UNDERGROUND TRAIN STATION – EVENING
The smell of gunpowder in the air still lingered. Crashing glass sounded beneath boots.
Out of the darkness came the ring of a cane's tap—measured, intentional.
Caine appeared, glasses glinting with faint light. His tone was smooth, nearly apologetic.
Caine: "The Marquis requires your deaths. Don't repeat me."
Michael loaded a round into his M4, his breathing crisp.
Michael: "Then let's forego the speeches."
John Wick remained silent. He merely drew his gun, never taking his gaze off Caine.
It was Michael who opened fire first. His M4 boomed, sparks ripping into walls and handrails. Caine moved away from it, sliding low, the cane thudding against the floor for reference. His gun fired back, shots close enough to chip stone from the pillars.
John jumped in, moving with care—double-tapping in time, pushing Caine back. But Caine was a tempest; his motion impenetrable, rounding their corners, attacking from blind angles as if he could see everything.
Caine's cane struck John's wrist, clearing his pistol. John retaliated with a knee, but Caine spun, deflecting him into Michael's firing arc.
Michael swore, slapping his rifle grip, wielding it like a club. He swung it at Caine with a staff blow, sending him stumbling back. But Caine spun, blade emerging from the cane with a hiss.
Steel glinted. Michael used the rifle to parry, sparks flying as metal clashed against metal.
John drew his pistol, stepping in once more, but Caine kicked him back—quick and merciless. Michael rushed forward, engaging Caine. The two men crashed into a wall, exchanging vicious blows, neither man giving ground.
Michael (snarling): "John, go! He's mine!"
John stood for an instant. Their eyes clashed—Michael's furiously flaming, Caine's inscrutable behind dark glasses. Caine struck first, cane-blade swinging in a sharp arc. Michael parried with his rifle, the metal-on-metal scream screaming in the empty tunnels. With a grunt, he pushed Caine off, then kicked his boot into his chest, and Caine crashed into a bench.
Caine coughed, but he did not stop. He whirled around, whipping the cane in short, vicious jabs—each one to throat, ribs, knees. Michael could keep up, rifle a shield as sparks erupted with every ricochet.
Michael (snarling): "You think you're the hunter here?"
Caine (calm, steady): "No. I'm just the end."
The words cut like a knife, but Michael bellowed and attacked. He wielded the rifle like a warhammer, bludgeoning Caine back step by step. The crash resonated like gunfire as wood shattered and tiles fractured.
Michael overextended—Caine dodged low, blade glinting. A savage slice chopped across Michael's thigh. He stumbled, agony washing his leg.
Caine pushed, cane poking into his belly, pinning him against a pillar. Michael let go of his rifle in the fight. Now it was fists and survival.
Michael smashed his forehead into Caine once more, then pounded his fists into the man's ribs, every blow fueled by anger. Caine turned his cane, slapping Michael across the face, splitting his lip wide. They crashed hard on the cold floor, every blow like bone striking stone. Michael's fists pounded against Caine's ribs with brutal force, each punch resonating through his own sore leg. Caine struck back with deliberation—cracking knuckles into Michael's jaw, smashing elbows into pressure points.
Michael let out a bellow, blood flying from his lip, and smashed his hand into Caine's throat, holding him pinned. He had the advantage for an instant.
Caine, unruffled even under duress, reached for the piece of glass lodged in his sleeve. With one movement, he inserted it into Michael's side.
Michael's grunt developed into a snarl of fury. Rather than standing down, he clamped his arms around Caine, slamming his forehead against Caine's nose with a revolting crunch. Blood flowed, but Caine did not shriek—he merely hissed, his face smeared red.
Both men stumbled upright, swaying. Michael's side was afire, his leg giving way, but his fists were clenched tighter than anything. Caine shifted his footing, blood dripping from his nose and arm, and cane regained and blade extended again.
The air in the underground station was thick—only the whine of lights, the reverberation of their harsh breathing.
Michael spat blood onto the floor.
Michael (growling): "I'm not finished."
Caine (low, unchanging): "Neither am I."
Michael spat blood onto the ground.
Michael (growling): "I'm not finished."
Caine (low, even): "Neither am I."
Michael attacked with nothing but pure anger, swinging fists like sledgehammers. Caine parried with cold calculation, every blow designed to end it. The cane snapped across Michael's arm, but Michael never faltered. He caught the stick halfway through a swing, pushing it down, then jammed his knee into Caine's chest.
The two slumped onto a bench, splintering wood in all directions. Michael unleashed savage punches, each one ringing out like the beat of survival drums. Caine took the blows, then struck up with the handle of his cane, crashing into Michael's jaw and sending him stumbling back just far enough to draw air.
Both men were up again—bleeding, battered, but unbroken.
Michael's chest labored, each breath ripped. His blood seeped dark on the ground, but his hands remained firm on the rifle-turned-club.
Caine entered low—blade cutting for Michael's heart.
Michael moved forward instead, spearing himself on the blade.
The metal cut through him, but Michael's arms clinched like chains. He wrapped his fingers around Caine's wrist with one hand, his throat with the other, pulling the blind assassin in.
Michael (spitting blood, snarling):
"You're not stopping him."
Caine growled, twisting, pushing the blade in deeper. Michael bellowed, his body shaking, but he clung on harder.
From the other side of the station, John witnessed it—the sacrifice—and his eyes clenched in grim understanding. Turning at once, he strode down the tunnel, pistol in hand, making for the Marquis.
Caine (hoarse, thrashing):
"You're already dead!"
Michael slammed his head into Caine's face, breaking his own skin, caring not. He pinned him back against a pillar, pinning him there with sheer force of will.
Michael (growling in his ear):
"Then I'll take you with me."
The two men stumbled, trapped in a ferocious dead man's hold. Blood spattered the tiles. Whenever Caine struggled to escape, Michael yanked him closer, pulling him down with him.
Behind them, the sound of John's footsteps became faint, lost in the tunnels.
Michael, blood-coughing, grinned crookedly.
"Go finish it, John…"
And with that, he cinched
CHURCH OF SACRÉ-COEUR – DAWN
The battlefield was decided. Paris lay spread out below, still under the sickle crescent of morning light. The banners of the High Table hung from the centuries-old stone.
The *Marquis Vincent de Gramont* stood tall in the center, flanked by his attendants and witnesses. He adjusted his gloves, enjoying every moment of the ceremony.
Before him, *John Wick* appeared. His suit was torn, and blood was on his face, but his stance remained unbroken. Each step bore the burden of inevitability.
The *Harbinger* advanced, voice booming across the courtyard.
*Harbinger:* "By order of the High Table, this will be resolved by single combat. Champion versus champion. To the death."
The Marquis smiled coldly.
*Marquis:* "And so the dog comes crawling to his end."
John cocked his pistol methodically, gaze fixed on him.
*John:* ".Let's get on with it."
---
They stood facing each other in the courtyard. Pistols raised.
The bell rang.
*First round* – Both discharged. Gunshots burst the morning air. John recoiled as a bullet gouged across his arm. The Marquis winced as John's bullet grazed his side.
*Second round* – Nearer now. They discharged again. John's bullet slammed into the Marquis' shoulder, sending him reeling back. But Wick, also, was bleeding, slowing, each breath in agony.
*Final round* – The Marquis drew his pistol, grinning past the agony.
*Marquis:* "You die… a slave to vengeance."
John leveled his gun. His words were steady, resolute.
*John:* ".No. I'm free."
The blast echoed. The Marquis fell, shock etched on his face.
The Harbinger moved forward, voice serious.
*Harbinger:* "Victory falls to John Wick. He is released from the High Table."
John dropped his pistol. For the first time in years, his chest rose not with anger—but freedom.
And then from the shadows of the shattered stairway, Michael appeared—limping, bleeding, but alive. His face was pale, his thigh wound still oozing.
John: "Michael…"
Michael crooked a grin.
Michael: "Guess you did it… Free man, huh?"
Before John could respond, the Harbinger moved forward, voice heavy with weight.
Harbinger: "By right of duel, John Wick is free. His name was struck from the register of obligation. The High Table will stand by this law."
His cold eyes focused on Michael.
Harbinger: "…But you, Michael, are no party to this bargain. You are not free. Your rebellion against the Table was never authorized."
Michael's smirk began to fail him. His hand tightened around his gun.
Michael: "…Figures. You people always need someone left to hunt."
John's jaw clenched.
John: "He fought with me. Without him, I wouldn't have come here. If I'm free—he walks too."
The Harbinger shook his head.
Harbinger: "The Table's law is absolute. His life is still forfeit."
Michael laughed harshly, though agony seeped into each breath.
Michael: "Guess I should've invited myself to your little duel."
John drew closer to him, his hand grasping Michael's shoulder. For once, his tone softened.
John: "Then I'll stand with you. As you stood with me."
Michael gazed at him, taken aback—then shrugged his head, a harsh laugh.
Michael: "Don't. You paid for your peace, John. Don't squander it."
The bells tolled once more in the distance, as if jeering at the two of them.
The Harbinger took a final bow.
Harbinger: "Enjoy your liberty, Mr. Wick. And as for you, Michael… your tale is far from over."
He turned and walked away into the dawn.
John and Michael were alone now—one man free, the other still pursued.
Michael sat back against the stone stairs, eyes closing for a moment.
Michael: "Looks like I'll be keeping the wolves busy a while longer."
John said nothing, but the fire in his eyes promised one truth: if the Table came for Michael, they'd find John Wick waiting too.
-----
trying to be regular