In the dim, dust-filled expanse of an old abandoned warehouse, the Task Crew nursed their injuries—Jan, Mike, Elvis, Haydn, Tom, Brad, Sam, Moggy, and Carlos, their faces marked with pain and frustration.
Jan's voice broke the tense silence, barked with a mix of anger and confusion. "Who the hell was that kid?"
Elvis leaned forward, his military precision evident even in his weariness. "Definitely from a strong Outcast family—probably some ancient bloodline. Not someone you mess with casually."
Dave's nervous scrape of a voice cut in. "So... what do we do now?"
Elvis, ever the calm tactician, shrugged slightly. "Lay low for a while. We regroup, let things cool down."
Outside, hidden in the shadows, two figures observed the warehouse.One was The Wolf—a man whose manner carried the cocky, sharp-tongued edge. His voice was casual, measured, with a dry wit. "It's not every day you meet a legend like you, Mr. Wick."
The other was John Wick himself, the infamous Baba Yaga. His strong, stoic presence was undeniable—dark shoulder-length hair, well-kept beard, and piercing eyes that missed nothing.
John Wick nodded slowly, his tone clipped but respectful. "You're working as a personal hitman for the Morozova family?"
The Wolf smiled, a half-grin of both pride and shrewdness. "Yeah, I owe them my life. The missions aren't hard, the pay's good—and they keep things running smooth." His voice held that knowing confidence of someone who's been through the trenches but still relishes the game.
John Wick's steady gaze never wavered. "Keep your head down. This situation's turning out more complicated than usual."
The Wolf gave a small nod. "Always is with these types. But hey—that's why we do what we do."
John Wick and The Wolf moved silently through the shadows of the warehouse's perimeter, their footsteps barely audible on the cracked concrete. They exchanged a brief nod—no words needed. Wick's expression was stoic, predatory focus trained on the battered Task Crew inside; The Wolf's eyes gleamed with anticipation, his posture relaxed but ready, knife concealed in his sleeve.
Inside, Jan was pacing, clutching his shoulder. The rest of the crew was in various states of disarray, weapons and nerves still frayed. Mike spotted movement at the door but barely had time to shout a warning.The door slammed open.
John Wick entered first, a pistol held with deadly calm; The Wolf ghosted in behind him, blade already drawn. The atmosphere shifted—cold, lethal.
Jan raised his gun, but Wick fired first, a precise shot that clipped the weapon from Jan's hand.
Elvis lunged in desperation, but Wick sidestepped, swiftly disarming him and knocking him cold with the butt of his gun.
The Wolf moved fluidly between Sam, Carlos, and Brad. His style was unmistakable—quick, brutal slashes with the blade, disabling them with surgical strikes to the tendons and joints, yet leaving them alive. Moggy tried to rush him, but The Wolf caught his arm, twisting and slamming him into the wall.Haydn, still winded from earlier, attempted to gather himself.
Wick's focus shifted—not a wasted motion—he shot the pistol from Haydn's grip and pinned him with a sharp kick.Within moments, the Task Crew lay scattered—groaning, disarmed, and broken.
Wick swept the room, eyes cold and methodical for any remaining threats. The Wolf grinned, wiping his blade on his jacket, his smirk the only sign of enjoyment in the violence.
Jan looked up in fear, face pale. Wick crouched down, voice low and chilling."You shouldn't have gone after the Morozova family?"
John drew his pistol and moved with lethal precision. The Wolf followed suit, their weapons blazing in perfect unison.
Both aimed at the remaining Task Crew—Jan, Mike, and the others—firing with deadly accuracy.
The initial shots rang out, and the task crew was cut down in an instant—no mercy, no hesitation. The sound of gunfire echoed through the warehouse as the two assassins methodically eliminated everyone remaining, their focus sharp and unwavering.
John Wick calmly wiped his pistol, stepped outside, and pulled out his phone. With a steady hand, he dialed a familiar number and spoke in his quietly deliberate tone, "This is Wick. Yes, John Wick, that's right. I'd like to make a dinner reservation for 9."
The code phrase was unmistakable, the request meant for the Cleaners—the underworld's elite fixers.
It wasn't long before a van rolled up marked for waste disposal, blending perfectly with the city's mundane noise. Out stepped Charlie—the legendary Cleaner. Small and wiry, with a wispy crown of white hair and a trim mustache and goatee, his eyes sparkled with sharp intelligence beneath an otherwise amiable face. He carried with him the air of someone who had seen—and erased—countless horrors.
Charlie approached John and, with a knowing, respectful nod, surveyed the grisly scene. "Busy night, Mr. Wick?"
John simply handed over nine gold coins in silence, a mutual understanding in their gaze.
When Charlie finished, he tipped his cap. "Let me know if you ever need another reservation, John."
John's eyes flickered with the faintest hint of gratitude. "Thank you, Charlie."
Inside the warehouse, the aftermath of violence hung in the air like a broken promise—gunpowder and blood. As Charlie's cleaners hustled the bodies away, John Wick holstered his weapon, his face as impassive as stone beneath his beard and long hair.
The Wolf dusted off his jacket, standing off to the side, his white dress shirt splattered with a fine mist of blood. He flicked his wrist, resheathing his blade, and glanced at John with a swaggering half-smile. "You know, in my country, we throw a party for something like this. But, eh—New York has its own style, sí?"
John didn't respond, just nodded slightly, signaling approval without words. His focus was already shifting—calculating exits, watching for threats, but never truly letting his guard down.
The Wolf strutted near one of the fallen, checked the man's pulse theatrically, then shrugged at Charlie's crew. "He deserved worse. Such a waste of good linen, eh?"
Charlie, voice soft but direct, gave a small nod of professional respect to both assassins. "You gentlemen leave the rest to us. Fast, clean, and no questions."
Outside, The Wolf loosened his tie and wiped his hands with a flourish. "You know, hermano, you have a reputation. But I see—sometimes the legend's true." His grin was quicksilver, equal parts respect and bravado. "You ever want a drink and a little chaos, you let me know. I know all the best weddings."
John looked at him, eyes unreadable. "Maybe another time."
The Wolf gave a small bow, playful and sincere at the same time. "Of course. But don't keep me waiting forever, Baba Yaga."
With no further words, they faded into different shadows.