Chapter 55: John Wick
The Rayne Clinic's afternoon was quiet and peaceful.
By the window, Ethan was holding a cream-topped cupcake—his third today.
He mused in his chair: how many of Max's cupcakes could he eat daily without getting fatter?
Biting off the swirl of frosting, he felt the cloying sweetness explode on his tongue; guilt and satisfaction climbed together.
He muttered, "A life hijacked by sugar... fat and happy, after all."
Ding-a-ling—
The bell chimed softly, a gust of cold air and silent intensity sweeping in together.
A tall man pushed the door open—dark suit, black shirt, and eyes like tempered steel.
His slightly long hair hung messily, half-hiding his brows; his shoulders were taut, as if forever poised for violence.
He supported a woman whose face was deathly pale—ravaged by illness yet still composed, elegant, as though clinging to her last shred of dignity.
The woman almost slumped against him, her sickly pallor making her look like fragile porcelain.
Yet she stood very straight with his help, hair carefully styled, beige coat pristine.
Before her, all the man's strength, vigilance, and lethality seemed shed, leaving only the instinct to protect what was fragile.
Without introducing himself or even glancing around, the man looked at Ethan: "Doctor, she needs help."
He settled her gently into a chair, one hand still clasping hers, the other placing a thick medical file on the desk.
Ethan set down his cupcake and stepped forward.
Opening the file, he found stacks of examination and consultation reports from major New York hospitals—Sloan Kettering, NYU Langone, Mount Sinai.
"Helen Wick..."
Ethan's expression grew heavy.
Diffuse intrinsic pontine glioma—an inoperable, highly lethal brainstem tumor, seen mostly in children or young adults.
This tumor doesn't grow inside the brain—it is part of the brain. To cut it out is to cut out life itself. Even radiation therapy can only delay progression by a few months.
The brainstem controls breathing, swallowing, heartbeat; as the disease worsens, the patient will gradually lose the most basic life functions.
The woman was clearly in the terminal stage—her breathing shallow, speech slow, gaze unfocused, fingers trembling.
Ethan retrieved his stethoscope. "She's had radiation? And experimental treatments?"
The man's jaw tightened for a second, then he nodded.
Yet the woman smiled faintly, a serenity in that smile, as though someone else were suffering.
The man lifted his eyes to Ethan—not pleading, but radiating a hope so calm it felt brutal, as if saying—
If you can save her, even pull her back from death by an inch, I'll do anything.
Ethan had seen many relatives' grief, but never such silent, razor-sharp devotion.
"In her current condition," Ethan said, "she may have less than a week."
"I know." The man's voice was low and gravelly. "An old friend said... you might have a miracle here."
"Old friend?"
Silence stretched between them.
Ethan insisted: "Sorry, I need to know how you heard about me; it will determine whether I treat her."
So far, his two cancer patients—one walked in herself, the other was his high school teacher—both backgrounds were clear.
A stranger arriving on a "friend's" referral made him uneasy.
The man hesitated: "He has nothing to do with the federal government... but he can access plenty of their intelligence."
Ethan stared at the man whose gaze was granite-hard yet steeped in desperation; the phrase echoed in his mind.
He ranted silently.
If the U.S. government knows something, by the next day every crime family, corporation, and power broker hears it across backroom tables.
Government intelligence equals everyone's intelligence.
The so-called secrecy is a joke; maybe I really should call Phil Coulson to "express my gratitude."
But on second thought, this might not be entirely bad.
He had been planning to expand his practice, letting more people in need find him; now he had quasi-official validation—albeit through an excessively "transparent" channel.
Trouble might come, or not—risk and opportunity coexist.
"I understand." Ethan nodded, dropping further questions about the "old friend": "I'll do my best."
He turned his attention back to Helen Wick.
The man's taut jaw seemed to relax a fraction.
"Thank you," he said.
The treatment room was quiet; Ethan had the man help Helen onto a more comfortable reclining chair.
He washed his hands, stood before Helen, closed his eyes, and regulated his breathing.
When he opened his eyes again, a gentle luminescence seemed to swirl within them.
He raised his hand above Helen's forehead and began chanting a low, ancient prayer.
A warm, dawn-like light flowed from his palm, slowly enveloping Helen's head, then spreading over her entire body.
Helen's body trembled slightly; her furrowed brows relaxed, her once-shallow breaths turning deep and steady.
The man stood motionless like a sentinel, eyes locked on Helen, missing nothing.
The first session lasted nearly half an hour.
When Ethan lowered his tired hand, Helen let out an almost inaudible yet unmistakably relieved sigh.
She opened her eyes; the once-scattered gaze now looked clearer.
"John..." she called softly, voice still weak but no longer threadbare.
The man knelt beside her at once, clasping her hand: "I'm here."
Simple words, yet they seemed to hold infinite strength.
"I think... I just had the most restful sleep in months," Helen said, offering him a faint smile.
The man looked more relieved than astonished; he glanced at Ethan, on the verge of speaking, but chose silence.
What followed made the man feel his heart might burst from his chest.
After three continuous sessions, Helen—supported by the man—could actually stand and, shakily, take several steps on her own.
Unimaginable compared with just hours earlier.
Ethan examined her again: the tumor remained, but symptoms suggested at least a forty-percent regression; her vitals had stabilized significantly, the disease forcibly pushed into remission—no immediate danger.
Even Ethan, accustomed to Holy Light's effects, was slightly surprised; this result seemed more pronounced than before.
Holy Light really does get stronger the more you use it.
"One or two more sessions," Ethan told the man. "Earlier patients returned after a month.
But she's relatively young, and this tumor is extremely aggressive; we must complete treatment quickly, or the regression will rebound even worse.
So I recommend you bring her back in one week."
Looking at his transformed wife, then at Ethan, the man's former coldness had thawed into a weighty, oath-like gratitude. "I owe you a life."
He paused, correcting himself: "More than one."
Only then did Ethan ask the question long circling his mind: "Now, may I have your name?"
"John Wick," the man replied.
John Wick... sounded familiar.
Ethan froze, then felt as if struck by lightning.
He remembered: a legendary assassin whose puppy was killed by Russian mobsters, triggering his rampage; alone, he turned New York's criminal underworld into a bloodbath.
That dog had been his only comfort after his wife died.
If someone would burn down the entire Russian Mafia for a dog, what would he do for a living wife?
Ethan thought mischievously: now I own more than one of John Wick's lives—what shall I do with them?
[500 PS unlocks 1 Extra Chapter]
[10 Reviews unlock 1 Extra Chapter]
Thanks for reading—reviews are appreciated.
P1treon Soulforger has 20+advance chapters