September 25. Raccoon City. The alley. 12:00 PM.
The echo of silenced gunshots faded into the dense alley air. The bodies of the Umbrella agents lay lifeless on the ground, like puppets without strings. John Wick, with his leather gloves and expressionless gaze, did not stand still.
His instinct told him every second counted. His mind, a constantly operating threat processor, had already shifted from action to planning. The first thing he did was a quick scan of the surroundings.
Distant streetlights cast a yellowish, flickering light that barely illuminated the alley entrance. There were no security cameras in sight, and the nearby buildings were dark and silent. There were no witnesses.
His gaze stopped at the unconscious body of the leader. It was the source of information he needed. It wasn't just another corpse to leave behind; it was the key to understanding Umbrella's true scope. John, with his unshakeable pulse, knew he had to take him. And he couldn't do it obviously.
He approached Sarah, who was still sitting on the ground, her eyes fixed on the inert bodies, her face a mask of pure terror. She didn't scream, she didn't cry. She only trembled. John knelt, his voice a grave whisper that cut through the cold air.
"You know this city," he told her, his voice low-toned. "A place. Close by. Empty. Far from the police."
Sarah looked at him, her mind in a state of panic. Her eyes, filled with terror, couldn't process what John was asking of her. "I... I don't know..."
John moved with the urgency that a man like him only uses in life-or-death situations. "Think. Side streets. Old buildings. Something abandoned. No cameras." His voice, despite still being flat, had an undertone of urgency.
Sarah's eyes widened. The logic in John's words, despite the absurdity of the situation, resonated with her. Her mind, though terrified, began to work. "There's... there's an old warehouse near the port," she whispered, her voice trembling. "They closed it years ago. No one goes there. The main entrance is boarded up, but there's a side door that's always open..."
"Let's go," John said, his voice a whisper of urgency.
Sarah stood up, her body still trembling, but with a new determination. Despite the fear, something in John's calmness gave her a strange sense of security. John, with the agility of a panther, examined the alley. His gaze stopped at a dumpster around the corner. An old, rusty shopping cart lay abandoned next to it. It was perfect. He pulled a large black trash bag from the dumpster and opened it.
With a quick, fluid motion, he wrapped Marcus's unconscious body, covering him completely. It wasn't a trash bag; it was a disguise. John, without missing a beat, and with the same fluid motion, lifted Marcus's body and put him in the shopping cart.
"Cover him," he ordered Sarah.
Sarah, without hesitation, took old cardboard boxes and trash bags and placed them over the bundle, giving it a completely harmless appearance. It looked like just a bundle of trash. John's plan was perfect. An urban worker moving his trash in broad daylight wouldn't raise suspicions.
They walked through the sunny streets, John pushing the cart, his eyes scanning the surroundings, and Sarah, still trembling, walking beside him, her eyes fixed on the ground, praying no one would see them. John's steps were fluid, his movements like a ghost. Although the cart was heavy, he moved it with an ease that only a man like him could possess. They moved through the streets of Raccoon City, a ghost and a victim, with a secret in a shopping cart.
When they arrived at the warehouse, the side door was open. The interior of the warehouse was dark, filled with old boxes, dusty tarps, and the smell of dampness and rust. It was the perfect place. A place where no one would look for them. John pushed the cart to the center of the warehouse. Sarah's eyes filled with fear.
She knew what was coming. John slammed the metal door shut with a screech, and the sound echoed in the darkness. Now, it was time for the torture. Now, it was time for John Wick to get the information from that man. Now, it was time for war.
The screech of the metal door broke the silence, but it wasn't the only sound in the warehouse. The smell of dust and rust mixed with a sour and sweet stench, the unmistakable aroma of cheap drugs and alcohol. John stopped, his mind already on alert mode.
He could hear whispering voices and muffled laughter coming from the center of the place. His instinct, as sharp as a scalpel, told him that the place was not as abandoned as he thought.
If a church girl knew the site, it was likely that the place was a nest for the city's outcasts. The criminal world has its own rules, and an abandoned place in Raccoon City would be the perfect refuge for drug addicts and vagrants.
John prepared for a confrontation, his hand in his pocket, and slowly approached, pushing the cart. The sound of his footsteps was muffled by the dust and dirt on the floor. In the center of the warehouse, under the only ray of light coming through a broken skylight, a group of five visibly intoxicated men were sitting in a circle, smoking.
Hearing the screech of the door, they turned around, their eyes bloodshot. A mocking smile spread across their dirty faces as they saw John, in his casual but clean clothes, and Sarah, with her frightened face and delicate figure.
One of them, a man with a Mohawk haircut and a spider tattoo on his neck, stood up with a playful voice. "Look what the wind blew in, guys. A beautiful doll and a clean-cut boy. What are you doing here, lovebirds? Did you think this place was a good spot for your first date?"
The other men laughed, their dry laughter echoing in the warehouse. They whispered things to each other, and most of their thoughts were morbid.
Sarah stood behind John, her hand trembling as she held the fabric of his jacket. John didn't flinch. His eyes scanned the men, their movements, their intentions. A macabre thought crossed John's mind.
They think my cargo is her, John thought with brutal irony. They're not interested in the trash, but in what's in it. They think it's something valuable, or drugs. A man looking for a place for a 'date' with a beautiful girl and who also carries a bundle in a cart... Yes, they think it's something valuable to sell, or the same drug they consume.
"Easy, friend," the man with the tattoo continued, with a drawling voice. "We don't want any trouble. We just want to talk. What do you have there?" He gestured towards the cart. "It looks like you're carrying something very heavy and valuable. Or maybe the medicine you and the girl were looking for. Maybe we can make a deal. Just leave the cart and you can leave alive."
The Mohawk man pulled out a switchblade, and the blade glinted under the ray of light. He pointed it at John and spoke in a more serious voice. "Leave the bundle and the girl, and you can leave alive. We don't want any trouble with you." The rest of the group stood up, their smiles turning into grimaces.
John watched the man. He saw the knife, the hand trembling from the drug, the eyes that didn't look at his, but were fixed on the bundle and on Sarah. A sigh of resignation escaped him.
There's no other option. This isn't a simple robbery. It's a threat. And one I must neutralize. But I can't kill them. I just left several bodies of Umbrella military personnel in an alley. Sooner or later they'll find them, and the police will start investigating. I don't know if the local police are under Umbrella's control or if they have access to the security cameras I saw in the electronics store. If I leave another five corpses here, the trail of bodies will lead me to a dead end. My best plan is to leave them unconscious, not out of mercy, but to avoid being tracked. Besides, seeing how drugged they are, it's almost impossible for anyone to believe them if they try to say something, or if they even remember what happened.
The five men approached, the laughter gone. The tense silence was only broken by the men's footsteps. The Mohawk man was only two meters from John, and it was then that John, for the first time, spoke. His voice, as flat and cold as ever, made the men stop.
"No, I won't." John's voice was a deadly whisper, but one that echoed throughout the warehouse. "If you want to stay alive, you'd better get out of here. And never see me again. Or I'll give you a lesson you won't forget," he said with a very cold and menacing voice.
The Mohawk man laughed, a laugh that sounded like a metallic screech. "Well, well. The boy's got guts. And a big mouth. I like that," he said, his eyes filled with anger and contempt. "Let's see how big that mouth is!" The man lunged at John, switchblade in hand, ready to stab him.
John moved. It wasn't a ballet of violence like in the alley. This time, it was a dance of brutal efficiency. John's hand was a blur. He deflected the man's arm with a dry blow that made him drop the knife and scream. But John didn't stop. Instead of a knockout punch, John's fist, closed in a hammer blow, crashed into the man's elbow.
The sound was a sickening crunch. The Mohawk man fell to his knees, his arm hanging at an unnatural angle, his face a mask of pure agony. "You damn son of a bitch!" he cried, his voice broken. "I'm going to kill you!"
The others, seeing the speed and brutality of John's attack, looked at each other, their faces pale. Terror settled in their eyes. One of them, a big, sturdy guy, weighing about 100 kilos, mustered his courage. "Get back, bastard!" he yelled in his hoarse voice. "You and me, right now! I'm going to break you in two, you son of a bitch!" He lunged at John, attempting a bear hug to immobilize him. But his attack wasn't frontal. With fear-driven speed, the man dove, under John's arm, and crashed into his legs.
The impact was brutal. John, who wasn't expecting it, fell on his back, the air escaping his lungs. The man, who had thrown himself with him, tried to grab him by the throat. It was a dirty attack, a desperate move by a cornered animal.
But John Wick was no ordinary man. His mind, trained in the most refined violence, reacted before his body did. As he fell, his hand slid, quick and elegant, like a dancer's. His palm slammed against the back of the man's hand. It wasn't a simple blow. It was a Wing Chun move, a block and counterattack. John's strength, combined with the inertia of the fall, concentrated all the power of his blow on the man's wrist.
The sound was a dry, horrible crunch, and a cry of pain, a cry of pure agony, escaped the man's mouth. The hand, now broken, released John's throat. The man, with a pale face and eyes full of tears, pleaded: "Please! Don't hurt me anymore! Mercy!"
John, without missing a beat, and with the same fluid movement, spun around, freeing himself from the man. With an elegant kick, he struck the man in the jaw, leaving him semi-conscious. The other two men, who were still standing, their eyes filled with terror, fled. "Let's get out of here, this guy's crazy!" one of them shouted, as they ran towards the exit.
John didn't move from the spot. With inhuman speed, he pulled out his silenced pistol, aiming at the legs of the two who were trying to escape. The first shot, a deadly whisper, hit one of the men in the knee. The second, in the other's ankle. Both screamed, falling to the ground with a thud. John walked slowly towards them, his voice a silent thunder.
"That's what happens when you try to escape," he said in a very cold voice. "No one leaves here until I decide." The men crawled on the ground, their eyes full of terror. "Please, don't kill me! I have children!" one pleaded. The other, his teeth clenched in pain, insulted him: "Rot, you damn bastard!"
John, impassive, bent down and punched them in the face, one by one, leaving them unconscious. Then he stood up and approached the Mohawk man, who was still writhing on the ground, crying from the unbearable pain of his broken arm. The man, between tears and babbling, tried to crawl away. "Don't hurt me! I'll give you anything you want! Money, drugs, whatever!" he pleaded.
John merely looked at him, his face devoid of emotion. "I don't need anything from you," he said, his voice a deadly whisper. "You're nothing more than a rat in a sewer. And rats are easy to crush."
The Mohawk man screamed, "No! Wait! I'm not a rat! No! NOOOO!"
John didn't listen. He raised his hand with a quick and precise movement, and slammed it against the man's face. The blow, dry and brutal, broke the man's jaw. His head snapped back, and his eyes rolled back. He stopped screaming, pleading, and his body collapsed, completely inert.
John, his breathing steady, approached the large man who was still writhing on the ground, crying from the unbearable pain in his wrist. John told him in a flat voice: "And you. You have it easier than them." With a final blow, John knocked him unconscious.
Sarah stood watching the scene, her eyes wide. She had tried to look away the moment John fell, the moment the first man screamed, the horrible crunch of the second man's jaw. But she couldn't. Despite the fear that paralyzed her, her eyes were drawn to the controlled brutality, to the dance of a man who moved like a force of nature. Her breathing was quick and shallow, and her heart pounded like a drum.
John, his clothes only having a faint smudge of dirt on his shoulder, didn't seem to have gone through a brutal fight. His face, clean and sweat-free, didn't reflect the horror he had just inflicted. The calm surrounding him was as dense as the dust in the warehouse. The bodies of the five men lay on the ground, unconscious. John, his breathing steady, approached Sarah, who was still behind him. "Everything's fine," he whispered. "There's no need to fear. Now, it's time to ask this man a few questions."
John ignored the bodies of the thugs and moved them to a dark corner of the warehouse. His attention was completely focused on his target: the Umbrella agent he had been pushing in the cart. John knelt and rummaged through the old boxes.
He found a thick, dusty rope and used it to tie the man up. He tied his hands behind his back and his feet to a concrete pillar, making sure the man couldn't move once he was conscious. The man was still unconscious from the blow, so John worked uninterrupted.
John approached Sarah, who was standing a few feet away, her eyes still fixed on the men on the ground. His voice was a grave whisper, but with a commanding tone. "Stay here. And don't look. Don't try to move. Don't go out, no matter what you hear. Understood?"
Sarah nodded her head, her eyes filled with a mixture of fear and obedience. John gestured to a darker spot in the corner, behind some boxes, out of direct sight.
"Go, now," he said.
Sarah slowly crawled to the corner, disappearing behind a stack of boxes. John watched her for a moment to make sure she had obeyed him, before turning back to the Umbrella agent.
John was not a man of words. He knelt, took a bottle of water from his inside pocket, and opened it. With a quick motion, he poured it on the man's face. The man jerked, and with a cough, began to wake up. His eyes opened, looking around confusedly, before the pain of his restraints and broken arm hit him. "Aaahhh!" The man screamed, trying to struggle against the rope.
John looked at him emotionlessly. "Easy. We're just going to talk."
The man looked at him furiously. "Go to hell! I won't tell you anything! Umbrella will take care of you!"
John didn't flinch. "That's not an option. You have two paths. One, you tell me what I want to know, and we finish this. Or two, you tell me nothing, and I assure you that you will beg for death. The choice is yours."
"I am an Umbrella soldier. I will die for the cause. I will tell you nothing," the man said in a firm voice, spitting on the ground.
John stood up and slowly approached the man. The man's words, who thought he was a brave soldier, did not affect him. John, with his flat, deadly voice, asked the first question.
"The video? What was that thing?"
The man laughed, a dry, hoarse laugh. "A product. The future. Something you don't understand, you idiot. Just a rat like you."
The man's laughter was what enraged John. It wasn't just the lack of information; it was the mockery, the arrogance of a man who believed his loyalty made him immune to pain. John's eyes darkened for a moment. The man, seeing the change in John's eyes, laughed, unaware that he had just signed his torture sentence.
"I told you, you idiot. I won't tell you anything. And I assure you that your attempts at torture will be in vain. My mind is stronger than you think."
"We'll see," was all John said. He knelt and, with a methodical and precise movement, used his thumb and forefinger to press a pressure point on the little finger of the man's right hand. A second later, a loud crack was heard. The man screamed, a sharp, painful cry that echoed in the warehouse.
John moved to the next finger. Another crunch, another scream.
"Do you want to talk now?" John asked, his voice as flat as ever.
"Aaaaaah! No!" the man cried, his face a mask of pure pain.
John continued, breaking the bones of the man's fingers, one by one, with chilling efficiency. The man's screams turned into moans, and from moans to pleas. "Stop, please! Stop!"
John stopped. "And now, the question again. What is that thing?"
The man, with a pale and sweaty face, looked at John, his determination still strong. "No... I won't tell you anything... you'll die before I do..."
John stood up. He approached the man's feet. The man, seeing what John was about to do, was filled with pure terror. "No... not the feet... please!"
But John ignored him. He knelt and, with the same methodical movement, broke the big toe of the man's right foot. A heart-wrenching scream, a cry of pure agony, escaped the man's mouth. John continued, breaking each of the man's toes. The sound of bones breaking could be heard in the darkness of the warehouse. The man's screams turned into a squeal, a high note of pure pain. John finished, his breathing as steady as ever.
The man, with a white face and trembling body, could only look at John with eyes full of fear. His determination was broken, but his pride prevented him from speaking.
"Last chance," John said, his voice a deadly whisper. "Tell me what I want to know. Or we get creative."
John pulled out his switchblade. The blade gleamed under the only ray of light coming through the skylight. The man saw the knife and his eyes widened, absolute terror flooding his face as he saw the tip. John's determination was clear. Slowly, he inserted the tip of the knife under the nail of the little finger, right at the edge broken by the previous blow. The tip of the knife pressed against the sensitive skin under the nail. The man gasped for air, his mouth opening in a silent scream.
"No... please!" The man cried, his eyes wide with fear. "I'll tell you! I'll tell you anything you want! Stop, please!"
John, impassive, held the knife close to his face, with the tip touching his throat. "I'm listening."
The man, with a pale face, hastened to speak, as if each word were a rope saving his life. "Umbrella... officially, it's a pharmaceutical company. But that's a smokescreen. Pharmaceutical research was just to fund... the real business. Creation of biological weapons. The T-virus. It's what you saw in the video."
John's gaze was cold, showing no emotion. "Since when."
"For decades," the man stammered. "Since its foundation. The T-Virus is the result of years of research into a deadly virus. The... the Progenitor Virus. At first, it was just for money... to sell biological weapons on the black market. But then it became... an obsession. They wanted total control. A new era, where they would be the gods. Father Ben... he was an Umbrella 'priest', a liaison. He helped them test their products."
"And the video?" John asked, his voice as flat as ever. "The man who transformed. What was he?"
The man swallowed hard, his eyes again filled with genuine terror. "An experiment. A failure. It wasn't just a normal T-virus. The... the virus mutated. A few months earlier, there was an... an incident in a mansion near the city. The virus escaped. They got infected. They mutated. The monsters escaped... the STARS team... they... they were sent to the mansion to contain the situation. They were the best... the best! They were the only ones who could stop them... but they didn't..." The man took a deep breath, and his eyes went wild with terror and desperation. "Umbrella... Umbrella tried to cover it up. They wanted it to look like an accident... but some of them... some of the STARS survived! A few of them! And one of them... a woman... Jill Valentine... she's a problem. She saw everything... she knows what Umbrella did. They want to kill her... they want her dead!"
John, impassive, asked the next question. "And where is that woman hiding now?"
The man, despite being tied up, twisted and struggled against his bonds, whimpering and pleading. "In her apartment... on the outskirts... on Oak Avenue, building 24, apartment 306. That's all! I don't know anything else!"
The man, having finished speaking, collapsed to the ground, sobbing, begging for his life. "Stop, please! I've told you everything! I've answered your questions! Mercy! Don't kill me, please!"
John, with his expressionless face, stopped and looked at him. In his mind, the man's words echoed like thunder. Umbrella... a pharmaceutical company. A smokescreen. A biological weapons business. The information was a punch to the gut. In his world, that of contracts and Continental rules, brutality was honest. You knew who you were dealing with.
But Umbrella... a corporation. A pharmaceutical company. He had seen their ads on city billboards, in magazines. Selling hope, selling health, and in the shadows, selling monsters. Hypocrisy was a type of evil that John Wick found particularly repulsive. It wasn't just a dirty business; it was a corruption that extended to the lives of millions of innocent people, a large-scale lie that was not limited to a simple bribe or a hit for hire.
The man, despite being tied up, twisted and struggled against his bonds, whimpering and pleading. "Please! Let me go! I won't tell anyone!"
John looked at him emotionlessly, his eyes cold and penetrating like ice. There was nothing he could do. This man was a loose end. He had seen the video, he had seen John kill, and he knew who he was. Letting him go was not an option. It would be a risk. A risk for him. A risk for Sarah. And a risk for a woman John Wick didn't know.
With a speed that only a man like him could possess, John pulled out the silenced pistol. There was no hesitation. There was no emotion. The bullet, a deadly whisper, struck the man in the forehead. The body twitched, and the face, which was pale with fear, turned into a mask of surprise. His eyes, which were filled with tears, remained open, lifeless. The man's body collapsed to the ground, inert.
The silence of the warehouse was broken by the echo of the silenced gunshot. John stood up, his breathing as steady as ever. This man's death was the only option. The information he had obtained was much more valuable than he expected. Now, John Wick had a new objective.
A few minutes earlier...
Sarah huddled behind the boxes, her hands over her ears, her body trembling uncontrollably. The warehouse, which had once seemed like a refuge, was now hell. She could hear the man's screams, the bloodcurdling cracks, and the monotonous whisper of John Wick's voice. It was a symphony of terror. She couldn't bear it. She swayed back and forth, hoping the movement would bring her back to reality. Her lips moved, emitting an inaudible whisper of prayer.
"Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name... Thy kingdom come..."
Suddenly, a wave of heat hit her, an intense fever that made her gasp. Sweat streamed down her forehead and back, soaking her clothes. It was a sensation she had never felt before, as if burning lava flowed through her veins, scorching every cell of her body.
She tried to ignore it, trying to calm down, but the sensation was so powerful that the heat of her body would not allow it. "God... what's happening to me?" she thought, her mind in a state of panic. The prayer stopped, replaced by a moan of pain. The fever was a new kind of terror, an internal enemy that was consuming her.
And then, she felt something else. An overwhelming thirst, a visceral need that could not be quenched by water. It was a deeper, more primal thirst. A need that burned her throat and forced her to open her mouth.
A thirst for... something she couldn't name. Her mind was in a storm, her body in an internal battle. Her head hurt, her stomach churned, and all she could think about was the thirst. The thirst dominated her, consumed her, and her gaze, full of a desire she didn't understand, shifted to the bodies of the thugs, who lay unconscious in the darkness. They were just bodies, but the thirst made them seem like something more. Something that could quench her.
Slowly, like a puppet coming to life, she stood up. Her feet moved with an eerie slowness. The fever made her feel strong, powerful, invincible. Saliva dripped from her mouth, forming a thread that ran down her chin. Her eyes, which had been full of tears, were now fixed on the men's bodies, her pupils dilated by desire. Every step she took was a sigh of longing.
The voice in her head called her, the thirst devoured her. Her mind darkened, and her instinct guided her. She approached the bodies, ignoring the man's screams that still came from the center of the warehouse, ignoring John Wick, ignoring everything. Only the bodies mattered. The bodies were the solution to her thirst. Slowly, she approached one of them. Her hand, which had trembled before, was now still. John had saved her from Father Ben, but something inside her had awakened.