September 22. Raccoon City.
Weeks have passed. Or maybe months. Time has become a kind of thick liquid, difficult to measure when each day is just a new effort to leave no trace. I managed to disappear. I slipped through the shadows, cut ties, erased my tracks. It wasn't easy. The High Table doesn't give up; their fingers are long and reach the most unexpected places. But the world is bigger than they think, and sometimes, the best way to hide is simply to stop running. To let them think you're dead.
That's my plan. That's why I'm here.
I found this place on an old road map I bought at a gas station. A tiny dot, barely a smudge of ink, somewhere in the United States. The road leading here isn't even paved. It's called Raccoon City, an irony that's not lost on me.
It's a normal town, though not as big as the ones I know. There are people on the streets, cars in traffic, and businesses open. The tranquility isn't that of an abandoned place, but of a town that lives at a slower pace.
The calm is almost deafening. There is nothing. No one. The silence burns my ears. I'm so used to the noise, the roar of gunshots, the crunch of bones. This peace is strange, almost unnatural. At night, the only light is the moon, and in the morning, my only company is the chirping of birds.
It's a place isolated enough that no one would look for me here. The end of the road. The place where the man I once was, and the man I became, can finally rest. I've stored everything I need. There's ammo, weapons, and some supplies. I'm not going to let my guard down. I can't. My gut tells me something isn't quite right. There's a heavy air, a smell of something I can't quite place. It's subtle, but it's there. It smells of damp, rust, and a chemical product that's familiar from my dirtiest contracts.
But I'm not dwelling on it. I'm becoming paranoid. It's the life I led. The price you pay for survival. I settled into a roadside motel, one of those places that smells of tobacco and broken dreams. It's enough. It's my new fortress. My new home. My peace.
Two days later, John Wick had already grown accustomed to the monotony of Raccoon City. His routine was simple: wake up early, a morning walk that was more a silent reconnaissance, a meal at a local diner where he spent more time listening than eating, and the rest of the day observing.
In those two days, one conversation in particular had become a recurring theme: the incident in the Arklay Mountains.
He had investigated what little he could. The news on television was vague, speaking of an "accident" at a mansion, the missing "Bravo team" of S.T.A.R.S., and the "Alpha team" sent to investigate. He had filled in the gaps with fragments of conversations he'd picked up on the street, in the cafeteria, at the motel reception.
The people were uneasy. The animals were acting strangely, and the rumors of cannibalism in the woods were becoming harder and harder to ignore.
The information didn't surprise him. In his world, silence was usually a sign that something big, something dangerous, was brewing. They weren't conspiracies; they were data points. The chemical smell, the strange stillness, and now the reports of an elite team gone missing in a nearby forest. The sum of the parts was all too familiar. Paranoia was a luxury he couldn't afford. It wasn't paranoia if the threat was real.
In the afternoon, John decided it was time to go to the source. He wasn't looking for trouble, but knowing where the police station was would allow him to plot an escape route if necessary. He put on his suit, made sure his bag was securely closed, and left the motel. He walked calmly, without drawing attention, to the imposing brick structure of the police station.
He entered the lobby, which was surprisingly quiet for a downtown area. He approached the counter, where a bored-looking officer was reviewing some papers. "Excuse me," John said in a low voice. "I'm new in town. Could you tell me where I could get a map of the area?"
The officer looked up and eyed him up and down, his gaze stopping on John's expensive suit, and pointed to a brochure on the counter. "There's one there. You can take it."
John took a map. But he didn't leave. He moved to a corner, pretending to study it, while his ears tuned in to the conversations of the nearby cops.
"It's crazy, don't you think?" a middle-aged officer murmured to his partner. "Barry left town, Chris disappeared without a word, and now Jill has been discharged from her S.T.A.R.S. post and is being watched. They don't want us talking about this."
The other officer nodded, his face grim. "I know. It's like the police chief wants to cover the whole thing up. And now, who's going to help us? Wesker was supposed to be in charge."
"Wesker's dead, we don't need to think about him," the first officer shuddered. "But I wonder what's going on, and I'm afraid this is just the beginning."
The man's second sentence resonated in John's mind. Something big enough. The words were like a confirmation of what he already suspected. The instinct that had kept him alive in a world of assassins was now screaming at him. This wasn't a cult. This was something else. And his refuge, his supposed peace, was nothing more than a pause. And he knew, deep down, that the pause would not last.
With the map in hand, John left the police station and went back to the streets. He knew the weapons he carried were reliable, but a professional always gets to know their surroundings. He stopped to study the map, his eyes settling on the location of the only gun store in town. It was the next logical step.
He needed to know what kind of bullets were moving around here, what kind of weaponry the people of Raccoon City handled. An assassin is only as good as the information he has.
The shop, called "Kendo Gun Shop," was on a side street, away from the downtown hustle. The smell of oil, gunpowder, and steel felt as familiar as his own home. Inside, a man in his forties, with a neat beard and a leather apron, was cleaning a shotgun.
"Good afternoon," John greeted.
The man looked up. "Good afternoon, friend. Welcome to Raccoon City. I'm Robert Kendo. How can I help you?"
John took a moment to scan the place. The weapons were on display, clean and well-maintained. They weren't guns for an army, but hunting rifles and personal defense shotguns. "Just looking," John said, his voice as flat as ever. "I'm just passing through, and I like to see how things move around here."
"I understand. A man who cares about his safety. These days, you never know," Robert said, his smile friendly and genuine. He put down the shotgun and leaned on the counter. "Are you thinking of moving, or something?"
"Maybe," John replied. His eyes fixed on a Remington 870 pump-action shotgun. "What kind of ammunition does your shop carry? Do you have anything for this?"
"We have everything from birdshot to slugs, depending on what you need," Kendo explained proudly, but then his voice dropped as if he were sharing a secret. "Because of the rumors going around, people have been coming in to buy ammo to defend themselves. The truth is, the rumors don't bother me, but what does give me a bad feeling is what I've heard about the church in town. They say people have gone missing, and the police don't seem to be investigating. I've tried to ask around, but no one gives me any answers. It's a bad feeling."
John continued examining the weapon, his fingers barely touching the wood, but his attention was completely focused on Kendo's words. "Disappearances, you say. What kind of disappearances?"
"I don't know, the usual. People say they've seen ghosts," Robert replied with a shrug. "But I wonder if there's something more. One night, I saw the lights of a patrol car near the church, but they left in less than five minutes."
Suddenly, a small girl of about six peeked out from a door in the back. Seeing John, she smiled and waved at him. John, surprised for a second, waved back. The girl ran to her father, who hugged her with affection.
"Hi, Dad!" the girl exclaimed. "The man waved at me! Is he a ghost hunter?"
Robert laughed, and then turned back to John, his smile widening. "Sorry about that, this is my daughter, Natalia. A pleasure to meet you, sir...?"
"John," he replied, his voice grave and concise.
"A pleasure, John. I'm Robert Kendo," he said, extending his hand. John shook his hand with a firm grip.
The girl, clinging to her father's leg, looked at John with curiosity. "Hi, Mr. John!"
John simply nodded in response. He took a moment to inspect the 9mm ammunition Robert had shown him, examined it with a silent professionalism, and bought two boxes. After paying, he said a brief "Thank you" and walked out the door.
Inside the shop, Natalia tugged at her father's pants. "Dad, did you see Mr. John's suit? It looked really expensive. Like something a spy would wear in the movies."
Robert smiled, stroking his daughter's head. "Yes, honey, a very elegant suit. And a very firm handshake."
Natalia frowned, thinking. "But why would a spy buy bullets at a small shop? It doesn't make sense."
Robert chuckled. "Natalia, spies don't exist. They're just movies. Besides, a true professional knows not to underestimate a local gun shop. You never know what you might find."
As the conversation faded in the distance, John walked through the streets of Raccoon City. The bag felt heavier now, not just because of the two boxes of ammunition, but because of the information he carried in his mind.
Two days of pure silence. The High Table hadn't made a single move. That stillness felt more ominous than any assault. It was the calm before the storm, and one that had distracted him from the imminent danger he left behind. Or at least, that's what he had believed.
"Ghosts? Police looking the other way?" John repeated to himself, his voice a whisper barely audible beneath the city's noise. "This isn't my problem. My problem is the High Table, not a church with a bad reputation." His logic, a lifetime of training, screamed at him to turn back, to return to his hotel, to keep a low profile and prepare for the inevitable.
Exposing himself, drawing attention... it was the fastest way to break the agreement he had made with himself: that of a peaceful life. "It's a mistake," he whispered. "An unnecessary risk. If they see me here, if they link me to this, the trail will be easy to follow."
But there was something else. Something he couldn't ignore. A small twitch in his instinct, the same one that had saved his life countless times. These weren't just random disappearances. They weren't just rumors. It was a problem the police didn't want to touch. And a problem the police ignore is often a problem that is too big for them, or one that hides something much deeper.
The sun began to set, painting the sky a reddish-orange. In the distance, he saw the silhouette of the church Robert Kendo had mentioned. His thoughts refused to go, his reason resisted, but his feet, almost on their own, carried him in the opposite direction from the hotel.
It was the same need that had led him to be who he was, a need to control his environment. He was on the threshold of a new war, his peace shattered by curiosity and the need to know. And in an instant, he found himself at the church entrance, his hands in his pockets, the hunter's instinct overwhelming the instinct for survival.