The echo of the silenced shot dissipated in the thick air of the warehouse. The lifeless body of the Umbrella agent lay at the foot of the column, a dead weight that no longer mattered. The information was all that remained. John, his breathing as steady as ever, stood motionless for a moment. His mind, a constantly running threat processor, was in planning mode.
Umbrella. The word echoed in his mind, not as a brutal echo of death, but as confirmation. The bits of information from the man, vague as they were, had opened a Pandora's box. The mansion, the virus, the monsters, Jill Valentine... it all came together in a single thread of depravity and power. The trail of bodies he had left behind was nothing more than a distraction in the great chess game Umbrella was playing.
The mere fact that they were willing to use a virus as a biological weapon told John that these were not men. They were monsters. And it was at that moment, when he understood the true nature of the corporation, that an image of Winston came to mind, his serious face, his eyes filled with genuine concern. Now, Winston's words made more sense than ever. "If you ever hear the word Umbrella... run, John. Don't ask questions, just run." The plan to escape Raccoon City wasn't dead. It had taken on a new urgency. Sarah was a victim of this, and John, a man of oaths and debts, couldn't abandon her. Now, his only purpose was to get out of the city with her, no matter what it took.
John approached the corner, certain he would find Sarah there. The darkness of the boxes hid her from view, but John knew she was there.
"Sarah," John whispered, his voice flat but with a hint of urgency.
There was no response.
"Sarah," he repeated, this time a little louder.
Silence was the only answer. John's mind began to work again. He made several logical assumptions.
Maybe she ran away? Got tired of waiting? Maybe she fell asleep?
He shook his head. She was afraid. She wouldn't have moved from that spot. Unless... John prepared himself for the possibility that she was injured or had hidden deeper. He decided to call her again, but this time with a more authoritative tone.
"Sarah," he said, his voice a deep whisper that cut through the icy air.
But the silence of the warehouse was broken. A strange sound. A crunching noise, like bones and flesh. John stood still, his senses heightened by the noise.
More thugs? More drug addicts?
He prepared for another confrontation, his hand in his pocket, and slowly approached, weapon at the ready. The sound of his footsteps was muffled by the dust and dirt on the floor. In the corner, under the only light from the skylight, a dark shape moved over the body of the Mohawk thug, who lay unconscious, his arm broken and his jaw crushed. The lump moved strangely, with a spasmodic motion, as the sound continued. The "crunching of bones" became clearer, closer.
John did not see Sarah in the corner. He only saw the lump in front of the thug's body. John, breathing steadily, approached, thinking it was someone trying to rob him. Ten meters away, a strong stench reached his nose. It was a nauseating smell, a mixture of blood, entrails, and something else. A smell of death. John frowned; the smell was so strong that it made his head hurt.
At that moment, the lump turned around.
No... it can't be...
It was Sarah.
Her face was covered in blood, her mouth stained with a thick, dark red. A trickle of saliva and blood ran down her chin, and her eyes, which had been filled with tears, were now bloodshot, her pupils dilated with hunger. John was in shock.
Her hand slipped, but not to pull out the gun, but to grab the wall so she wouldn't fall. I had never seen anything like it. A trail of blood ran from her lips, and what appeared to be the thug's intestine was in her hand as she devoured it with the greed of an animal.
Damn it. I saved her... or did I bring her to her death?
John realized his mistake. He had "saved" her, but she had already been infected. The video he saw in the church basement, the man who had transformed, it all made sense. The pale skin, the white eyes. Sarah, despite having a paler complexion than normal, her eyes weren't completely white. It was a stage of the transformation.
She's not a monster. She's a victim. But one who has become a monster.
I remember the basement. The sound of metal in the air, the syringe. Father Ben. I stood still, assessing the situation. I didn't want to make a false move. I have always trusted my eyes. My instincts. The certainty that I know when to intervene. But I was wrong. I should have killed him right then and there. I should have intervened before the needle touched his skin. And now... now this is my fault.
Sarah, who had already noticed John's presence, approached him with a slow, creepy step. Her gaze was not that of a victim, but of a beast. John, who was stunned, took several steps back. It wasn't fear, it was a mixture of terror and despair. "Sarah," John whispered, his voice a thread.
Stop! Come to your senses!
But there was no response. Only a low, deep growl. John, for the first time, felt that he had no plan. He couldn't shoot her. He couldn't kill her. He was a professional, a man who killed for a living. But this wasn't a job. This was a tragedy. He felt a desperation at not being able to do anything.
Do something. Try something. Try to save her.
"Sarah, it's John," he said again, his voice flat but with a hint of pleading.
Sarah's figure, her body trembling and slow, approached John. With great regret, John began to draw his weapon. The pistol, an extension of his arm, felt heavy in his hand. The same weapon that had killed hundreds of men, that had ended a thousand lives, felt like an unbearable weight.
As he drew it, memories of Sarah came flooding back, like an avalanche of images. The first time he saw her, tied to the bed. The first time she spoke to him, her voice broken with fear.
And then, the moment she stepped out of the shower, like a new creature, a rebirth, her face without makeup and her hair wet. She was the image of innocence. And now, he had to kill her. The irony was so cruel that it made his heart ache.
With a tremor in his hand that he couldn't control, John aimed at Sarah's legs, a quick shot without hesitation.
I just need to stop her. Give me time. Maybe there's something I can do...
The bullet hit her knee, causing her to lose her balance and fall to the floor with a cry of pain. John, without hesitation, dropped his gun on the floor and began to look around desperately. He was in a warehouse. There had to be something. Something to immobilize her. His eyes scanned the room, searching for something, anything that could help. He saw a pile of boxes and, behind them, a reel of old cables. It wasn't a rope, but it was strong enough. It wasn't a plan, it was desperation.
He hurried to grab the cables and approached Sarah again. He moved with the determination of a man who still refused to accept his fate.
"Hold on, Sarah. Just a little longer," he murmured, not sure if he was saying it out loud or just thinking it. He bent down, intending to tie her feet to keep her from moving. She lay on the floor, writhing in pain from her injured knee, and the blank look on her face was that of a wild animal.
Just as John was about to approach her, she stopped. Her eyes, which had been bloodshot, suddenly filled with tears.
"John..." she whispered, her voice broken with pain. "It hurts... it hurts so much..." Tears streamed down her cheeks, washing away the traces of blood and dirt. "Please, John... please kill me... I don't want to become a monster." Tears streamed down her face, and her eyes, still with a trace of lucidity, looked at him with a pain that could not be described in words. And with her last breath, her voice barely audible, she said to him, "John, you're a good person."
The rope, which she still held tightly in her hand, slipped and fell to the floor with a thud. The hope that had burned for a moment was suddenly extinguished. The moment of lucidity was over. Her face was once again that of a monster, her gaze empty. John, with a deep sadness and a determination he had never felt before, raised his gun.
This isn't a job. This is an act of compassion. And it's the hardest thing I've ever done in my life.
The bullet, a deadly whisper, pierced her skull. Sarah's body collapsed to the floor, lifeless. John approached her, his feet making a dull thud. He saw her, her pale skin, her bloody mouth. He saw her, and he saw her as a reminder of his own life, of the life he had lost.
At that moment, the dam of his control broke. It wasn't just a job. It wasn't just running away. Sarah's face, her last plea, the final stillness of her body... everything was etched into his memory, not as a scar, but as a mark burned into his soul. The sadness that had drowned him for a moment was transmuted into cold, pure fury, a rage so deep that it made his blood boil in his veins.
With a stiffness that was anything but human, he stood up. His gaze, once filled with devastating grief, turned into an icy flame, a promise of destruction.
John, without hesitation, began to move around the warehouse. He piled the wooden boxes and old pallets against the wall, forming a makeshift pyre, a deathbed that served as a final gesture of respect.
Then he lifted Sarah's body with a strength and delicacy that did not match the brutality of the moment. The blood on her face and the dirt on her clothes didn't matter; she was still, in that moment, the innocent he had tried to save.
He placed the body on the pyre, and the light from the skylight above illuminated her face. John, his face expressionless, took his lighter out of his pocket, lit it, and dropped it into the pyre. The fire, with a soft roar, began to consume the wood, sending flashes of light dancing across the dark walls. The smell of smoke and burning wood filled the air, a smell that purified the fetid air of the warehouse.
The crackling of the fire was the only sound, a music of purification and pain. John stood motionless, his eyes fixed on the flames consuming the wood. Over the past few months, he had tried to bury Baba Yaga, to hide him under a layer of peace and routine. But at that moment, watching the fate of innocence burn before him, he understood. The answer was no longer a choice.
The life he had dreamed of was a lie, a fragile illusion that Umbrella had shattered. He closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them, the gleam in them was not one of sorrow, but of brutal, cold certainty. He turned away from the flames and whispered, his words seemingly devoured by the fire:
"Sarah... there used to be a life I was trying to protect. But that life... burned with you. And I assure you that those responsible for your death will all die by my hand. And now... yes, John Wick is back."
And the echo of his words, an echo of death, was lost in the darkness, and only the crackling of the flames remained, an echo of John's fury.
Author's note: I am very grateful for the support I have received, and I would appreciate it if you could continue donating power stones so that the fanfic can reach many more people. Also, if you are enjoying the story, I would appreciate it if you could share it with your friends. Thank you very much.