September 27. Raccoon City. 9:00 AM
The taxi stopped in front of a mass of concrete and brick, a skeleton of what was once a factory. Its windows were broken, like empty eye sockets, and the decayed concrete was mixed with the faded colors of graffiti and the grime of decades of abandonment. The air smelled of mold and rust, a pungent aroma that clung to the throat.
From the back seat, John observed the scene, his gaze sweeping over every shadow, every potential hiding spot. His eyes didn't see a building; they saw a map of dangers and opportunities.
The taxi driver, his hands trembling on the steering wheel, barely dared to breathe. "Sir... this is it," he stammered, his voice a thread of fear.
John didn't respond immediately. Instead, his gaze locked onto the man's eyes through the rearview mirror. On the driver's face, which was still pale from the news he had heard on the radio about the massacre at the school, a mixture of terror and an almost palpable suspicion was reflected. It was the look of someone who had associated John's face with that of the monster he had seen on the news. It was the fear of knowing that, at that moment, he was in the same car with the alleged perpetrator of such a heinous act.
"Get out," John ordered. His voice was a hoarse whisper that cut through the tense silence.
The taxi driver tensed, his hands gripping the steering wheel with a death-like force. "No... please...," he begged, tears in his eyes. Desperation drove him to attempt an escape, and his hand moved toward the doorknob. But before he could open the door, the cold, hard barrel of a pistol was placed on the back of his neck, just below his ear.
"Don't you dare get out of this taxi," John's voice was a low, dangerous growl. "Or I'll kill you right here".
The man froze, his hands trembling on the steering wheel. John slightly moved the weapon away, but kept it aimed. "Get out. Go straight to the entrance and go in. Don't turn around. I'll stay in the car and watch you".
The man obeyed, his movements slow and shaky, as if he were about to break. He staggered toward the building's entrance, a thread of drool falling from the corner of his lips. From the back seat, John watched him, his hawk-like gaze fixed on his every step.
When the taxi driver disappeared into the dark mouth of the building, John took a moment to scan the surroundings. There was no one. The silence was almost total, only interrupted by the creaking of a door opening and closing in the wind. After confirming that no one else was around, John got out of the taxi and headed for the entrance.
The interior was a nightmare of decay. The morning light barely penetrated the broken windows, creating a ghostly atmosphere. The cold, dense air had a sour, metallic smell. The taxi driver was waiting, trembling, in the lobby, his eyes fixed on the floor.
"Go up to the next floor," John ordered.
The taxi driver, not daring to look at him, went up the stairs. His feet dragged through the dirt and dust accumulated on the floor, leaving a trail of footprints in his wake.
"Please, sir... I beg you... don't kill me," the man stammered, his eyes on the floor. "I won't say anything to the police. I swear. And I won't tell them anything about the school...".
John ignored the pleas. His eyes, instead, constantly moved, analyzing the building. The graffiti was more noticeable here. He could see signs for "danger zone," "do not enter," and on one of the walls, a painting of a person with a hat, with a smile that covered their entire face.
The place wasn't just an abandoned building; it was a mausoleum. A tomb for hope and innocence. John saw some mattresses in the corner, some blankets, a bowl of food full of mold. The place had been inhabited, but for the moment it was empty.
As they went up to the second floor, John smelled a strong odor of urine and blood, a smell that made his body tense up. With every step, John struggled with himself. The debate that had started in his mind in the taxi continued. A simple taxi, an innocent man. A witness. Was it worth killing someone who hadn't done anything, who wasn't part of this world of violence and death?. But, if he didn't, the man could warn the police. The outside world already believed he was a child killer. His own survival depended on his decision. Was he a cold-blooded killer, or a man fighting to survive?. It was a question he had never had to ask. His entire life had been a straight line, a path that did not admit morality. But this world... this world was different.
They reached the second floor. The taxi driver, now speechless, knelt, his hands trembling. Tears streamed down his cheeks. "No, please," he begged. "I have a family... my children... Please...".
John, with an almost imperceptible expression of pain on his face, took out his pistol. The taxi driver looked at John with a mixture of terror and despair. John, with a trembling hand, took the silencer out of his backpack, slowly screwed it onto the barrel of the pistol, the sound of the thread echoing in the silence.
The taxi driver completely broke down. His sobs were uncontrollable. John pointed the gun down at him, with the look of a man who had lost faith.
"Even if you think I'm the one who caused the massacre...", John's voice was a whisper. "...wouldn't you warn the police about the possible culprit of a school massacre just because I let you live? Will you live with the conscience of not helping the police find someone who possibly did a lot of harm? If you meet a parent who lost their child, won't you tell them where I am?".
The taxi driver couldn't respond. John's words had disarmed his resistance, his last bastion. His sobs were muffled, but there was no response. Just a look of hatred.
John, with the pistol pointed forward, his gaze empty, said to him: "If I were you, I would definitely tell the police that there's a damn psychopath hiding in a building. It's what any decent person would do".
The taxi driver, who had stopped sobbing, looked at him with rage. "You damned bastard, you're a—".
The sound of the silencer was a soft
plop, and the taxi driver collapsed before his insult could be completed. The bullet had impacted his forehead, right between the eyes. The body fell to the ground, the taxi driver's head broke open like an egg. John didn't flinch. His gaze, cold and emotionless, showed no regret, just a slight trace of sadness that was lost in the fog of morality. John looked at the inert body. There was no doubt that he had done the right thing. Logic had won over morality.
With an almost imperceptible sigh, he went up one more floor. The staircase, full of debris and dust, was a path that was lost in the semi-darkness. Upon reaching the third floor, the view changed drastically. The windows, although dirty and broken, offered a wider panorama of the city. Raccoon City stretched out before him like a city under siege. The streets, although not deserted, lacked the usual activity. The businesses were closed, the shutters down, as if the entire city had shrunk in fear. Some abandoned cars lay on the side of the street, a subtle sign of the panic that had broken out. The view, despite its desolation, offered him a sense of control that had escaped him during the last few hours.
From above, John observed the city's panorama. It looked like a city in mourning, a giant wounded by a tragedy it couldn't fully understand. He reflected on the taxi driver's words, the massacre at the school, and the video that incriminated him. A chill ran down his spine. If the taxi driver was right, his face—that of a man masked by guilt—must be on every news channel, in every newspaper in the city. His image, that of the man who had massacred innocents, had been etched into the collective mind of Raccoon City. He had been framed, turned into the villain of a story that wasn't his.
For the first time in hours, John felt the vulnerability of his situation. His face was now a red flag, a magnet for unwanted attention. Therefore, going out into the street was not an option at this time.
He entered a room, whose door frame had been torn off, leaving a dark and desolate hole. The place, like the rest of the building, was a testament to decay. The floor was covered with dust and shards of broken glass, the paint peeling in strips from the walls, revealing layers of different colors. In one corner, a pile of old newspapers and dirty blankets served as a reminder that others had sought refuge there before him. John felt the atmosphere, the calm of desolation. This place, for a moment, was a sanctuary.
With a serenity that contrasted with the brutality of his recent actions, John took off his jacket and then his shirt. The cold air of the room caressed his skin, and a sharp pain in his left shoulder reminded him of the wound he had ignored. A trail of dried blood extended from his collarbone to his shoulder, a dark and sticky stain on his skin.
He approached the broken window, and carefully, he picked up a piece of glass. He used it as a makeshift mirror, getting closer to the wound to examine it with precision. In the dim light, he could see that the bullet had only grazed the skin, leaving a deep but superficial cut. The relief he felt was immense. There wasn't a bullet embedded in his body, which would have been a much bigger problem.
With the urgency of a surgeon, he took a small bottle of alcohol and a bandage from his backpack. The bottle of alcohol, with a strong and penetrating aroma, seemed almost intimidating. John poured a stream of the liquid over the wound, the burning making him clench his teeth. The skin around the wound turned red, the alcohol disinfecting the area with a silent fury. The sensation was a mixture of pain and purification. Once the burning dissipated, John carefully wrapped the wound, applying pressure to stop the bleeding. The bandage, an immaculate white, was a surprising contrast to the gray and dirty surroundings. Once the bandage was in place, John let himself fall to the floor, leaning against the cold, damp wall. His gaze was lost in the dark hole that had once been a door, his eyes fixed on nothingness.
The adrenaline, that force that had propelled him through violence, persecution, and moral dilemma, began to dissipate. The muscles in his body relaxed, the tension he had maintained for hours vanished. For a moment, he allowed himself to simply rest. The silence of the room was his only refuge, the only place in Raccoon City where he didn't have to run, where he didn't have to fight. It was a moment of calm before the next storm.
-Several hours later-
September 27. Spencer Mansion, France. 1:15 PM
The afternoon sun filtered through the tall windows of the mansion, bathing the library in a golden glow. The light highlighted the hand-carved wooden moldings, the shelves that housed ancient leather-bound volumes, and the intricate patterns of the Persian rug that covered the floor. The mansion, a fortress of elegance and opulence, seemed an echo of its owner's personality: imposing, immaculate, and distant.
Seated on a crimson velvet chaise longue, Oswell E. Spencer, the mastermind behind Umbrella, contemplated the landscape. The panoramic window offered a breathtaking view of the vine-covered valley and the vast forest that stretched as far as the eye could see. The silence of the place was almost tangible, broken only by the soft whisper of the breeze. Despite the tranquility of his surroundings, Spencer's expression was one of unwavering boredom, as if the luxury around him were a habit rather than a pleasure.
He held a phone between his long, thin fingers, his other hand resting on the head of one of the bronze eagles that adorned the arm of the chair. The voice on the other end of the line was that of an Umbrella executive, his tone anxious and formal as he provided a detailed report.
"Mr. Spencer," the voice faltered. "The events in Raccoon City have escalated. The security team at the school lost contact. The director has been... neutralized. A single shot to the head. Reports indicate it was a methodical and precise assassination".
Spencer nodded slowly, without taking his eyes off the landscape. "An inconvenience, to be sure. It's a shame. He was a man with great potential, despite his... tendencies". He paused, as if weighing something. "You say you have an image of the one who caused the pharmacy fire and the incident at the school".
"Yes, sir. He was captured by one of our security cameras. Analysts believe he is the same person who has been causing problems since his arrival in the city".
"He's not dead yet," Spencer stated, with a touch of resignation.
There was an uncomfortable silence on the other end of the line. The executive cleared his throat. "Sir, to stop this individual, we sent several teams of Raccoon City police special forces, as well as a small Umbrella elimination team. But... they were all eliminated. The crime scene was, to use the forensic experts' words, a complete mess. Only one of our agents survived, and he could barely speak".
A sarcastic smile formed on Spencer's lips. He turned to the window, his gaze still fixed on the horizon. "Let me see if I understood correctly. A single man. One man, you say, was able to eliminate several teams of trained police officers and the Umbrella elimination group?".
The executive's voice became a stammer, full of shame. "Y-yes, sir. That's right".
Spencer was about to hang up, a gesture of annoyance that was characteristic of him. But the voice on the other end of the call desperately sped up.
"Sir, wait! Our forensic police also found traces of this man's blood. The Nemesis Project is underway, and a Nemesis could... target him if we add this new genetic trace. Should we do it, sir?".
Spencer stopped, his finger suspended over the hang-up button. He took his time to consider it, as if the fate of humanity were a triviality. "Do it," he finally replied, with a tone of annoyance. And without waiting any longer, he hung up.
He picked up a crystal glass from the side table, filled it with a blood-red wine, and took a sip. As he looked at the landscape, the reflection of the sun in his glass, a notification flashed on his small laptop. It was an image. The photo of John Wick's face, captured by a camera in Raccoon City.
Spencer looked at it closely. The face seemed familiar. The story of his subordinate, the audacity of a single man who had outwitted an entire organization. The weight of familiarity grew, and a flash of anger crossed his eyes. He rose from the chair, glass in hand, and approached the window, his gaze fixed on John's image.
"John Wick," he whispered with contained fury. "So you're alive. It seems that the stupid assassins' organization wants to start a war with Umbrella. We'll have him in our sights. Soon you'll be dead".
He drank the rest of his wine in one gulp, the dark liquid as bitter as his anger. The photograph on his laptop screen seemed to look back at him, a silent challenge that enraged him even more.
Ignoring the photo of John Wick still flashing on his laptop screen, he took a phone from his inner pocket. It was an obsolete model, without a touchscreen or smart functions, but with a security that was worth its weight in gold. He dialed a sequence of numbers that only a dozen people in the world knew. The line connected in a prolonged silence, a tension that only those at the pinnacle of power can understand.
"Sirius," Spencer said, using a code name he rarely spoke.
The voice on the other end was deep and polite, but with a coldness that mirrored Spencer's. "Lord Spencer," the voice replied, with an impeccable British accent. "I wasn't expecting your call. I hope the reason is of great importance".
"You can bet it is," Spencer replied, his voice dripping with venomous sarcasm. "It seems there's a... problem with one of your properties. Or to be more precise, with your failure to contain it".
Sirius's voice instantly tensed. "I don't know what you're talking about. All our properties are under control and internal matters are our concern".
"Oh, of course you do," Spencer continued, his voice turning into a threatening purr. "Your best asset, your 'Baba Yaga,' the man your pathetic organization supposedly eliminated, has been attacking several of my headquarters in Raccoon City. How is it that a man who was promised eternal rest is walking around one of my cities, causing havoc, destroying property, and eliminating my best men? Am I missing something? Is this a declaration? Is the High Table trying to send a message of force to Umbrella?".
Sirius's voice turned icy, his politeness a mask for his anger. "Oswell, that is a bold accusation and one I will not tolerate. John Wick is not an asset, he is an enemy of our organization. He is supposed to be dead, his existence is an affront to everything we represent. What happens in your cities is your problem, not ours. It's a matter of your... internal security".
Spencer laughed, a dry, bitter sound that resonated in the room. "Your 'problem,' you say. A man, alone, eliminated my security teams, mocked the special forces, and is now threatening me with his very existence. And you tell me it's not a direct message? Are you running out of assassins, Sirius? Are you so desperate that you had to resort to your urban legends to provoke me? I assure you that this 'ghost' is very real and very lethal. And if you don't believe it, maybe you need a reminder. A small reminder of my wrath. Perhaps one of my divisions will get lost and end up taking down the Continental Hotels. Perhaps an 'accident' at one of their places of worship. Do you understand my point, Sirius?".
"Your ignorance of our rules is blinding you, Oswell. John Wick is excommunicado, he is outside our protection and is a pariah, there is no help from the Continentals, there is nothing. He is one man against the world. Don't threaten to involve us. You know what happens when you touch the Continental hotels...".
Spencer interrupted him with another laugh, his tone full of contempt. "Rules. What beautiful, ridiculous rules you have. I can't help but find it fascinating how you adhere to those foolish codes while the world is falling apart. Do you really think that I, the mind behind the T-virus and Nemesis, care about the rules of a hotel? Do you think a simple motto like 'no business on Continental ground' will deter me? Don't you threaten me, Sirius. Because unlike your rules, my threats are real".
Sirius's voice hardened, the politeness completely abandoned. "Don't you dare cross that line, Oswell. We will not tolerate you touching a single one of our branches. This is a warning. Or you unleash a war that not even you, with all your monsters, can win".
Spencer leaned forward, his voice an eerie calm, like that of a predator before it strikes. "Oh, you're threatening me. How brave". His smile was a quick, lethal flash. "I'll give you a piece of advice, Sirius: my best man, the Nemesis, is on his way. He feeds on blood, and he just got some of your precious assassin's. Consider this the first and only warning. If your organization interferes, you will discover that my threats are not words. They are facts".
Spencer hung up before Sirius could respond. He stood in front of the window, contemplating the landscape. The peace of the valley now seemed a thin veil over the storm he had just unleashed. He picked up the small laptop and looked at John's photo.
"Let's see if your 'rules' save you from this, Wick," he whispered with a cold smile.