September 26. Raccoon City. Jill's apartment. 10:16 AM
John Wick stopped in front of Jill Valentine's apartment door. The dim light from the hallway reflected off his suit. The cop, the one from earlier, the one who had been on duty, lay unconscious on the floor, carefully tucked away in the shadows so as not to attract attention.
The scene was just as he had imagined it, the end of one long day and the beginning of another. With terrifying stillness, John knocked on the door. Two knocks, a brief silence. Two more knocks.
There was no answer.
His cold, piercing eyes narrowed. One second of silence. Two. Three.
It was a game of nerves, and John was the master. But the silence grew deeper. "He's gone," whispered a voice in his mind. It was the first and only option he could think of.
But John dismissed it. He had two days of experience with the people of Raccoon City, and they weren't known for their quick getaways.
Umbrella's corrupt cops had been watching her, and it was no coincidence that they had set up a guard post at the door. John's eyes scanned the hallway, his senses on high alert.
Any movement, any out-of-place sound, would be his undoing. He knew he couldn't stay in the hallway with a body on the floor. Not for long. If another cop found out he was gone, the situation would turn chaotic.
The voice in his head, the voice of a man who had seen too much and lived long enough, whispered to him.
This isn't a game, John. There's no time for nonsense. You have to get her to listen to you, to know that you're not the enemy.
"Jill Valentine," he said in a clear, soft, controlled voice. "I'm not here to hurt you."
Silence.
John waited a minute, but there was no movement or sound inside the apartment. He realized Jill wasn't going to let her guard down.
The dark wooden door, with its reinforced lock, stood between John's mission and the only person who could help him accomplish it.
"All right," he said to himself, frustration seeping into his voice. "If you don't want to talk, then there's no choice."
With the same coldness with which he dispatched his enemies, John Wick took a step back. His gaze fixed on the lock, and then, with the same precision with which he aimed, he raised his right leg and kicked the door.
A single movement, a single powerful and precise kick, and the sound of the lock giving way was almost a sigh.
The door didn't open completely, but broke in half, leaving a gap at the top. John wasted no time, leaning over and pushing the splintered wood with one hand. The door swung open without resistance.
Jill Valentine was there, kneeling behind a sofa, her service pistol in her hand, her eyes wide and full of adrenaline.
John entered the apartment, his senses on high alert. His eyes scanned the room, absorbing every detail. The entrance hall, the living room to the left, the furniture arranged with a symmetry that suggested routine.
A vase on the table, photographs on the wall, the smell of cleanliness mixed with the faint trace of coffee. Everything seemed to be in its place, everything seemed normal.
But appearances were deceiving. The atmosphere of the place told him that something was not right, a tense silence, the stillness of a predator waiting.
The voice in his head kept whispering to him.
There's someone here, John. Instincts never lie. Every step, every movement must be calculated. You don't know where she is, but you're looking for her. Don't let your guard down.
He moved with the fluidity of a ghost, each step calculated, each movement a deadly dance. His eyes fixed on a door at the end of the hallway, which appeared to be the master bedroom. The doorknob looked to be in perfect condition, but John knew that wasn't the case.
With a slow movement, he approached the door, his right hand sliding toward the knob. His heart beat calmly, his mind blank, ready to react to anything.
Meanwhile, hidden behind the sofa, Jill Valentine watched. Her heart pounded in her chest. Her eyes, filled with a mixture of fear and curiosity, were fixed on the man who had just entered her apartment. He was a large man with broad shoulders and an impeccable suit. His movements were refined, almost like a dance.
The man was like a gentleman who had lost his way in the city. But there was something about his aura that made her think he was an important businessman, someone who had nothing to do with Umbrella or the police. He was a man with an aura of danger, but in a strange and almost elegant way.
Her mind, trained in the art of battle, focused on the man's movements. She watched him move his head from side to side, carefully observing every corner, every shadow. His eyes were like those of a predator, scanning the terrain in search of prey.
His body, though motionless, was ready for action. Jill realized that he was not just a man, he was an assassin. The way he moved, the way his body tensed and relaxed, everything about him was the manifestation of a lifetime dedicated to combat. He was like a ghost moving with deadly fluidity.
The intruder had his back to her. A chill ran down her spine. Her mind, which had analyzed and cataloged her prey's every movement, screamed that this was her only chance.
But her intuition, the voice that had kept her alive on so many missions, told her that something was not right. It screamed that the man knew, that his back was a trap.
He's doing this on purpose. He knows I'm here. This is a test.
But instinct overcame her. There was no other option. She couldn't pass up the opportunity, real or not, to end this. Silently, Jill slipped out of her hiding place, her plush bunny slippers making almost no noise on the wooden floor.
With each step she took, her heart beat faster, adrenaline rushing through her veins. She moved with surprising speed and grace, her gun in her hand, ready to be used.
John, just as he was about to open the door to the room, felt a chill. The air behind him, which had been silent, felt heavy, charged. His mind, beyond logic, screamed a single message: the danger was not in front of him, but behind him.
He opened the door to a normal room with a bed, a wardrobe, and a desk. Common things that should be in a room. He was about to close the door when a sound behind him made him stop.
The sound of a silent step. John froze, his mind alert, his body ready to react.
"Stay still," said a female voice behind him. The voice was firm, with a mocking tone. "And raise your hands."
John, with the same calmness he used to take a sip of whiskey, raised his hands. There was no doubt in his mind. The coldness of the gun barrel against his back was proof enough that it wasn't the enemy.
"I was looking for you, Jill Valentine," he said calmly. "I wanted to talk to you."
"A handsome young man in a suit wanting to talk to me?" Jill replied with a mocking voice. "If I had seen you before, I would remember you. And if you really just want to talk, you wouldn't have broken down the door, and the fact that the police didn't arrest you only tells me that you work for Umbrella or directly under the orders of that jerk Brian Irons."
"You're wrong," John replied, his voice deep and calm. He didn't move. His mind, however, was evaluating every option, every risk. "We have the same enemy. I'm here for Umbrella too."
Jill laughed, a hollow sound full of contempt. The adrenaline of the situation had blinded her to logic. "Please, the oldest excuse in the book. Put your hands down, get on your knees."
John stood his ground. He noticed that a few feet away from Jill, on a small table, there were handcuffs. Jill's response was obvious.
She would try to handcuff him. If she succeeded, they would both be in serious trouble. The RPD officer's body lay unconscious in the hallway, a problem that no one would be slow to notice. The apartment door was smashed.
No one would have to be a genius to put two and two together. There was no time for games.
"I'll say it again, Jill Valentine," John said, his voice now urgent. "The cop in the hallway is unconscious, the door is smashed. Any minute now, Umbrella will realize what's going on. Unless you want to get arrested, I suggest you listen to me. I want to talk about Umbrella. They're my enemy, too."
Jill didn't flinch, the gun still firmly pressed against her back. "Shut up," she said quietly, her free hand moving toward the table, searching for the handcuffs.
John, sensing Jill's movement, sighed inwardly.
This woman is very stubborn. I'll have to make her see reason another way.
As Jill was about to grab his wrist to handcuff him, John, with a movement so quick it was barely perceptible, struck Jill's hand with his free hand. The blow was sharp and precise.
Jill's hand opened, and the service pistol fell to the floor, sliding across the wooden floor.
Jill's face showed a momentary surprise. Just a fraction of a second. Then her expression hardened and she lunged forward. With her left hand open and ready to strike, she lunged at John's face, and at the same time, her left knee shot up, hitting John in the abdomen.
John, however, reacted immediately. The blow to his abdomen reminded him of the many he had received. His body, accustomed to it, absorbed it without flinching. He turned, his body swayed, and with a fluid movement, he slid behind Jill. The surprised Jill had no time to react.
In an instant, John grabbed her wrist and threw her against the wall. The thud of her body against the wall echoed through the room, and the hanging pictures fell one by one, creating a chorus of pain.
Jill, however, did not give up. With the grace of a contortionist, she used the momentum of the blow against the wall to propel herself to the right, her free hand striking John in the chest. John staggered, and Jill, seizing the moment, lunged forward, her knee rising again, this time aimed at John's face.
John, in one fluid motion, ducked. Jill's knee shot over his head. Jill realized she wasn't fighting a mere man, but a professional, a man who had trained for battle.
Jill backed away, her left hand grazing the sofa. Her heart was pounding. She lunged again, this time with surprising speed and grace.
Her body moved like a ghost, a series of quick, deadly movements. Jill struck John's shoulder, then his neck, then his abdomen. John, however, moved like a boxer, his body twisting, absorbing the blows.
The two, in a single movement, faced each other. Jill, with a high kick, struck John's shoulder. John, with a quick movement, ducked and with his right hand, grabbed Jill's leg and lifted her up.
Jill freed herself with a twist in the air, and with a side kick, hit John's side, causing him to stagger and fall onto the coffee table.
The table shattered, scattering pieces across the floor. John, however, did not lose his balance. He got up with a grace that surprised Jill, and in an instant, he slid toward her, his right hand lunging for her neck.
Jill, with an expert move, ducked down and, with her right hand, struck John's leg, causing him to lose his balance. The two of them, in a single movement, fell to the floor.
The fight continued on the floor, a series of frantic and desperate rolls. The two moved as if they were one, a whirlwind of arms, legs, and bodies. In an instant, John, with a quick and precise movement, managed to immobilize Jill.
His arms held her firmly to the floor, while Jill's legs tangled around his ribs, trying to free herself.
But before he could complete the pin, Jill, with the strength of desperation, rolled over. Her body twisted, and in one swift motion, she attempted an arm lock.
Her hands clamped down on John's elbow, and with a brutal pull, she tried to bend his arm at an unnatural angle to take him out of position.
John, however, was no ordinary man. His elbow, strengthened by years of training, held firm. With a cry of frustration, Jill tried harder, but John's arm did not give way. With a quick movement, John hit her in the neck, causing her to lose her grip.
John, tired of the woman's stubbornness, felt a wave of frustration wash over him. His eyes, which only seconds before had been a mixture of frustration and respect, turned cold, dark, and dangerous.
Slowly, he reached inside his suit, his hand searching for his weapon, the same P30L he had used to kill his enemies.
He pulled out the gun, the sound of metal striking the air echoing. Without hesitation, he put it to Jill's face. The cold tip of the barrel touched her cheek.
Jill's body tensed completely, her eyes wide open. Her breathing quickened, and for the first time, she felt a primal fear.
"I just want to talk," John said, his voice a whisper that left no room for doubt. The urgency and exhaustion in his voice were palpable. Jill's expression softened, the adrenaline fading. She understood that John was not the enemy. He was just a tired man who wanted to talk.
Slowly, John stood up. His body, though sore from the fight, moved with deadly fluidity. He holstered his gun with the same smooth motion he had used to draw it.
Then he extended his hand, offering it to Jill to help her up. She accepted John's hand with a gesture of embarrassment.
Their eyes met for a brief moment, and in Jill's eyes, John saw a trace of shame. She had been wrong. She had overreacted.
"Can we talk now?" John asked, his tone ironic, as he brushed a speck of dust from his suit.
"I'm sorry," Jill replied, her voice a whisper. "I didn't... I didn't know. I've been waiting for Umbrella to send someone to silence me. My only answer was combat."
"I understand," John said, his voice softening, his eyes fixed on Jill's. Then, an almost imperceptible smile appeared on his face. "But you fight like an animal."
Jill, blushing at the comment, opened her mouth to respond, but John interrupted her. "The cop. We have to get him inside before anyone sees him."
Jill was surprised. Not only had John told the truth from the beginning, but he had also thought about the consequences of the fight. She quickly nodded, and together they approached the apartment entrance. The cop was still unconscious in the hallway.
John, with a strength that belied his apparent calm, dragged the policeman's body into the apartment. Meanwhile, Jill hurriedly tried to close the door. The handle was broken, and the metal was bent.
With great effort, she managed to push the door enough so that it wasn't obvious that it was broken.
Just as the door was about to close, the door to apartment 303 opened. Out came a woman in her fifties, a neighbor Jill knew very well. The woman, whose name was Mrs. Peterson, was the building's gossip.
"Jill, dear!" Mrs. Peterson said in a singsong voice. "Are you all right? I heard such a noise! I thought you'd dropped something, or that you were..."
Jill nervously interrupted her. "Yes, yes, Mrs. Peterson. I'm fine. I just... dropped a bookshelf."
"Oh, of course," said Mrs. Peterson, with a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "And where's the police officer who's always around here?"
"He... he went to take a break," Jill lied, with a forced smile. "I was waiting for someone in my room and... I wanted some privacy."
Mrs. Peterson looked her up and down, her eyes settling on Jill's rumpled, wrinkled clothes. She was about to ask more questions when John stepped out from behind Jill.
John, who was more concerned with getting the police officer to safety, had completely ignored the conversation.
Mrs. Peterson looked at him, her eyes widening. The sight of John, with his messy hair and wrinkled suit, and Jill, with her disheveled clothes, made her think of a completely different story.
"Oh, dear," Mrs. Peterson said with a playful smile. "I see why the officer went to take a break. How nice that you found a 'date'! Next time, use protection, okay? Young people these days..."
"Mrs. Peterson, it's not what you think!" Jill tried, her face red. "He, he didn't..."
But the neighbor interrupted her, shaking her head with a knowing smile. "You don't have to explain it to me, dear. At my age, I've seen it all. Don't worry, your secret is safe with me." Her gaze fell on John, and she held out her hand. "I'm Mrs. Peterson, your neighbor. Please take good care of Jill. She's a wonderful girl and deserves to be happy."
John, his face impassive, shook the woman's hand. His mind, still focused on the unconscious policeman he had just dragged away, did not process the subtext of the conversation. "It's a pleasure, ma'am," he said in his deep voice, the same one he had used to tell Jill that he just wanted to talk.
Mrs. Peterson, as if she had found the best gossip of the year, retired to her apartment, closing the door with a murmur of excitement.
Jill, her face completely flushed, closed the door to her apartment as quickly as she could, the broken latch making a sharp noise. Without looking at John, she led him into the messy apartment, her face still burning with embarrassment.
Author's note: This chapter was published a little earlier than usual because I didn't publish yesterday, and many thanks to those who donated power stones.