September 25. Raccoon City. The warehouse. 3:00 p.m.
The air in Raccoon City, heavy with the stench of death and fear, felt even denser after the warehouse had been cleaned out. John's footsteps were a silent rhythm against the broken pavement.
He had left the flames behind, but the image of Sarah, her final plea, and the smell of smoke and blood had stuck to his skin like an invisible shroud.
The rage that had roared inside him had cooled into a brutal determination, a singular purpose that left no room for pain or regret.
He reached the hotel entrance, an oasis of order in a desert of chaos. The lobby was empty except for the usual receptionist, a man with a serious face and tired eyes who was unfazed by anything. When he saw John, his normally expressionless face showed a hint of concern. The blood on his clothes and the empty look in his eyes spoke louder than any explanation.
"Mr. Wick," said the receptionist, his voice a whisper in the stillness of the night. "It looks like you've had a difficult day."
John stopped, his gaze fixed on the man. The receptionist was no longer just an employee; he was a witness to his return. There was no answer he could give. A simple nod of the head was the only way John could respond.
"I just need my room," John said, his voice a low whisper, colder than the night air.
The receptionist nodded, his face now back to normal. He handed John the key, which he took without saying a word. He climbed the stairs, and the quietness of the hotel was a contrast to the chaos of the city.
He entered his room, and the clean air and freshly made bed gave him a sense of normality that made him feel even stranger.
He took off his jacket and shirt and saw that the blood had dried. He went to the bathroom and looked in the mirror. The man he saw was not the man who had left. The eyes he had seen in the mirror, filled with pain and remorse, had been replaced by a cold stare.
His fists were clean, but the trace of Sarah's blood was a silent reminder of his failure. He took his phone out of his pocket, an old model, and dialed a number. The phone rang several times before a voice answered.
"John..." said Winston's voice, sounding tired. "I thought you'd be on the road by now. Please tell me you're out of the city."
"I'm not far," said John, his voice a whisper, but Winston knew it was a declaration of war.
"I can't help you with this, John. I don't have any information. I'm asking you to let it go," Winston's voice sounded tense and reluctant. "Umbrella is... different. They're a force that transcends our world. If you mess with them, there will be no place to hide."
"I know what Umbrella really does," John interrupted, his voice a cold whisper. "I know about their test subjects. I saw it. I experienced it firsthand."
A long sigh echoed over the line. Winston fell silent for a few seconds, as if processing the information. "So you already know about that..." he said, his voice now tinged with resignation. "I knew I couldn't stop you. Fine. If you're determined to walk into hell, at least let me give you a map. Its existence is a dark stain. An organization that operates in the shadows and with a lot of money. All I know is that they have several public infrastructures for recruiting test subjects."
"What kind of facilities?" John said, his voice a command, not a question.
"Hospitals, schools, churches, anywhere they can find people for their experiments. Their power is so great that no one looks for them. John, please, let it go," Winston said.
"I can't," John said, his voice a whisper. "Not after..."
"I understand now," Winston interrupted, his voice soft but weighted with deep understanding. "This is personal for you."
"I know. That's why I need a new target," John said. "Thanks for the information, Winston."
"Don't think this is the same as the High Table," Winston's voice became grave and urgent, a whisper that was more terrifying than a scream. "Umbrella has no rules, John. And when they realize you exist, so will the High Table. Two powerful organizations will likely be after your head. And believe me, even though Umbrella and the High Table don't get along..." His voice stopped abruptly. There was a sound of static, then a sharp click. "Sorry, I have something... we'll talk later." The call was cut off.
John sat on the bed, his hand still holding the phone. Winston's incomplete sentence echoed in his mind. What was it that the High Table and Umbrella didn't get along? And what did that mean for him?
He got up from the bed, the dried blood and dirt on his clothes feeling like a weight. Silently, he stuffed his shirt and pants into the small drum of the hotel's washing machine, a discreet service for guests of his caliber. Then he knelt down and pulled a black cloth backpack from under the bed.
With the zipper open, he spread it out to check its contents. There were compact pistols, a disassembled sniper rifle, a small amount of assorted ammunition, and several hidden knives.
He mentally took stock of what he had, noting that ammunition was scarce and that the firepower was insufficient for what he had in mind. A hunter couldn't hunt with an empty barrel. His short-term goal was clear: resupply at Robert Kendo's armory.
First, a bath. He stepped into the shower and let the hot water pound his body, washing away the blood and sweat. He felt the clarity of the water on his skin, and it spread to his mind.
The confusion dissipated, replaced by cold, hard determination. The path was dangerous, doubly dangerous now with the possible involvement of the High Table, but the goal was the only thing that mattered.
As steam filled the room, a clear memory came to mind. Earlier that day, just a few hours ago, Sarah had been in this very room, sitting on the bed, enjoying an impromptu breakfast.
The image of her laughing, the morning sun lighting up her face, caused a sharp pain to burn in his chest, but instead of making him falter, it only increased his fury. Every drop of water falling from his hair was a reminder that he had to make Umbrella pay.
He stepped out of the shower, dried himself off, and put on his new suit. It was an elegant, completely black, tailor-made suit that felt like a second skin. The fabrics of his suit, a blend of high-quality wool and a special polymer, were lightweight and flexible, yet strong enough to deflect a bullet.
It was the armor of a ghost, protection that would not hinder his movement. With the suit on, he looked like a businessman, a gentleman. But the lines of his body were tense, his movements silent and decisive, his gaze a weapon in itself. He left the room, his footsteps silent, and went downstairs. The receptionist, upon seeing him, said nothing, only giving him a slight nod.
John headed for a street he knew well. In Raccoon City, the underworld network was as dark as the streets. Gun shops were the only places where he could find what he needed. He stopped in front of a building. A sign that read "Kendo Gun Shop" hung on the door. John opened the door and the sound of a bell welcomed him. The place was dark, and the smell of guns filled the air.
A man emerged from the back room, rifle in hand. He was a man in his fifties, thinly built, with a scruffy beard. He was Robert Kendo, one of the best gunsmiths in town. His eyes met John's, and an expression of surprise and fear mingled on his face. Kendo, despite his reputation as a man of few words, couldn't help but feel intimidated by John's gaze.
"Mr. Wick..." he whispered, his voice a thread. "I thought you had left town."
"No," John said, his voice a whisper. "I came back."
"Business seems to be booming," Kendo said, trying to break the ice. "But I don't know if you've heard... there's news on everyone's lips. The priest was found dead inside the church a couple of hours ago. And also, there were some murders in an alley near an electronics store. Unless you..." Kendo paused, looking at him with a mixture of caution and a hint of dark humor. "Did you kill the priest for telling you that rumor?"
John didn't respond to the joke. His gaze was like steel. "I just need a few things," he said, his voice cold as ice.
Kendo nodded and walked over to a shelf. He handed John an assault rifle, a few pistols, and grenades. John took them, his gaze scanning for the essentials. "I also need ammunition. One box of each caliber for the weapons you've given me."
Kendo, surprised, raised an eyebrow. "One box of each, Mr. Wick? That's a considerable amount. Are you planning to start a war?"
John didn't answer, he just walked over to a shelf and took a couple of canvas bags. "Also, please, I'd like to buy the weapons and disassemble them right here. It's much easier to transport them that way," he said, stuffing the bags into his backpack. Kendo, confused, nodded and brought him the necessary tools.
John, with impressive precision and speed, disassembled the weapons, separating the barrels, triggers, magazines, and stocks. Kendo watched, eyes wide.
The skill with which he did it was that of a man who had done this thousands of times. John put the pieces into a backpack, as if they were pieces of a puzzle.
"The total is $20,000," said Kendo, his voice a little louder.
John reached into his pocket and pulled out four gold coins. Kendo took them, confused, looking at them closely. They didn't have the typical US government seal, but the engraving was strangely beautiful, even though he didn't recognize it.
"I haven't seen these before..." Kendo muttered, his curiosity overcoming his caution.
"Pure gold, 24 karat," John said, his voice dry. "They're worth much more than that."
Kendo, who knew about precious metals, nodded, his expression becoming more serious. He put the coins away, knowing that John wasn't joking.
It was clear that this man, whom he thought had left, had returned with a relentless purpose. Kendo didn't know why John had come back, but he could feel the heaviness in the air, the same heaviness that hung over the streets.
With his weapons ready, John left the store. The sky above Raccoon City was tinged with orange and violet hues. It was twilight. John felt that the night was his ally. Despite not having slept the night before while watching over Sarah, he felt no fatigue. Adrenaline and pure determination kept him going. Moving in the dark would be easier; the chaos and uncertainty of nighttime in Raccoon City would provide him with the cover he needed.
He walked back to the hotel, a return that felt very different from the night before. At the front desk, the receptionist greeted him with his usual formality.
"Good evening, Mr. Wick," he said. His gaze slid over John's figure. "I see you've returned alone. What about the girl who was with you? I hope she's all right."
The question was an unexpected blow. John paused for a second, his expression unchanging.
The mention of Sarah made the coldness in his eyes intensify. "It's okay," he replied, his voice a whisper so faint it was barely audible. He walked past, not looking the man in the eye. He climbed the stairs, and the receptionist's question hung in the air.
Once in his room, John closed the door with a soft click. He set his backpack on the table and opened it, its contents a mixture of weapon parts and ammunition.
With precise, methodical movements, he began assembling the pistols and rifle, fitting each piece together with a familiarity that would frighten anyone.
It wasn't a task; it was meditation. The room became his own weapons workshop, a sacred space where the chaos outside could not enter. His mind, a storm of images of Sarah and boiling rage, found calm in the ritual.
He took the slide of one of the pistols, one of the most compact ones, and slid the barrel out. The click of the piece fitting into place was a clean, perfect sound.
A click that confirmed that order had been restored.
Then he took the recoil spring, placed it between his thumb and index finger, and pushed it down.
The click of the spring snapping into the slide echoed in the silence of the room.
It was a click of acceptance, of resignation to the reality that the world was no longer a safe place.
Then he took the frame of the pistol, his hand sliding over the cold polymer. He held the weapon in his right hand, the slide in his left, and with a smooth, fluid motion, he snapped the slide into the frame.
The final click was the voice of vengeance. It was the sound of the promise that each of those pieces, now joined together, would find their target. It was the sound of blood that would be spilled, of justice that would be done.
He continued with the assault rifle, a longer process, but just as methodical. Each pin, each spring, each component was one step closer to his goal.
The click of each piece falling into place was a reminder that he was a weapon, and that weapon was being fine-tuned for a single purpose: the annihilation of Umbrella.
Once everything was in place, he did a mental inventory of everything he had, checking his ammunition and equipment. Then he went over to his suitcase and pulled out a map of the city.
It was an old map, one he had borrowed from the Raccoon City police station in his early days. It was wrinkled and stained, but still legible. He unfolded it and pinned it to the wall, using his knives to hold it in place at the corners.
He stood there, his eyes scanning the map. Winston's information echoed in his head. "Hospitals, schools, churches." They were large, public targets. And he had already had a stroke of luck with the church. He had found what he was looking for, but luck was a finite resource, and he didn't trust it.
Besides, the attack on the church and Umbrella's men meant they now knew someone was hunting them. The obvious targets, the "recruitment points," would be fortified, or at least under surveillance. A frontal attack would be reckless.
His mind drifted to the policewoman, Jill Valentine. She was from the city, a member of S.T.A.R.S. (Special Tactics and Rescue Service). A valuable resource. She might have information about Umbrella. She might have access to files, to data that would take him days, or weeks, to obtain. The idea was tempting. But he dismissed it almost as quickly as he had considered it.
It wasn't the right time. He couldn't show up at her apartment door in the middle of the night, his face covered in soot and reeking of gunpowder. It wasn't prudent. It would be an unnecessary risk, a distraction. There was a time for subtlety, and this was not it. The night was young, and he had to take advantage of it. The urgency of revenge demanded action, not caution. The information could wait.
John took a deep breath and returned his gaze to the map. Patience was a virtue, but action was the only way to purge his soul. If the big targets were too dangerous, what about the small ones? Winston had said that Umbrella was in every corner of the city. And that included pharmacies, medicine stores, and other "civilian" establishments.
They could be fronts for their operations. He wouldn't find valuable information, not necessarily. He wouldn't find the names of executives or the blueprints of their laboratories. But he might find something. A name, a number, a code. Something that could lead him to the next target, and then the next, and the next. Like a hunter following a blood trail.
He approached the wall and, with a knife, marked a spot on the map. A pharmacy in the eastern part of Raccoon City, in a low-traffic area. It wasn't the main target, but it was a start. He had to start somewhere. The hunt had begun, and this time, he wouldn't stop until there was nothing left.
With methodical precision, he stripped off the civilian clothes he was wearing. His combat suit, the one he had used for his missions, was ready. But this was not a large-scale mission. He wasn't going to raze a building. He was going to slip through the shadows, a ghost, a shadow. And for that, he needed a different arsenal.
From the backpack he had assembled, he took out a P30L pistol with a silencer. He tucked it into the holster on his waist, which was hidden under his jacket. The weapon was an extension of his arm, a precision tool.
He placed an ammunition belt, carefully wrapped in a canvas bag, around his waist, along with the extra compact magazines.
Then he tucked two small pistols into the legs of his pants, one on each side, no bigger than his palm but lethal enough. Finally, he took three knives out of his backpack: a combat knife that he kept in a hidden pocket in his jacket, another that he tied to his boot, and a third that he hid inside his forearm.
He looked at himself in the mirror, the man he saw was a figure in black. The suit, perfectly tailored, concealed each of his weapons. He looked like a businessman, a quiet man, a ghost in the city. But in the reflection of his eyes, the truth was clear.
He was not a man. He was a living weapon. Every movement, every step, every breath, everything was destined for one thing: destruction. The Umbrella pharmacy was in his way.
Author's note: Thank you for your support. I would like you to continue donating power stones so that the story can reach many more people. Just as I encourage everyone to comment on how they feel about the direction of the fanfic, I am also open to hearing ideas.