September 27. Raccoon City. 7:00 AM
The alarm clock rang, but John was already awake. Routine, an armor built up over years of discipline, had gotten him out of bed much earlier. His body was tense, his muscles rigid, but his mind was not at ease.
When he closed his eyes, he didn't see darkness, but a sea of faces. The empty eyes of the director, the bloodied faces of the children, and that of Melissa, the girl he had tried to save, who was now probably just a memory.
Guilt, a feeling that rarely visited him, settled in the pit of his stomach. A subtle but persistent pain. What if he hadn't helped her? Would that tragedy have happened? He asked himself that question over and over, knowing it was a question with no answer. He couldn't count how many had died, but the stench of blood and fear still filled his senses. There were too many.
After his routine, he took a shower. The hot water pounded his body, but it couldn't wash away the images of the massacre. The lifeless face of the principal, the inert bodies of the children. When he got out, he dressed in casual clothes, a black long-sleeved shirt and comfortable pants.
He went to the small kitchen in his room, turned on the coffee maker, and prepared some oatmeal. The smell of coffee filled the space, a comforting familiarity. Just as he was about to take his first sip, a sound echoed through the room. A dull, dry thud, unmistakable. The sound of a gunshot.
The sound was an echo, but John recognized it. It was the sound of a 9mm caliber weapon. And then, the crash of a door smashing into the wall. The kitchen knife fell from his hand, but he caught it in midair, his mind processing the information in a fraction of a second.
The trap. The one he always set at his door, a thin cable stretching from his nightstand, connected to the gun he always kept handy, pointed at the door. It was a trap designed to ensure that any intruder would not get off so easily.
His body, without his mind giving it the order, moved. He crouched down, the knife in his hand. He heard the muffled groan of the person who had entered and been shot. Voices in the hallway, "Someone's hurt!" "Fire!" Authoritative voices. Cops. He heard countless heavy footsteps, a wave of boots entering his room, radio whispers, and the sound of metal against metal. John knew what it was. It was a tactical team. SWAT or something like that.
He moved silently toward the kitchen. Hidden behind an island, he pressed himself against the wall, his knife in hand. The voices were getting closer. John could hear the commanding voice. "Unit 2 to the kitchen! The target may be here!" The silence was broken by the sound of a foot shuffling, the sound of heavy breathing. There were three of them. John heard the slow, methodical footsteps approaching, and saw the tip of an assault rifle peeking around the corner.
A first officer poked his head out, rifle raised. John, in his casual shirt and comfortable pants, without his usual armored suit, had no time to waste. He lunged at the man, moving in a split second, grabbed the barrel of the rifle, and pointed it at the second officer entering. The surprised officer fired. A stray bullet hit the ceiling, and the second officer took cover, his body now an unwitting shield.
John didn't let him react. He used the first officer's rifle as a lever, pushed him back, and with his knife, stabbed him in the neck, in the upper chest, right in the collarbone.
The man screamed, his blood splattering the wall. Without wasting a second, John pushed him toward the second officer, who was trying to shoot. The second officer, in an attempt to react, fired, but the bullet, instead of hitting John, struck the first officer, who fell to the floor, dead.
John took advantage of the confusion. He lunged at the second officer, grabbed the rifle, disarmed him, and used it to block the kick coming from the third man. John, with the rifle in his hand, hit him in the face with the butt, and the man fell to the floor with a broken nose. The third man, in desperation, pulled out his gun, but John was faster.
John hit him on the wrist, and the man dropped the gun. John grabbed it, and before the man could react, John shot him in the head. The other officers in the unit, who were approaching down the hallway, heard the shot and shouted, "Come in, come in! The target is in the kitchen!"
The fight spilled out into the hallway. The other officers, ten men in all, entered the room. The hail of bullets shook the room. John, with the agility of a cat, moved between the shots, using the bodies of the fallen officers as shields. The fight, which had previously been a slaughter, became a struggle for survival. John moved like a specter, using every bit of the setting to his advantage.
He hid behind a sofa, reloaded his gun, and lunged into the hallway, shooting the approaching officers in the head. John, gun in hand, moved quickly and stealthily. He could hear the footsteps of the rest of the men approaching, and a chill ran down his spine.
He was on his turf. And John didn't like that one bit. He knew this wasn't a routine fight. These were professionals. They were here for him.
The scene turned into carnage. John moved among the bodies in a ballet of death and destruction. He jumped on a fallen officer, shooting twice at the head of another who was trying to flank him. The sound of metal hitting the wall and glass breaking filled the air.
An officer, hidden behind the door, shot at him. John felt a sharp pain in his shoulder as the bullet grazed him, but he didn't stop. "I got him!" the officer shouted to his colleagues. John lunged at him. "Come on, you useless fools! Shoot!" one of the officers in the unit shouted at his colleagues as they stood paralyzed.
John lunged at the officer, hitting him in the face with his gun. The officer screamed, his face a mess of blood and flesh. John shot him in the head. The other officers, who had approached, were petrified with fear. One officer shouted at the rest of the unit. "Don't just stand there! Kill him!" His voice was a cry of desperation.
Without hesitation, John lunged at them, using the body of the officer he had just knocked down as a makeshift shield, firing at point-blank range. The others fell to the floor, dead. One officer, desperate to flee, tried to back away, but tripped over a body. "No, please!" he screamed, but was silenced by the bullet John fired into his head.
Jill's Point of View
Jill had been in her room, trying to fall asleep, when the gunshots woke her up. The sound was too close to ignore. The crash of John's door being knocked down made her jump out of bed. She grabbed her gun, her service Beretta, and pressed herself against the wall, her heart pounding. The screams, the bullets, the sound of furniture breaking. The massacre, a choreography of death that spread down the hallway.
She opened her door carefully, peeking her head out. The hallway was a scene of horror. Officers' bodies lay on the floor, blood staining the walls and ceiling. The silence was heavy, broken only by the dripping of blood. Her eyes fixed on the lone figure in the center of John's room: him. John's dark shadow, motionless, watching the chaos he had created.
Jill saw the last moment of the fight. She saw an officer, a man from the tactical unit, who had stumbled over a body. He knelt down, pleading. "No, please!" he cried, his voice shaking. She saw John raise his gun and shoot him in the head without hesitation. Jill closed her eyes for a second, her mind struggling to process what she had seen. The blood of her enemies in the streets, their fear, the stench of death... It all felt too real. But she couldn't remain paralyzed.
When she opened her eyes, she saw the flash of a gun. It was an officer, who had been hiding behind the sofa, and was now pointing at John's back. Time stood still. Jill didn't think about anything, her mind acted on its own, her body reacted instinctively. She raised her gun, and without thinking twice, fired. The sound of her shot echoed through the hallway. The officer, who was about to shoot, fell to the floor, Jill's bullet piercing his head, right in the center of his forehead.
Silence reigned once more, a silence broken only by John's heavy breathing and the trickle of blood flowing from his shoulder. The air, thick with the smell of gunpowder and death, felt heavy. Jill moved slowly closer, her gaze fixed on the dark stain spreading across John's shoulder. The fabric was soaked, and a trickle of fresh blood ran down his arm, dripping onto the floor.
"John, you're hurt," she said, her voice barely a whisper. Jill reached out a trembling hand, wanting to touch the wound. John, without looking at her, stopped her hand with his own, a gentle but firm interruption. His skin was cold, his grip, despite his injury, unyielding.
"There's no time for that," John hissed, his voice hoarse with exhaustion. "We have to go. Now." His gaze darted around, assessing the room, the bodies, the possible exits.
"But your shoulder is bleeding!" Jill exclaimed, her voice breaking with desperation. "It's a gunshot wound. It could get infected. Let me help you, please. I'm an expert in combat medicine, I can stop the bleeding..."
John interrupted her, his gaze finally meeting hers. It was a hard, pragmatic look, without a trace of emotion. "This isn't the time," he repeated firmly, his voice low and icy. "You need to pack the most urgent things and get out of here."
Jill nodded reluctantly, turning to go to her room. But John stopped her again, his voice even lower.
"I'm the one who's leaving," he said.
Jill turned, confused, her heart pounding. "What?"
"Think about it, Jill," John explained, his voice devoid of emotion. "The police aren't looking for you. They probably don't even know you were here. If I stay with you, you'll put yourself at risk. It would be easier for me to escape alone. There's no reason for you to expose yourself to those who are after me. They're looking for me, not you."
"I want to go with you," Jill replied, her voice breaking with emotion. "After what just happened, I can't stay here. I don't want you to go alone. You can't expect me to leave you here, hurt, alone..."
John shook his head, unmoved, and looked her in the eyes. "My life... is a problem, Jill. It's a complication that isn't yours. Escaping alone is much easier."
Jill looked at him helplessly, the weight of his words sinking into her, each one a slab of resignation. She nodded, the discouragement evident in her eyes, knowing that his logic was unbreakable and the coldness in his voice was the greatest sign of the reality John was living.
John looked at her for a moment, and then a slight smile appeared on his lips, the first sign of warmth he had shown all morning.
"Although..." he said in a playful tone that contrasted with the seriousness of his face. "I could use an extra pair of hands to pack, since I have one shoulder out of commission."
Jill sighed, a mixture of resignation and relief. For a second, the weight of the world felt lighter. "Please," she said.
John nodded toward a corner of the kitchen. "I have all the essentials in a backpack. Grab it. I'll get changed."
Jill nodded, and while John headed for the bathroom, she went to look for the backpack he had pointed out under the sink. A new chapter was about to begin for both of them.
Two minutes after the massacre, the silence in the hallway felt even thicker than before. Jill's breathing, agitated and shallow, echoed in her ears. She had rushed to her room, the weight of John's backpack on her shoulder, waiting for him to come out of the bathroom. The squeak of the faucet as it opened and closed, the sound of footsteps as he changed clothes, every little noise reminded her that she was not alone in this hell.
John came out of the bathroom wearing a new set of clothes. His face was a mask of calm, but his eyes were cold and calculating. The wound on his shoulder looked a little darker, a patch of blood had stained his new shirt, but he didn't seem to care. Jill, with the backpack firmly on her shoulder, looked at him, waiting for him to say something.
John approached her with slow, deliberate steps, his gaze scanning the corners of Jill's room, looking for possible threats. He stopped a few feet away from her. "Jill," he said in a low, controlled voice. "Don't leave right away, wait a few hours."
Jill frowned, confused. "Why? I thought you were going to leave first to create a distraction."
John nodded, his eyes fixed on the hallway door. "That's right. The hotel is probably surrounded by agents, either police or professionals. I'll leave to divert their attention. You take advantage of the moment when the chaos calms down and the hotel is out of sight of the police to escape. When I manage to escape, I'll give you the signal."
Jill nodded, her voice full of discouragement, even though the plan made sense. "I understand. But is your shoulder okay? Won't it get in the way?"
John shrugged, the wound on his shoulder a constant reminder of his vulnerability. "Don't worry about that. I've had worse injuries. I'll take care of them. The priority is for you to get out of here alive. When I leave and the chaos subsides, leave the hotel through the emergency exit. I'll be in touch with you by phone."
Just as John was about to say something else, a new sound echoed in the hallway. Footsteps. Heavy, methodical, countless. The sound of combat boots was approaching their door. John and Jill looked at each other, their eyes reflecting the same alarm. John's smile faded, his face returning to the mask of coldness he always wore.
"Get behind cover," John hissed, his voice low and urgent. "And get ready to fight. They're here."
Jill lunged for the door, grabbing her Beretta, but stopped. "Wait, John, if they're not the police, if they're professionals, can't we just...?"
"No," John interrupted her in a tone that brooked no argument. "They don't know you. I'm their target. If they find out you're with me, you'll be collateral damage. I don't have time to deal with that, nor do I want you to become a target. The only way they won't know you're with me is to kill everyone who comes near."
Jill looked at him, her mind in turmoil. Kill again? The scene of the massacre in the hallway was still fresh in her mind. She closed her eyes for a second, the conflict inside her palpable. The massacre of the officers, begging for their lives. She didn't want to do it again.
But seeing the urgency in John's eyes, the tense situation... There was no choice. John's voice, though cold, had a trace of concern.
Jill, knowing there was no time to think, nodded firmly, the indecision fading from her eyes. "I'm ready," she said.
John, who had positioned himself behind the corner of the room, smiled. It was a cold smile, without joy, but it was a smile of relief. "Good," he said.
Jill moved to the other corner of the room, her Beretta in hand, her mind focused on the hallway. The sound of footsteps grew louder, clearer. John looked at her, his gaze suddenly softening, just for an instant. "Together," he hissed. Jill nodded, her heart pounding.
They both braced for the attack. A dark shadow appeared around the corner of the hallway. It wasn't the SWAT team's assault rifle, but the tip of an MP5. Then another, and another, until six men, dressed in black combat uniforms and gas masks with red lenses over their eyes, appeared. They were very different from the police officers she had faced before, with a more lethal appearance and no visible insignia. John noticed the difference, but didn't seem to care much. His expression grew even colder.
John prepared himself. Unlike the first encounter, he was now wearing his armored suit. He carried his pistol with plenty of ammunition on his belt and the rest of his equipment. Despite the persistent pain in his shoulder, the man moved with deadly fluidity. The moment the first MP5 peeked out a little further, John sprang into action.
The room exploded into chaos with gunfire and movement. John, grimacing in pain, spun around to shoot the first assailant in the leg. But the man, with surprising agility, slid sideways. John had to adjust his aim in a split second, the strain on his injured shoulder causing him to miss the first shot.
He recovered instantly and the second shot hit the man in the knee, who fell with a cry. Meanwhile, Jill, from her position, shot him with her Beretta, a precise and accurate shot to the head, ensuring that the enemy could not recover.
John didn't stop, shooting the next man in the knee. This man, however, ducked and took cover, deflecting the bullet with the MP5 he was holding. John moved, using the first man's body as a shield to cover himself from the others' shots.
Then, with astonishing speed, he ducked down, picked up the fallen MP5, and shot one of the assailants in the chest. His opponents' shots did nothing to him, thanks to his armored suit. John threw away the empty weapon and lunged at the next one.
The attacker didn't stand still; he blocked John's arm with his forearm, a hard blow that sent a sharp pain through John's injured shoulder. At that moment, Jill saw the other attacker moving to flank John. She shouted, "Right!" and in a sudden maneuver, shot him in the shoulder, causing him to fall.
The pain made the assailant scream, and John took advantage of the distraction to immobilize the man in front of him. John used the assailant's weapon to break his neck. The killer in the black suit growled, pushing harder to bend his opponent's arm. The attacker attempted a counterattack with a kick to the chest, but John dodged it.
John faced the two remaining attackers. One of them attempted a high kick. John ducked to avoid it, but the sudden movement caused a wave of pain in his shoulder.
Instead of a clean hit, his punch to the man's stomach was more of a shove, which didn't knock him down completely. The attacker staggered back, his partner seizing the moment of vulnerability to launch an attack at his head. John leaned to the side, feeling the air from the barrel as it passed, and shot the man in the chest before he had time to react.
Jill, seeing the danger, didn't stop, and in a rush of adrenaline, continued to shoot at the falling man as she moved. John realized that the last attacker was preparing to shoot, but John shot him in the knees. The man fell, and John crouched down, gun in hand, and looked at him.
The man, his gas mask eyes glowing bright red, stared at him with fury. John, without hesitation, shot him in the stomach and chest.
Silence returned, as suddenly as it had been interrupted. The hallway was littered with corpses. The smell of gunpowder and fresh blood was overwhelming. With his weapon still smoking, John moved among the bodies. The assailants writhing on the floor, trying to crawl away or simply moaning in pain, were quickly silenced with a precise shot to the head. There was no mercy, no hesitation.
His face, visibly exhausted and his forehead covered in sweat, showed no emotion. It was a job that had to be finished.
Jill watched the scene, a chill running down her spine. She had seen John's brutality before, but witnessing him so calm and lethal after such an intense fight reminded her that the myth of "Baba Yaga" was much more than just a story.
They looked at each other, adrenaline still pumping through their veins. They had fought as one, their movements coordinated like a deadly dance, but this time, John was visibly exhausted, while Jill, despite the tension, looked confident.
"I have to go now," John said hoarsely, each word seeming like an effort. "Stay here. Don't leave the room until everything has calmed down. It's probably not safe to even move down the hallway."
Jill nodded, concern reflected in her eyes. "Take care of your wound," she said, her voice barely a whisper. "And stay alive."
John didn't respond with words, only a slight nod, a gesture that showed a mixture of exhaustion and determination. He turned, slung his backpack over his shoulders, and began walking down the hallway. Jill watched him as the brutal scene unfolded.
The bodies of the SWAT team mingled with those of the new attackers, creating a macabre vision of the massacre. John, his suit stained, walked through the center of the carnage, his cold gaze already calculating his next move.
The elevator was not an option. It was a bottleneck, a perfect place for an ambush. John, pistol in hand, decided that the only way out was the staircase. It might be a longer route, but at least it would give him more options if they found him. As his thoughts swirled, he decided to use one of the grenades in his backpack to clear the main entrance.
Suddenly, the footsteps became more audible. A rhythmic, disciplined sound, rising from the lower floors. John didn't need to see them to know they weren't disorganized enemies.
They were professionals, probably reinforcements from the Raccoon City Police Department. He crouched down, hiding behind a wall as he peeked out to see. He saw a squad, at least six men, climbing the stairs in perfect wedge formation. He heard a murmur among them.
"The hotel is sealed. The target is inside," whispered one.
"Understood. We'll search for him, but don't let your guard down," replied the team leader in a deep voice.
John knew there was no other option. The narrow stairwell left them with no blind spots. He took one of the two grenades from his backpack. Despite the pain, his mind was cold and focused.
"Three. Two. One..." His internal count had no trace of panic; it was simply the sequence of a businessman. He pulled the pin from the grenade and threw it with deadly precision.
The grenade flew in a perfect arc, landing directly in the center of the formation.
"Grenade!" shouted one of the agents, his voice breaking with panic.
"No, wait!" shouted another as he lunged toward the grenade, trying futilely to pick it up and throw it away. He didn't have time, and his effort was in vain.
The roar of the explosion shook the building. The air filled with the screech of shrapnel and an echo of twisted metal. The force of the explosion threw the remains of bodies down the steps. Metal and blood stained the walls, whil r human remains fell to the floor below, creating a brutal and gruesome scene. John didn't even blink.
With the gun still in his hand, he ignored the massacre he had just created. He continued down the stairs, his feet treading carefully so as not to slip on the blood and body parts. His emotionless face focused on the next obstacle: the fence that awaited him at the main entrance.
John continued his descent down the stairs, step by step, his mind a map of possible escape routes and points of attack. Each step creaked under his feet, a sound that was music to his ears amid the silence he had left behind. The remains of the slaughtered agents were still scattered across the steps. The smell of gunpowder and blood was strong, but John paid no attention to it. His only obsession was to get out of the hotel.
When he reached the top floor, total silence enveloped the place. John looked around. The hotel lobby was deserted. The furniture and decorations were intact, but there was no sign of the receptionists or bellboys.
The morning sun filtered through the large windows at the entrance, illuminating the dust floating in the air. The golden glow of the morning created a stark contrast to the cold darkness John carried with him.
Through the large windows at the entrance, John could see the street. His cold, emotionless gaze swept across the scene. In the light of day, the sight was even more shocking. Raccoon City police vehicles and special forces armored trucks were parked in a near-perfect circle.
The sun glinted off the metal and glass of the vehicles, creating flashes that bounced off John's face. He was completely surrounded.
Change of perspective
Inside a communications booth in a SWAT van, the leader of the operation, SWAT Lieutenant Marcus Vance, slammed his fist on the table. His face, illuminated by the harsh sunlight streaming through the window, was contorted with rage and disbelief.
"What the hell is going on in there?" he yelled at an officer. "I sent two of my best teams in to capture one man, and now there's no communication! Nothing! The radios are dead!"
"We don't know, Lieutenant," the officer replied in a shaky voice. "They just stopped responding."
"It's just one man! One damn man!" Marcus roared, his frustration boiling over. "How is it possible for an entire professional squad to disappear without a trace? Something is wrong here!"
At that moment, another officer's voice rang out. "Lieutenant Vance, I have movement at the hotel entrance."
Marcus and the officer next to him froze. The lieutenant frowned. He jumped up, got out of the van, and looked toward the large windows at the hotel entrance. He could see his reflection in the glass, and behind him, that of his team, all with the same look of disbelief. The sunlight bathed them, revealing their tension.
Then he saw him. A lone figure emerging from the shadows of the lobby. It was the target. The man they had come to capture, dead or alive. John Wick. The lieutenant felt a chill run down his spine. Wick's suit was stained with blood, but his posture was as relentless as that of a predator. John's cold stare made him feel like prey.
Before Marcus could shout an order, or even pull the trigger, John raised a hand and fired his gun directly at the glass separating them. The glass shattered into thousands of pieces, scattering across the floor with a sound of breaking glass. John's hand didn't stop, and in one swift motion, he threw an object.
Lieutenant Vance, in the heat of the moment, could immediately see the object John had thrown.
It was a grenade.
The grenade flew in a perfect arc, glistening in the morning sunlight, and landed where the concentration of police cars was densest. Two seconds later, a series of chain explosions echoed throughout the area.
Countless police officers who were unable to escape in time were caught in the explosion, while the chain reaction of the cars caused everyone to lose sight of John for a moment. Lieutenant Marcus Vance was thrown into the air by the shockwave from a car near his own.
The roar of the explosions turned into a dull echo. The shockwave had knocked John down, but he got up immediately, with the agility of a cat. Thick, toxic black smoke spread across the street, devouring the sunlight. It was the perfect cover. The opportunity he had been waiting for.
As police sirens and the cries of wounded officers mingled with the roar of cars still exploding, John ran. His suit, now more than ever, blended in with the darkness of the smoke. He zigzagged between the burning vehicles, dodging the few police officers who were still standing, dazed. He could hear their cries, their voices broken by panic and pain.
"He's getting away!"
"Fire! Fire at the target!"
"Where the hell is that bastard?!"
Adrenaline pumped through John's veins. He moved with deadly speed, making several sharp turns to lose his pursuers. He ducked into a narrow alley, cutting through the network of passageways he knew so well.
The voices faded behind him, replaced by the distant clamor of the main street. With each step he took, his movements became more fluid, more precise.
That's when he saw it. A yellow taxi, parked on the corner. The engine was running, and the driver seemed to be waiting for a passenger. Without hesitation, John opened the back door and slid inside.
The driver, a middle-aged man wearing a baseball cap, was startled to feel someone get into his car. He looked in the rearview mirror and his eyes widened. He saw a man in an expensive suit, but stained with blood and dirt. His face was covered in soot and a deep scar crossed his forehead. John's gaze was cold and empty, that of a predator who had just finished his hunt.
The taxi driver blinked, and a light of recognition came on in his face. His lower lip began to tremble.
"Y-you..." he stammered, his voice barely a whisper. "You're... You're the one who caused the massacre at the school..."
The driver leaned over to open the door and escape, but an icy sensation ran down the back of his neck. The barrel of John Wick's gun had settled on the back of his head.
"Don't you dare get out of this taxi," John's voice was a low, dangerous growl. "Or I'll kill you right here."
The man stood still, his hands trembling on the steering wheel. John moved the gun slightly away, but kept it pointed.
"Why are you saying I was the one who caused the massacre?" John demanded, his voice emotionless.
The driver swallowed hard. "Today on the news... they released a video... from the school cafeteria. In the video, you can see you shooting a student... while everyone else in the cafeteria... is dead. They say that you... that you are responsible for everything..."
John processed the information in an instant. The cafeteria had a camera. It was the only logical conclusion. The police, working for Umbrella, hadn't wasted any time. They had manipulated the evidence, edited the video to frame him and use him as a scapegoat. It was a cynical and brilliant plan. John clenched his jaw. They were framing him.
"Take me to the nearest abandoned place," John ordered. His voice left no room for doubt.
The taxi driver, with the gun still pointed at him, just nodded fearfully, started the car, and drove away from the chaos, into the city of Raccoon City.
Author's Note: Please continue supporting the story with power stones, I would really appreciate it.