September 25. Raccoon City. Inside the hotel.
The morning sun streamed through the curtains, a yellow glint cutting across the room. John Wick hadn't moved from the chair. He had watched all night, his senses sharpened by the presence of Sarah, who remained tied to the bed. The escape plan and the morning ritual had kept him busy.
But now, with a steaming coffee in hand and the silence of the room, the reality of his situation settled with the weight of a concrete slab. The girl stirred in bed, groaning, and her eyes opened, filled with terror and confusion.
"No... where am I? What happened?" she murmured, her voice trembling. She looked at herself, saw she was tied up, and her eyes widened even further. "You kidnapped me!" she cried. "Get me out of here, please! Don't hurt me!"
John remained impassive. His voice was firm, devoid of emotion. "I didn't kidnap you. I saved your life. Father Ben was going to do something much worse to you than you can imagine. Now, calm down and listen."
Sarah's gaze filled with fear. The scene, a man with a gun in his hand and her tied to a bed, was out of a horror movie. "You're a monster!" she exclaimed.
"I'm not a monster," John replied, in his usual voice. "I'm a man trying to live in peace. The monster is outside these walls, and Father Ben was part of it. Now, tell me. What did he do to you?"
"He... he gave me the blessing," Sarah said, her words choked by fear. "He told me it was a gift from God, that it would make me a better person. He led me to the altar... and injected me with something."
John nodded, his face expressionless. "The 'T' virus. A biological weapon. Father Ben was using you for a corporation called Umbrella."
"Umbrella? What... what is that? And the virus... what are you talking about? I don't know anything about that," Sarah said, her voice full of panic. "And Father Ben... he was a good man. He said everyone who received the blessing was sent to other churches to follow God's teachings. He wouldn't do anything wrong! Please, let me go. What do you think I am? One of those things you saw?"
John looked at her, his mind processing every word. The truth Sarah had told him, that she didn't know what was happening, was evident in her voice, in her eyes. But John's instinct, the one that had saved his life countless times, screamed at him not to trust her. The videos he had seen had taught him that the transformation was sudden, but he couldn't risk there being some other symptom he didn't know about, and by releasing her, he might make a fatal mistake.
"I don't know," John replied, in a tone that left her no doubt he was telling the truth. "I don't know if you'll turn into one of those things, or if the virus is already in you. The ones I saw in the video... their skin turned pale and their eyes turned white, and you're not like that."
"Then why do you have me tied up?" Sarah asked, with growing desperation in her voice.
"Because I don't know if there's a symptom I'm unaware of and I'll make a mistake by trusting you. And a mistake in this case is fatal," John replied, his voice flat and emotionless. "Besides, Father Ben said he had given you a blessing... The one I saw was not a blessing, it was a curse. I saw people writhing in pain, turning into monsters. I saw... I saw a person turn into a mindless thing, a thing that only wants blood and human flesh."
"No... that's impossible," Sarah whispered, her eyes filled with tears.
"It's not. I saw it with my own eyes," John replied. "That's why I need to know if Father Ben injected them with anything else. If the virus is only one part. I'm not sure you're different. I can't take the risk. I have to know what they injected you with."
"He didn't tell me... I don't know... I don't know," Sarah said, sobbing.
The idea that it was just a sedative resonated with John. It made sense. It was logical. If she had been infected immediately, she would have already transformed. The hypothesis that it was a sedative for transport made sense. His assassin's mind, so accustomed to strategies and clandestine operations, understood the reasoning. It was a logical plan.
John stood up, his face expressionless. "Good. I'll untie your hands," he said, his voice a silent thunder. "But not from the bed. I'll tie you to the chair."
Sarah, resigned, nodded. "Yes. Please."
John approached, untied her from the bed, and sat her in a chair. He tied her to the chair and untied her hands. John served her the bowl of cereal she hadn't eaten that morning and gave it to her. "Take it. Eat," he ordered.
Sarah ate hastily, glancing at him sideways. For a moment, there was an awkward silence, a silence heavier than any explosion. And then, Sarah spoke.
"Thank you... for saving me from there," Sarah said, her words barely a whisper. "I don't know who you are, or what you are... but you saved me. And I'm sure you're not a monster."
John looked at her for a long moment, with the same cold expression. He sat in the chair opposite her and watched her finish eating. Hours passed. John didn't move from the chair. His gaze remained fixed on Sarah, analyzing every millimeter of her skin, looking for any change, any symptom, any sign. His instinct told him not to trust her, but his logic, based on what he had seen in the videos, told him that Sarah was a victim. Uncertainty was a luxury he couldn't afford.
As time passed, John's questions became more specific. "Tell me about the church," he said.
Sarah, now calmer, told him she lived there. Her family had died in a car accident years ago, and Father Ben had taken her under his care. The church was her home, her refuge. She had nowhere to go. The idea that Father Ben had betrayed her, the person she trusted most, made her tremble.
"You have nowhere to go. You have no one in this city to protect you," John said, his voice flat and emotionless. "And I can't let you go. You know who I am, you know what I look like. You know which hotel I'm staying in. I can't leave loose ends."
Sarah, with tears in her eyes, nodded. "I understand. Do what you have to do. If you have to kill me, do it. I've lost my family, I've lost my faith, I've lost everything."
John looked at her, his assassin's mind at war with his conscience. His instinct told him to kill her, but his conscience told him he couldn't do it. She was innocent. She was a victim. But how much could he risk?
After a long moment of reflection, the answer came to his mind with the same clarity as a blow. There was a third option. He wouldn't kill her, but he wouldn't let her go.
"I'm not going to kill you," John said, his voice a silent thunder. "But you have to follow me. I will become your protector. You have to follow my rules. You won't ask questions, you won't talk to anyone, you won't stray from me. If you do, you'll be a loose end. And a loose end, in my world, gets cut."
Sarah nodded, her voice a whisper. "Yes. I understand. I'll follow you. I'll thank you for the rest of my life."
"Don't thank me," John said, his voice a deep whisper. "Gratitude is a luxury we cannot afford. Now, listen to me. The Raccoon City police are probably already investigating the church. If they see you like this, they'll interrogate you. You have to go unnoticed."
John opened his suitcase and gave her a pair of denim pants, a casual shirt, and sneakers. "Go to the bathroom. Shower and change. Don't wear anything you used to wear. Erase all traces of your past."
Sarah, with tears in her eyes, took the clothes and went to the bathroom. John watched her go, his mind returning to the conversation he had had with Father Ben. His words still echoed in his head: "Umbrella won't stand by. They will look for you... they won't care about the High Table... it will be much worse than that." John's old hunter instinct told him the priest was telling the truth. The mere sound of the word had been enough to scare him. John knew he had discovered something much bigger than the High Table. Something that would make him stop being the hunter and turn him into the hunted. And he wasn't going to run.
While Sarah showered, John changed his suit for a casual shirt and a cap. He put his pistol in his pants. He was ready for war. He was ready for whatever came. When Sarah came out of the bathroom, his heart beat a little faster. Her hair, now clean, fell over her shoulders. The casual shirt was a little big on her, but it gave her a touch of beauty and simplicity that she didn't have in her church clothes. John could barely recognize her. She looked like a normal college girl, not a victim.
The change was amazing. And John, who was not a man of emotions, realized that he had saved her from more than just the virus. He had saved her from a life of deception and lies.
"I'm ready," Sarah said, with a small smile on her face. "Thank you, John."
John didn't answer. He just looked at her with a slight smile. He gave her one last look, the look of a man about to face war. Together, they headed to the reception. The receptionist, the same one who had seen them enter, looked at them with a mocking smile. "Young people these days. They went out at night, and they come back in the morning. Did you have a good night?"
John ignored him. His gaze remained cold and flat. "We're going out," he said, his voice a deadly whisper.
The receptionist nodded, his smile faded, and in an instant, he understood that he was not talking to a normal man, but to someone who had a purpose. John left the hotel with Sarah by his side, his instincts on high alert. He walked a few blocks down the main street of Raccoon City. He entered an electronics store, and with a wad of bills, he bought a disposable phone, one of those old ones, with buttons and no touch screen. It was a precaution. A digital trail is a fingerprint. And John Wick never left fingerprints.
He stopped in an alley, out of sight of the cameras. He dialed the number. The phone rang only once before being answered. "Winston," John said, his voice low and deep.
"John," replied the familiar voice on the other end of the line. It was Winston, the manager of the New York Continental, the man who had shot him, the man who had left him for dead. "I didn't expect my ghost to call me. I'm surprised you're not seeking revenge."
"It's not the time. The Bowery King gave me a place to hide, a place to heal. He gave me a message to deliver."
"The High Table still thinks you're dead," Winston said, his voice a whisper. "What happened on the roof... it was necessary, John. A demonstration. The High Table suspects nothing. Months have passed. The waters have calmed. Now that you know, what will you do? Are you going to seek peace again?"
"I tried," John replied, with a heavy sigh. "I came to Raccoon City to find refuge. But it seems the world doesn't want me to stay still."
There was a silence. "There is no peace for us, John. Only the next job."
"I've discovered something, Winston. A corporation, one called Umbrella."
The silence on the other end of the line was deep, heavy, and chilling. John, with his hunter's instinct, knew he had struck a nerve. The seconds dragged on, and the silence became increasingly menacing.
Finally, Winston spoke, his voice no longer that of an old friend. It was that of a man who was afraid of what was on the other end of the phone. "Hang up, John. Don't ask any more questions. Don't mess with them. Not even the High Table dares to mess with Umbrella. Not even the Russians."
"What are you talking about, Winston? Who are they?" John asked.
"They are a force of nature. They are an earthquake. If you got into trouble with them, there's only one thing you can do, John," Winston said, his voice a whispered warning. "Run."
And then, the click. The call was cut off. John was left with the phone in his hand, a feeling of unease creeping over his skin. Winston, the man who feared nothing, feared Umbrella. The mere sound of the word had been enough to scare him. John knew he had discovered something much bigger than the High Table. Something that would make him stop being the hunter and turn him into the hunted. And he wasn't going to run. He threw the phone in the trash can and set off. It was time to go back to Sarah.
John headed to the electronics store where he had left her. He stopped at the door, with a hand on the knob. He looked through the display window, and his heart sank. The inside of the store was full of rough-looking, military-looking guys, their hands in their pockets and their eyes fixed on Sarah, who was at the back of the store. John sighed, his mind returning to the conversation with Father Ben. Father Ben had told him that Umbrella would send people. John, with an expressionless look, entered the store, his hunter's instinct telling him he was getting into trouble.
"Sarah," he said, his voice flat and emotionless, like a greeting from a normal acquaintance.
Sarah, who had been feeling trapped, heard her name and felt relieved. She was about to call out to him, but John made a quick gesture with his head, an imperceptible signal that made her quiet down. Sarah understood immediately. It was an order. She held back, and instead of going to him, she cooperated with the men, who surrounded her.
"She's the only one alive," said one, in a deep voice. "Umbrella wants to know how the hell she got out of there without a scratch. It's practically impossible for a girl so... innocent... to have killed so many guards and scientists."
"Maybe they infected her and are using her as bait," said another, his voice full of mockery.
"She's not infected," said the leader of the group, a tall man, with scars on his face and a cold gaze. "The virus blood in her veins is not active. Someone must have killed it all. We want to know who it is. If she doesn't tell us, we'll find out our way."
The men moved, dragging Sarah by the arm. "Let's go to the alley. No witnesses," the leader said.
John, who had entered the store like any other shopper, followed them at a safe distance. His eyes scanned the street, looking for anything that could give him away. His instincts told him to stay hidden. He was about to face Umbrella's professionals. Their conversation was a source of information he needed. The leader of the group, who was dragging Sarah by the arm, interrogated her.
"What happened? Who killed all those people? Who helped you?" the group leader asked her.
Sarah, who had already resigned herself to her fate, replied in a trembling voice: "I don't know. I was unconscious."
"Don't lie," said the leader, his voice full of fury. "You were the only one there. You have to know something."
"No... I don't know anything," Sarah said, her voice a whisper.
The group reached the alley. It was dark and full of garbage. The perfect place for a man who didn't want to leave witnesses. The men threw Sarah to the ground, and she cowered, expecting the worst. The group leader approached dangerously, his eyes fixed on her, with a malicious look.
"Last chance, doll," he said, his voice a deadly whisper. "Tell me who saved you, and maybe I'll let you go. Otherwise, I'm going to have to find the information myself."
As the leader approached Sarah, John, at the alley entrance, was a little relieved. He could capture one of these guys and extract all the information about Umbrella. It was an opportunity he couldn't pass up. John pulled out his silenced pistol, his hand remaining firm and steady. He aimed at the heads of the men behind Sarah. There was no need for mercy. They were Umbrella agents, mercenaries of a corporation that killed people for money. They were the enemy. They were also assassins, but they were not part of the High Table's rules.
John fired four times in rapid succession. By the time the first body fell, the others were already being riddled with a bullet to the head. The only one left was the leader, who turned around when he heard the sound of the bodies hitting the floor. As he was about to draw his weapon, a bullet struck his hand, making his weapon fly off and his hand bleed. The man, with the pain in his hand and blood gushing, pulled out a knife, while John put away his pistol and slowly approached, letting himself be seen.
When the man recognized John, he was astonished, his eyes wide, and his body began to tremble a little. "John Wick," he whispered. "Baba Yaga? What... what are you doing here? Why are you attacking Umbrella?"
Then, the man's mind clicked. A dry laugh escaped him. "So John Wick is going to face Umbrella for a woman, huh? You'll regret this. We're going to hunt you down."
John ignored him. He approached dangerously, his hands in leather gloves. With each step he took, the man with the knife trembled more and more. The man, knowing he had no chance of winning, lunged in a desperate attack. The blade of the knife gleamed in the dimness of the alley, a flash meant to be quick and lethal. In his mind, the man thought: I can't win, but I can leave a scar on the legend. I can wound the Baba Yaga. Adrenaline, pain, and desperation mixed in his mind, and he attacked. But John was not a man; he was a force of nature. His movement was so fast that it seemed the man had missed him for a second. The man felt the wind of a punch that passed by his face, and John's kick struck his hand with pinpoint accuracy.
The man felt the impact, a pain that made him scream. He could feel the crunch of his finger bones as the knife fell to the floor. John, without missing a beat, and with the same fluid motion, struck his neck with the side of his hand, a blow to knock him out. The man, already overwhelmed by pain, collapsed to the ground, unconscious. John needed him alive to extract information.