September 26. Raccoon City. Raccoon City School. 2:25 PM
The echo of the burst of gunfire reverberated through the empty hallways. John opened the door to the principal's office, his face a mask of cold determination. The sound, which had been distant and muffled before, grew louder, more immediate. It was the sound of death.
"It's not reinforcements," John thought as he ran. "It sounds like a high-caliber weapon... but why?"
His suspicions that this was not an Umbrella attack grew stronger with every step. He ran through the hallways, following the trail of gunpowder and blood that grew more intense. On the floor, as he advanced, he found the first signs of the massacre. A discarded textbook, stained with blood. A school backpack with a bullet hole.
Turning a corner, John saw a small body lying on the floor. His heart sank, but he quickly forced himself to remain calm. He crouched down, examining the victim. It was a boy of about 12, wearing a bloodstained school uniform. He was unconscious, with a bullet in his chest.
John was not a man who was easily moved. He had seen death, he had inflicted it, but this was different. This was a place of innocence, a place where children should be safe. "It's a massacre," he thought, his mind struggling to process the scene. "This isn't war, it's carnage."
As he approached the cafeteria area, the sound of gunfire intensified. The dining room door was wide open, and the horror was revealed before his eyes. The place, which only minutes ago had been filled with the bustle of childhood, was now a scene of carnage.
The bodies of students, both children and teenagers, were scattered across the floor. Some were still moving, writhing in pain. Others were completely still, their empty eyes staring at the ceiling.
In the center of the chaos, John saw a girl. It was the same girl he had just saved, Melissa Miller. She was standing with a guitar case slung over her back and an assault rifle in her hands. She stared coldly at the bodies lying at her feet. John saw that the rifle, which was aimed at a group of students hiding under a table, was an AR-15, a military weapon.
The irony of the situation was a stab in John's heart. The bullet-shaped "lucky charm" she had given him back was a symbol of the death she was unleashing.
"Shit," John whispered, his voice low and broken.
Just as he was about to move, a small moan stopped him. John crouched down and saw a girl of about 12, her school uniform soaked in blood. Her breathing was shallow, her eyes darting around. She saw him and reached out her hand, her voice a broken whisper.
"Run," she whispered, and then her hand fell, her eyes empty.
John stood up. The sound of Melissa's rifle, as she unloaded a burst of bullets at the students hiding under the table, made John's blood boil.
John's rage intensified, his voice hardening as he thought to himself, "That girl... she won't get away with this."
John drew his weapon and prepared to end this massacre.
A few minutes ago...
With my guitar case on my back and the keychain John had given me back. The little lucky charm. He had saved me. He had looked at me, really looked at me, and helped me without judging. For a second, I felt safe, as if I wasn't about to fall apart. But that feeling vanished the moment I stepped into the hallway.
A chill ran down my spine, and it wasn't from fear. It was familiar, cold, and... persuasive. It was the voice.
"You like him, don't you?" whispered a voice in my head. The same voice that has been with me since it all began.
"Yes," I thought. "He helped me, he's the only one who doesn't look at me like I'm a joke."
"He's not like the others," the voice continued. "They only see what David did. What your ex-boyfriend did. They believe all the lies, don't they?"
My stomach churned at the memory. I remember the whispers in the hallways, the eyes following me. "The easy girl in the photos." "She wanted it, otherwise why would she send them to him?" David, the only guy I ever opened my heart to, not only left me, but made sure the whole school knew about it by sharing the intimate photos I had sent him.
I walked past a group of girls. They looked at me and whispered, one of them laughed, and I looked at her, her laugh was cruel, reminding me of David's mockery. Right after that, a boy from gym class elbowed me to get past, and I felt his hand brush against my butt. "Oops," he whispered with a dirty smile as he walked away. Disgust and helplessness paralyzed me.
The humiliation had scarred me. Now, every time I looked at someone, I wondered if they had seen my photos too. David had been suspended, but he had laughed in my face before he left. "No one's going to believe you, Melissa. You're a bitch, and everyone knows it." The voice that had been following me since then grew louder.
"He told you the truth," the voice whispered. "And everyone who made fun of you, everyone who looked at you with contempt, believed his lies."
As I entered the cafeteria, the voice in my head grew louder and more aggressive. Anger built up inside me. My mind was a tangle of voices, taunts, laughter. An echo of pain. I looked at the students and felt like they were all laughing at me, whispering, mocking me.
At one of the tables, a group of students was laughing. For a moment, I felt their eyes on me. Among them, I saw David. He was sitting next to his new girlfriend, a girl from the cheerleading squad, who was laughing and pointing. David noticed my gaze and smiled at me, a smile full of malice and victory.
"Are you going to play a song, Melissa? I hope it's better than your common sense!" shouted a boy as he walked past me. A group of students laughed, their mockery echoing in the large dining hall.
My heart sank. Music was all I had left, the only thing I could enjoy. But his comment, so simple and cruel, felt like a direct punch to the stomach. All the pain, all the anger, all the humiliation I had suffered, rushed into my chest. My mind clouded, and the world distorted.
The students' faces faded away. I saw only silhouettes, dark figures with malicious smiles surrounding me. They were all the same. They weren't people. They were the faces of everyone who had laughed at me, everyone who had believed the lies, everyone who had refused to see me as a person. The whole world was against me.
"Kill them," whispered the voice. "Kill them all."
And without hesitation, my fingers moved on their own, my mind a helpless spectator. My hand opened my guitar case and pulled out an assault rifle. With terrifying fluidity, my body moved on its own, and I started shooting. I didn't aim at anyone in particular. I aimed at the silhouettes. At the evil that surrounded me. A burst of bullets was fired, one, two, three.
The echo of the shots could be heard throughout the school. The smell of gunpowder and metal filled the air. Now there was silence, only that. But that silence lasted only a moment, broken by screams and cries. The smell of blood flooded my nostrils, an overwhelming metallic stench. I heard muffled cries, pleas, regrets. And, in the distance, the sirens approaching.
I looked again at the falling silhouettes. David's, his new girlfriend's, and the boy who had made fun of me. Their laughter had disappeared, replaced by cries of pain. The whole world had hurt me, and now it seemed that the world was getting what it deserved.
My rifle was hot. My hand, moving on its own, led me to an overturned table where a group of girls were huddled together. One of them had once whispered to me that I was "trash." Her eyes, filled with terror, were the same ones that had looked at me in the bathroom, filled with tears and fear, as I listened to the whispers and laughter outside.
Now they were the ones on the floor. Now they were the ones experiencing the same terror that had overwhelmed me. Their cries were silent. It was something I had experienced. A feeling I had felt.
Now I felt good. I felt very good. I listened to them. Their muffled cries, their silent moans. I knew how they felt. I knew what it was like to feel the way they felt. And finally, those people who had hurt me so much were getting what they deserved.
Then the dining room door burst open, and John, the man who had saved him a few minutes ago, entered. I didn't see him, or maybe I ignored him? My mind only saw the silhouettes, the taunts, the hatred. I couldn't see anyone else, not even John. I could only see the evil that surrounded me. And finally, I could hear the regret.
I was about to pull the trigger to end the lives of those behind that table. But before I could hear the final cry of regret, a cold sensation flooded my left ear. I could feel something cold, and from one moment to the next, I felt my body not reacting. The voices and taunts in my mind stopped. My body, which had been moving on its own, collapsed.
As I fell to the floor, my mind, in slow motion, caught a glimpse of the figure of the man who had helped me with the kids at school. He was the only one who had looked at me like a person.
The only one who had seen Melissa. Now, he was holding a gun that was smoking in my direction. As I fell, I could see his face. There was no anger, no hatred. Just deep disappointment. Genuine pain. Something that made me regret it. I didn't want him to see me like this. But in the end, it was he himself who killed me.
My lifeless body fell to the floor. My consciousness began to fade, but before it was completely gone, a small smile appeared in my mind. A smile of having accomplished my mission. And of how now, finally, I could rest from that voice that always spoke to me.
The echo of the bullet reverberated through the dining room, a clean, final sound. John Wick lowered his gun, smoke still coming from the barrel. His gaze swept across the dining room, and what he saw was nothing less than hell on Earth. The chaos was absolute, and the silence of the dead was the only witness to the massacre. Bodies.
Too many young bodies. Most of which, John assumed, had nothing to do with what had happened to the young woman. Countless lives cut short by the madness of a young woman whom he had saved from bullying just minutes ago.
His eyes stopped on Melissa's body. The girl he had tried to protect. The bullet had hit her in the head. She was lying on the ground, her body collapsed in a pool of her own blood, the key ring he had given her back lying near her outstretched hand. She seemed to be smiling. John couldn't understand it. A smile of relief? Of triumph? Perhaps a final mockery of the world that had pushed her into the abyss?
The sound of sirens, still distant but unmistakable, broke the silence. There was no time. John turned around, his footsteps echoing in the large dining room. His mind was racing against time. He returned to the principal's office, opened the door, and saw Jill, who looked at him with wide eyes, about to ask what had happened.
"There's no time," he interrupted, his voice hard as steel. John pulled out his gun and, without hesitation, aimed at the director's knee. The sharp sound of the bullet mixed with the cry of pain. A cry that was a guttural roar of pain and surprise. Blood spurted from the wound, staining the office floor.
"Where is Dr. William Birkin?" John asked, his face impatient and tinged with anger. His patience was as limited as the bullets in his magazine. The principal, his face pale with pain, just laughed and spat on John's shoes. The act of defiance ignited something in his gaze. Unperturbed, John aimed at the man's other knee.
"You're the one in charge of this school," John said, his voice low and icy, his finger on the trigger. "I'm sure you know who comes and goes. If you tell me where he is, I might spare your life."
The principal, his face covered in sweat, refused to talk. John pulled the trigger. The sound of the bullet felt like a second explosion in the small office. The principal screamed again, his pain mingling with the blood spurting from his knee. John aimed at his arms, and with the same coldness, shot each one. The pain became unbearable for the director, his face contorted with agony.
"If you want to die here, that's fine with me," John continued, his voice almost a whisper. "But you'll bleed to death or get a bullet in your head. Only if you tell me the whereabouts of Dr. William Birkin will I not shoot you again, and maybe the police who arrive here will save you."
Despite the unbearable pain, the director looked at him with hatred. "Go to hell..."
John didn't let him finish the sentence. One last shot to the head silenced the director forever. There was no time for games.
The click of John's gun running out of bullets was the only sound heard after the last shot. He looked at Jill with an expression that left no room for doubt.
"We have to go," he said, his voice now lower and deeper. "The police will be here any minute. Let's go out the exit."
Jill nodded, her face pale but with immediate understanding. She had seen John's brutality, the efficiency with which he acted. She knew there was no room for questions or hesitation. Together, they left the office, their steps quick and controlled. The hallway was filled with an ominous silence, a silence that weighed heavily in the air.
As they approached the main entrance, the sounds began to return. The murmur of frightened voices, the sobs and cries of some students who had managed to escape and were huddled outside.
Jill heard fragments of whispered conversations, scattered words mixed with fear: "gunshots," "rifle," "that girl." A chill ran down her back. The puzzle of the massacre began to take shape in her mind, piece by piece. She didn't have time to process it, as John urged her to keep going.
As they left the school, they encountered organized chaos. Dozens of neighbors were approaching, drawn by the sirens that could now be heard clearly. They mingled with the terrified students at the entrance, their faces filled with shock and horror. John and Jill joined the crowd, moving as if they were part of it, their faces impassive.
The people, too busy with the spectacle, didn't even notice them.
With quick, determined steps, John headed east, his memory of the city working with precision. He knew exactly where to find a subway station, and Jill followed him, keeping the right distance. In the street, the flashing lights of police patrol cars grew more intense, and a chorus of sirens and ambulances dazzled in the distance.
Vehicles sped past them, their drivers too focused on reaching the scene of the carnage to notice two people walking away from it. The night swallowed them up.
They reached the subway entrance. The underground air was a relief, the sound of trains a welcome distraction. They descended the stairs, and a train pulled into the station. They boarded, finding a couple of empty seats in the nearly deserted car. Finally, they could stop.
Jill sat across from John, her shoulders relaxed for the first time in hours, and looked at him. The doubts that had plagued her since she heard the first shots rushed through her mind.
"John," she began, her voice barely a whisper. "What happened out there? The gunshots..."
John looked at her, his expression tired but serene. With a touch of irony, as if reality were a macabre joke, he lowered his voice even further.
"The girl we helped," he said, his gaze fixed on the empty space in front of him. "She found a way to respond to her classmates' criticism in a... rather forceful manner. She started shooting at them all."
Jill turned paler than she already was. Her mind, with a chilling click, connected the dots. John's gaze in the hallway, his haste, the students' whispers. "An assault rifle..."
"All of them?" he whispered, horror in his voice. "But... why did she do that?"
"I don't know," John replied, his voice almost inaudible. "All I know is that I saw her. She was about to kill a group of students, but before she could do it, I shot her in the head."
The confession was so direct, so emotionless, that Jill felt her stomach clench. John looked at her, and for the first time, she saw something else in his eyes. She saw deep sadness. Genuine regret. Something that made her pale even more.
"The world had broken her," John said, his voice a sad whisper. "But... even so, I couldn't let her do it."
Jill couldn't say anything. She remained silent, processing the information.
"What do we do now?" she asked, her voice low and tired. "We have no information from the director. He didn't tell us anything about Umbrella or Dr. Birkin."
John sighed, a sound that carried the weight of frustration. His gaze shifted from the train window to rest on Jill, a look that seemed to see past her, toward the many paths that had been closed off.
"There wasn't time for a proper interrogation," he replied coldly. "I didn't expect a massacre just when I had a real chance to find a way to learn the whereabouts of that Dr. William Birkin."
He sighed again, the sound more of a deflation than an exhalation. The irony of the situation was brutal: he had gained an advantage, and it had been snatched away from him in the most violent and unpredictable way possible.
"It's time to slow down a bit," he said, his voice now lower, as if he were talking to himself. "With what happened at the school and the fact that I killed someone who seemed to know quite a bit about Umbrella, it will be much more difficult to attack. They must be on high alert. The authorities will be investigating every corner, and Umbrella, if they found out, will know that someone is interfering with their operation. We will be targets, and the risks are too high now."
John closed his eyes, exhaustion written all over his face. His mind, however, was not resting. The image of the boy in the cafeteria, the one who had told him to run, flashed through his mind.
The boy's face was full of fear, a lost innocence. John, with his life of violence and death, knew that innocence was a luxury that not many could afford, a luxury that he himself had lost long ago.
He kept his eyes closed, processing everything, his mind replaying every second of the chaos, weighing his actions against the consequences. The silence lingered between them. Jill, who was also processing the horrors she had witnessed, remained silent.
The heavy silence of the subway, filled with a hundred stories. The sound of the train moving forward, the rattling of the wheels on the tracks, was the only noise that filled the void between them.
The rest of the way to the hotel was the same. The air between them was thick, filled with mutual understanding. The train stopped at the station, and they got out, climbing the stairs back to the street.
They walked in silence to the hotel entrance.
The receptionist, seeing them enter, looked up. He was about to greet John as usual, with a smile and a nod, but seeing their faces, their aura of heaviness and fatigue, he decided to just nod, a subtle sign of respect and understanding. The atmosphere around them was tense, heavy, like a storm cloud hanging over them.
John and Jill headed for the elevator, the tinkling of the bell breaking the silence. It stopped at Jill's floor, and she got off. John dismissed her with a simple gesture, his voice low and calm.
"Get some rest," he said. "We'll talk tomorrow."
Jill nodded, her gaze fixed on his face. She could tell that something had changed in him, something subtle but definite.