In the narrow space between two brick buildings, a figure lay among scattered trash bags and broken bottles. The alley smelled like piss and rotting food, just another forgotten corner in a city full of them.
"Roof! Roof!"
A pitbull puppy stood a few feet away, barking at the motionless body. Its coat was dirty, one ear flopped over, and it looked too small to be out here alone.
"What the hell..."
John's eyes cracked open when, pain hit him immediately—his ribs, his head, his back, everything hurt. He could feel something wet on his face, probably blood. He tried to remember how he got here but his thoughts were scattered. The Continental. The High Table. A duel. Being shot and then nothing.
Judging from his memory he should be dead.
The puppy moved closer and started licking his face. John blinked, confused by the sudden feeling on wet saliva on his face, then weakly pushed the animal back with a shaky hand.
"Hey... can you move?" he muttered to the dog.
John pressed his palms against the dirty ground and forced himself up. His arms trembled and his vision blurred, but he kept going. He made it to his knees, then to his feet. The world spun but he stayed upright.
He took a step forward and the puppy followed, staying close to his leg. John took another step, then another, focusing on the street ahead. Each movement sent fresh waves of pain through his body, but he had lived through worse. Probably.
Ten steps in, his legs gave out.
He collapsed, his cheek hitting the pavement. The puppy whimpered and pressed against his side. John's eyes closed and everything went dark again.
---
When John woke up, he was warm and no longer lying on concrete but on something soft. A couch, he realized. Old leather, worn in spots. He could smell wood and beer and food cooking somewhere nearby.
He opened his eyes slowly. The room was small and cluttered—exposed brick walls, beer posters, a kitchenette through a doorway. Someone's apartment, probably above a bar or restaurant based on the layout.
John tried to sit up. His body protested immediately but he pushed through it, managing to prop himself against the armrest. His shirt was gone, replaced by clean bandages wrapped around his torso. Someone had cleaned the blood off his face too.
"You're awake."
The voice came from the doorway. An older man stood there, maybe sixty, with gray hair and a weathered face. He wore a stained apron over jeans and a flannel shirt, and he was holding a spatula.
"Where am I?" John's voice came out rough.
"You are at my place just above my bar." The man walked into the room, studying John with the look of someone who'd seen plenty of trouble in his day. "I found you passed out in the alley next to my building with your dog. You looked half-dead."
John glanced down at the bandages. "You did this?"
"I wasn't gonna leave you bleeding out there." The man shrugged. "I'm Frank, by the way. Frank Castellano."
"John."
Frank nodded like he'd expected as much. "You hungry, John? Got some soup on the stove."
John realized he was starving, though he wasn't sure when he had last eaten. "Yeah. Thanks."
"Don't mention it." Frank turned back toward the kitchen, then paused. "Your puppy's here too. Little guy wouldn't leave your side when I dragged you in. He's sleeping in the corner."
John looked over and spotted the pitbull curled up on an old blanket near the wall, its sides rising and falling steadily.
Frank disappeared into the kitchen and came back a minute later with a bowl of soup and a glass of water. He set them on the coffee table in front of John. "Eat slow. You've been out for almost a day."
A whole day. John picked up the spoon, his hand steadier now, and took a sip. It was simple a simple soup filled with chicken, vegetables, nothing fancy—but it tasted better than it had any right to.
"So," Frank said, settling into an armchair across from him. "Are you going to tell me why you were dying in my alley, or is that none of my business?"
John looked at his eyes. Frank's expression was neutral, not quite friendly but not hostile either. Just... waiting.
"It's complicated," John said finally.
"I bet it is." Frank leaned back. "Look, I don't need your life story. But you were pretty messed up. If someone's looking for you, I would like to know about it before they show up at my door."
The old man had a fair point. John took another spoonful of soup, buying himself time to think. The problem was, he didn't know if anyone was looking for him. He didn't even know where he was.
"What city is this?" John asked.
Frank's eyebrows rose. "New York. Manhattan. You hit your head that hard?"
New York. That made sense, except... John's last memory was also New York. The Continental, the duel with Caine,and then being shot. But something felt off about Frank's answer, though he couldn't place why.
"No one's looking for me," John said. It might even be true. If the High Table thought he was dead, they'd move on. "I just need a few days to recover, then I'll be gone."
Frank studied him for a long moment. "You got money?"
"No."
"Figured." Frank sighed. "Alright, here's the deal. You can stay here until you're back on your feet, but you're gonna work for it. My bar could use an extra hand—dishwashing, cleaning, whatever needs doing. You good with that?"
John hadn't expected charity, and he respected that Frank wasn't offering it. "Yeah. I can do that."
"Good." Frank stood up. "Rest today. Tomorrow you start. The bar's called The Departed, by the way. We open at four."
He headed back toward the kitchen, leaving John alone with his soup and his thoughts. The puppy moved slightly in the corner, maybe yawning, then padded over to John's side. It looked up at him with big brown eyes, tail wagging hesitantly.
John reached down and scratched behind its ears. The puppy leaned into his hand happily content.
He still didn't understand how he'd survived. The shot should have killed him. Maybe it had, and this was some kind of afterlife. But the pain felt too real for that, and Frank seemed too ordinary to be an angel or a demon.
John finished his soup and lay back down on the couch. His body ached, but the warmth and the food were already helping. The puppy jumped up next to him, circling twice before settling against his side.
For the first time in longer than he could remember, John Wick closed his eyes and let himself rest without worrying about who might come through the door.