The Spark
The rain hadn't stopped since the funeral.
It was as if the sky itself couldn't let her go.
John Wick stood at the edge of the grave, his black suit clinging to him like penance. The earth was fresh. The flowers — lilies — trembled under the cold drizzle. Somewhere in the distance, a car engine hummed, low and patient, as if it were waiting for him to breathe again.
He didn't look up. He didn't need to.
He knew who it was.
Ares idled across the street — black, chrome, red reflections of taillight bleeding onto the wet pavement.
Jameson Toretto sat behind the wheel, silent, gloved hands resting easy on the steering wheel. He didn't step out. Didn't intrude. He was there because he always was. That unspoken brotherhood that required no words, no comfort. Just presence.
John's eyes lingered on the grave. "Goodbye, Helen," he whispered, the words barely touching the air.
The world felt smaller after that.
And quieter.
Until the sound of paws against tile broke the silence.
The puppy — a final gift, a message from a woman who knew what kind of void he would face. That night, Wick sat on the kitchen floor beside the small creature, its eyes full of life. His hand trembled as it reached out. He hadn't touched anything gentle in years.
From the street, Jameson watched through the reflection in Ares' mirror. He saw the assassin — his brother in arms — cradle the only thing still pure in his world.
He turned the key and drove away, his mind replaying the system's whisper only he could hear:
> SYSTEM NOTICE: Emotional Stability Sync – John Wick Node active.
Warning: Chain reaction probable.
The Reaper frowned. "So it begins."
---
The following morning, the dog barked as John fueled up the '69 Mustang.
That car was more than steel — it was muscle memory, a heartbeat in chrome.
Jameson had tuned that machine once, long before they both vanished from the grid. He'd built its roar to match John's pulse — efficient, merciless. Now, seeing Iosef Tarasov swagger up to it like a spoiled prince, Jameson felt the quiet tightening in his chest. He watched from half a block away, standing in the alley, face hidden under his jacket's hood.
The exchange was inevitable.
"Nice car," Iosef sneered.
John didn't answer. Just walked away.
To the untrained eye, it was a man ignoring a brat.
To Jameson, it was the moment the storm line snapped — the silence before lightning.
He lit a cigarette, just to watch it burn, as the Tarasov boy spat the words that sealed his fate:
"Everything's got a price, bitch."
Jameson exhaled, smoke coiling like a warning into the air.
He almost felt sorry for the kid.
Almost.
---
That night, Ares rested two streets away from Wick's home. The dog barked once — sharp, panicked. Then the sound of breaking glass.
Jameson's head snapped up.
By the time he moved, it was already too late.
Gunshots echoed. The house went dark. The Reaper stood in the rain again, watching the flicker of a flame in the distance as figures in ski masks ran to their cars. One of them laughed. That sound — that sick, careless laugh — carved itself into his mind.
Ares' engine came alive with a snarl. Tires screamed as Jameson cut through the backstreets, hunting shadows. He caught sight of the Charger's reflection on passing metal, timing his movement with ruthless precision — but the Tarasov crew was gone, swallowed by the city's veins.
At the wrecked house, John was on his knees beside the broken cage of his world.
The puppy was gone.
The light in his eyes — gone.
Jameson stepped forward but stopped himself at the porch.
He didn't enter. He didn't speak.
The Shinigami's code was unspoken: when a soul breaks, you let it.
That's how power is reborn.
He turned away, the System whispering in the static of his skull:
> SYSTEM UPDATE: Emotional Catalyst Triggered. Canon Lock – John Wick protocol confirmed.
New mission unlocked: Hunt with the Baba Yaga.
Reward (Hidden): "Bond of Blood – Synergized Kill Instincts (50%)"
In the distance, he heard the Mustang's engine come alive.
And with that, the world changed.
---
In another part of the city, whispers began.
The old ones — the cleaners, the coin-brokers, the Continental staff — they all felt it.
A familiar chill down the spine. The kind that said a name has been spoken again.
"John Wick," murmured one bartender.
"No," corrected another, his tone reverent, fearful. "John Wick and the Shinigami."
---
Jameson leaned against Ares, watching the skyline burn orange with morning.
He hadn't felt this pull in years — the old rhythm, the unspoken code.
He reached behind him, checked the twin katanas crossed along his back, the cold weight of his sidearm against his thigh, the blade at his other.
> "You'll need me, brother," he muttered.
"And I'll be there."
He slid into the driver's seat, eyes narrowing as the System flickered once more:
> SYSTEM NOTICE: Joint Mission Protocol Activated.
Objective: Support Canon while enforcing balance.
Sub-Objective: Eliminate Tarasov Lineage – Assist John Wick.
Ares' engine roared in answer.
The rain fell harder.
And somewhere, deep in the city's bones, the Baba Yaga began to move.
The rain hadn't stopped since the Red Circle.
New York looked like a wound that wouldn't clot — slick streets, neon arteries, the hum of engines somewhere below the thunder.
Inside the Continental, silence ruled. Wick sat on the edge of his bed, re-assembling a pistol piece by piece. Each click sounded like a heartbeat counting down to something inevitable.
From the alley across the street, Jameson watched through Ares' tinted window, smoke curling around his face.
He could feel it — the pressure in the air, the prelude to violence.
The System purred somewhere deep in his skull, quiet, almost reverent.
> SYSTEM SYNC: Boogeyman × Shinigami protocol — 97 % cohesion.
Status: Stand by for war.
He whispered to himself, "It's coming."
---
Viggo Tarasov had gone to ground, but his empire bled faster than it could hide.
His men were ghosts now — afraid of the dark because they finally understood who lived there.
He'd put a price on Wick's head, and the city responded like a nest of hornets.
That night, the first wave came for him.
A silenced shot shattered the hotel's peace. Wick's reflex took over — roll, draw, fire.
Blood splattered across immaculate sheets.
Two more assassins burst through the door; they died before the second step.
Jameson was already moving.
He crashed through the service stairwell, shotgun in hand.
The world slowed — muzzle flashes stretching into white ribbons of time.
He didn't think, didn't aim — he calculated.
Angles, recoil, trajectory — mathematics of death.
First Person (Jameson)
Every motion felt like a memory sharpened to a blade.
I saw the way John moved — clean, merciless — and matched his rhythm.
This was the dance we'd learned in the sand, in blood, before we were names that scared men.
A guard lunged from the corner; my boot caught his chest, sent him sprawling.
I emptied both barrels.
The hallway went quiet except for the drip of water from the sprinklers.
> SYSTEM NOTICE: Adrenaline lock — active. Combat tempo stabilized.
Skill progression: Deathstroke × Wick hybrid execution unlocked.
I exhaled smoke and flame together.
---
Wick reloaded, expression unreadable. "You shouldn't be here."
"Neither should you," Jameson said.
"You think killing his son ends this? Viggo won't stop. He's going to hunt you until he runs out of bodies."
John's eyes flicked up. "Then he'll run out of bodies."
They both knew it wasn't a boast. It was arithmetic.
---
Hours later, beneath the Williamsburg Bridge, the meeting happened.
Fog rolled across the river like spilled concrete.
Viggo arrived with his last loyal soldiers — men already dead but too proud to admit it.
Jameson's Charger rumbled out of the mist, headlights cutting twin scars of gold through the gray.
Wick stepped from the passenger side, rain dripping from his suit like black ink.
The Russians opened fire first.
Ares answered.
Hidden turrets slid from the fenders; the roar of 1,500 horsepower became thunder incarnate.
Cars flipped, bullets sang, and in the middle of it all, the two legends advanced — one with pistols, one with blades, both unstoppable.
Third Person pov
The fight was choreography at the edge of madness.
Wick pivoted through muzzle flash, every shot a verdict.
Jameson cut through steel and bone, his katanas drawing arcs of red in the fog.
They covered each other without speaking — reflex older than reason.
Viggo tried to flee.
Jameson saw it — the desperate glint in his eyes — and tossed his blade across the rain.
It buried itself in the hood of Viggo's car, inches from his throat.
He froze.
John reached him first.
"You can sit at the table of kings," Viggo rasped, "or die in the gutter with him."
John's answer was a whisper: "Yeah."
One bullet. End of an empire.
---
When the echo faded, the city seemed to breathe again.
John stood over the body for a long time.
Jameson waited by Ares, rain washing blood from his jacket.
First Person (Wick)
I thought there'd be peace after the storm.
But standing there, I knew better.
You don't bury violence. You feed it until it becomes you.
I looked at him — my brother in every way that mattered.
He nodded once. No words. Just understanding.
---
They drove until dawn.
The skyline broke open in gold light, the Charger's engine humming like a heartbeat.
When they stopped at the pier, gulls screamed overhead.
Jameson tossed his cigarette into the water. "So… what now?"
John stared at the horizon. "Now I remember who I am."
> SYSTEM REPORT: Mission — Canon integrity maintained.
Reward unlocked → All knowledge, skills, and abilities of Deathstroke integrated.
Hidden bonus → "Twin Legends Protocol": synergy 100 %.
Armor upgrade issued: hybrid tactical suit, black and red configuration active.
The armor materialized in Jameson's trunk like it had always belonged there — sleek, American lines, matte carbon plates, crimson pulse beneath the weave.
Beside it lay the twin katanas, freshly sharpened, and his mask — half Deadshot precision, half Deadpool chaos — split by a single red stripe.
He lifted the mask, felt its weight, and smiled.
From a distance, they looked like two ghosts standing against the dawn — one dressed in grief, one dressed in fury.
The Baba Yaga and the Shinigami.
The world whispered their names again.
Somewhere behind them, sirens wailed.
Ahead, the road opened — endless, waiting, alive.
The city was quiet again — too quiet for New York. Rain rolled down in lazy streaks against the glass of a half-shattered window. The smell of oil, blood, and gunpowder still lingered in the air. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed and then gave up, like the city itself was tired of screaming.
I sat on the hood of Ares, engine ticking as it cooled. Across the alley, the Continental's gold-lit facade stood tall — untouched, untouchable. The last place in the world where the rules still meant something. I stared at its doors, knowing who would walk out of them soon.
You hear the echo first. The sound of boots hitting wet pavement — slow, steady, deliberate. Then you see him: John Wick, black suit torn, blood along the collar, but his eyes… steady. That kind of focus doesn't come from rage. It comes from loss that's settled deep enough to calcify.
The camera would follow him as he steps into the streetlight, his silhouette sharp against the glow. The rain drips from his jawline, falls onto the gun in his hand, and you almost expect the world itself to stop breathing. John looks at the Charger, then at me — and for a heartbeat, neither of us move.
"I told you to stay out of this," he says.
I smirk, light a cigarette, and take one drag before answering. "You told me to stay alive. Never said anything about staying out."
John's jaw flexes. The corner of his mouth twitches, not quite a smile. "Viggo's done."
"Yeah," I say quietly. "But the city isn't."
He looks down at the gun, then holsters it with slow precision. "There's always another storm."
"Then it's good you're still the lightning."
You step closer, and in the silence between us, the ghosts gather. Flashback — quick cuts: two men back-to-back in a burning warehouse, smoke coiling around them as they cut through enemies like a symphony of violence. Another flash — Jameson driving, Wick firing through the window of Ares, both calm as gods among mortals. Then a third: a long night in Rome, a deal gone bad, both walking out without a scratch. The Shinigami and the Baba Yaga. Death and the man who dances with it.
Back in the present, I flick the cigarette into the gutter and stand. The rain reflects red neon off my armor — a black and crimson echo of the past I can't escape. John eyes it briefly, that new suit, the hybrid of Deathstroke's armor and a killer's purpose. He doesn't comment, but his look says it all. You've changed, brother.
"So what now?" I ask.
He glances down the street, where the city breathes slow, uncertain. "Now?" His tone softens — grief and exhaustion threaded together. "Now I go home."
"You still got one?"
He doesn't answer, just walks past me toward the Continental's glow. But just before he reaches the doors, he stops. Looks back. "Thank you," he says simply.
You can tell he means it. No ceremony. No pretense. Just truth, spoken by a man who's forgotten how to lie.
I nod once. "Don't thank me. We both know peace is temporary."
And for the briefest instant, the camera lingers on his face — that haunted stillness, the storm waiting behind his eyes. Then he turns, disappears through the Continental's golden doors.
The rain keeps falling. The neon fades.
You're left there — standing beside me, engine rumbling under the quiet night. The Charger growls low, like a beast ready to hunt again. I rest one hand on the roof, eyes fixed on the place where Wick vanished.
"He's not done," I mutter. "Neither of us are."
I slide into the driver's seat, headlights flaring against the mist. In the rearview mirror, the city looks endless, like a graveyard wearing light. Somewhere out there, the High Table still watches. Somewhere, old debts breathe in the dark.
As Ares rolls out into the rain, you feel it — that unspoken bond between two killers who walk the edge of death and never fall.
The camera pulls back, tracking the black Charger as it merges with the wet streets, red taillights slicing through fog like scars across eternity.
John Wick goes home.
Jameson Toretto disappears into legend once more.
But the Shinigami never sleeps.
And peace… is just the silence before the next kill.