kitchenette. He turned on the coffee maker and prepared a quick breakfast: a bowl of cereal with milk and a black coffee without sugar. He ate standing up, his gaze fixed on Sarah. His mind, a living archive, began to catalog her. "Name: Sarah. Approximate age: 20 years old. Hair: blonde, long. Skin: pale, with some freckles. Build: thin, but with developed musculature. A person who was in shape, not sedentary. Current status: unconscious, with a mark of a small prick on her arm." John was not a man of emotions, but cataloging was his way of understanding. It was a way of making an enigma a problem he could solve.
As he ate, his gaze fell on Sarah, and for a second, the image from the church video was superimposed in his mind. The body writhing, the pale skin, the white eyes. Was Sarah one of those "test subjects"? Or was she just another victim? Father Ben hadn't answered. But uncertainty was a luxury John couldn't afford. He couldn't sleep, he couldn't let his guard down. He couldn't leave anything to chance. A bite and a sip of coffee, and the routine continued its course. The night had been long, but the day promised to be even longer.
John finished his breakfast. With the same efficiency with which he had done everything, he left his bowl and cup in the sink and went to his backpack. His routine did not end with food. It was a constant process of preparation and review. He opened the backpack and took out his arsenal, each weapon with a purpose, each bullet with a destination. He checked his magazines, counted the bullets, checked the silencer, the firearm, the combat knives, the grenades. It wasn't a game. It was a routine that had saved his life countless times. His mind reviewed every detail, every possibility. A count of his weapon supply. Once he finished, he put everything back in his backpack.
It was at that moment that he heard a sound, a barely audible moan. A sound that did not come from the street or another room. It came from the bed. John's heart, which had remained calm all night, gave a small jump. It was a mixture of fear and relief. Fear because the girl could wake up as one of the monsters he had seen in the video, and relief because the mystery that had tormented him all night was about to be solved.
John moved with a deadly silence. His hand, firm and without shaking, slid to his waist. With a fluid movement, he took out his pistol with a silencer. It was an instinct, an automatic response to a possible danger. His mind, however, was racing at a thousand miles per hour. "What if the bullets are not enough?" he wondered. The image of the monsters from the video was superimposed in his mind. They were resistant. A normal bullet would not take them down. Uncertainty gnawed at him.
John slowly approached the bed, each step a whisper. His eyes, cold and penetrating, fell on Sarah. The girl wasn't moving much. She just moaned. Her breathing was slow and shallow. She didn't look like a monster, she didn't have pale and putrefied skin, she didn't have white eyes. But John didn't lower his guard. The video had taught him that the change could be sudden. He stopped about two meters from the bed, a safe distance, but close enough to act if necessary.
Sarah moved again. This time, her eyes opened, her pupils dilated with fear. She looked at herself, saw that she was tied up, and her eyes opened even wider. "No... where am I? What happened?" she murmured, her voice trembling. Suddenly, her gaze fixed on John. "You... you were in the church. What...?"
Then, a scream of panic escaped her. "Father Ben! He...!"
"Calm down!" John said, his voice firm and flat. "I'm John. You're safe. Father Ben is no longer here."
Sarah looked at him with eyes full of fear. The scene, a man with a pistol in his hand, and her, tied to a bed, was out of a horror movie. "You kidnapped me!" she screamed. "Get me out of here, please! Don't hurt me!"
John didn't move. He didn't lower his guard. He didn't get closer. "I didn't kidnap you. I saved your life," he replied, in the same tone. "Father Ben was going to do something much worse to you than you can imagine. Now, calm down and listen."