The garage smelled of oil and regret.
Chains hung from steel beams, swinging lazy arcs through the smoke that curled from the concrete.
Somewhere beyond the hum of a leaking pipe, the old Mustang growled — battered, chained, defiant.
I moved first.
My boots whispered against the oil-slick floor as I circled the edges of Abram Tarasov's den. Every sound was alive: the click of a gun safety, the distant rumble of generators, the heartbeat of machines dreaming of escape.
The Charger — Ares — waited outside, engine purring low, ready to wake the dead.
"John's inside," the comm said softly in my ear.
I didn't need the reminder. I could feel him — the same way a storm feels lightning before it strikes.
You move through the dark like you never left it.
The warehouse opens before you, rows of stolen cars glinting under pale fluorescent light. Abram's men laugh somewhere behind you; they think you're a myth. They think you came for a car. They don't understand you came for a piece of your past.
You exhale once, steady.
A revolver clicks open in your hand — the rhythm of violence disguised as breathing.
Then: impact. One man drops, another follows.
The silencer coughs like a whisper from the grave.
From my angle above, I watched Wick dance — precision dressed as rage.
He flowed between shadows, the same way I used to when we were young and hungry, before legends and systems.
Each step, each shot, a line of poetry written in blood.
The Shinigami and the Baba Yaga.
Once, that pairing meant extinction.
Tonight, it just meant closure.
I drop from the rafters.
Two of Abram's guards turn too slow — my knife flashes once, twice, and they fold like paper in a storm.
John doesn't even glance up; he knows the rhythm, the sound, the timing.
We used to call it "the breath between bullets."
"You always make an entrance," he mutters as another body falls.
"Habit," I answer, reloading.
My voice sounds calm. Inside, every neuron's screaming move, move, move.
You sweep across the room.
Jameson slides into position beside you, covering the angles no human eye should catch.
Your car's chained twenty feet ahead.
Abram steps from the catwalk with a smirk carved into his beard.
He thinks his men outnumber you.
He's right — but numbers mean nothing when gods go hunting.
From above, a roar: the chains snap.
Ares' engine explodes alive, the Charger crashing through the outer gate like a myth reborn.
The Mustang's ropes give way at the same moment.
Two cars — two legends — awakening together.
The fight turns metal.
Third-person now, the camera swirling through the chaos:
Wick slams a thug into a pillar, disarms him mid-fall, shoots through the man's chest into another charging from the side.
Jameson dives beneath a swinging wrench, rolls, fires three rounds through the engine block of a pursuing SUV.
Oil sprays fire when it touches a spark.
Heat ripples.
Screams fade into static.
John reaches the Mustang, slides behind the wheel, breath shallow but eyes calm.
Jameson's already reversed Ares alongside.
Two black silhouettes framed by smoke.
"You ready?"
"Always."
Engines roar in harmony — ancient thunder and modern fury.
They hit the gate together.
Steel buckles.
Light explodes.
Now first-person again:
Wind tears through the broken windshield. My hands grip the wheel, and for a moment, I remember Rio, the vault, the gold, the sound of freedom.
But this — this is different.
This is family of another kind — the kind you choose when the world forgets your name.
John's Mustang cuts through traffic ahead, cops on his tail. I take the flank, clipping a pursuing sedan off the bridge with a casual nudge.
Ares hums beneath me — alive, laughing in steel.
"System," I whisper, "calculate escape route."
> SYSTEM ACTIVE: Sync with Wick pattern detected. Predictive trajectory engaged.
Probability of survival: 68 percent.
Shinigami Protocol: Unlocked.
Your mind races faster than the car.
You see paths — open alleys, reflection angles in glass, the flicker of siren light before it rounds a corner.
It's instinct, math, and madness stitched together.
You pull the e-brake, spin, and bullets skip across the hood like rain.
Third-person — the chase turns operatic.
Police cars swarm through the industrial district.
John drives with surgical hatred, his Mustang scraping concrete, shredding steel, reclaiming itself in fire.
Jameson mirrors him, movements an echo of divine precision.
Every maneuver they make is symmetrical — an old choreography rediscovered after years of silence.
When the last patrol car spins into a wall, quiet fills the night.
They stop beneath the ruins of an overpass.
Steam rises from both hoods.
No words at first — just breath.
Jameson steps out, lit by the red glow of taillights.
John follows, dragging the blood from his temple with the back of his glove.
"That all of them?"
"For tonight," Wick says.
He looks older, but not slower.
The air around him feels heavy — grief and purpose braided together.
I watch him and think of everything the System told me about balance — how death demands precision, not emotion.
But looking at John, I see what the world truly fears: not the act of killing, but the reason behind it.
"You still drive like a demon," I say quietly.
"You still fight like one," he answers.
Second-person — you glance at him, the old friend turned phantom.
You wonder where he's been, what he's become.
But you already know.
You both walked the same edge; you just leaned in different directions.
The silence turns into understanding.
Two weapons cooling in the night.
Then third-person again, distant and wide like a drone shot panning across the city.
The skyline burns in sodium orange.
The Charger and Mustang idle side by side, smoke drifting like ghosts.
Somewhere far away, the Tarasov empire begins to crumble, the first domino of a war that will swallow New York whole.
Jameson turns back toward his car.
"You got business," he says.
Wick nods once.
"I'll finish it."
"And I'll be there when it ends."
Their eyes meet — a brief, silent contract between killers who understand that peace is just the space between gunshots.
As they part ways, the city seems to hold its breath.
The Charger growls down one street, the Mustang another, both engines fading into the distance like twin heartbeats syncing in reverse.
Inside his car, Jameson exhales, the glow of dashboard lights reflecting across his mask.
A notification pulses on his HUD:
> SYSTEM ALERT: Canon maintained.
Mission status: Synchronized with Wick Timeline 2.
Reward: Reflex Amplification + 20%.
Hidden Effect: "Dual Legend Protocol" — activated.
I smile to myself.
Because somewhere in the city, John Wick is loading fresh rounds into a gun.
And somewhere in the same darkness, I'm tuning Ares for war.
The world's about to remember both of us.
Rain whispered against the glass like it was afraid to touch the house.
The world outside John Wick's home was quiet again — too quiet, the kind that doesn't last.
Inside, the air smelled of gun oil, bourbon, and loss.
You sit at the kitchen table, dog sleeping near your feet.
The house feels smaller than it used to, heavier. Every photo, every memory is a weight.
You think you buried the man you were, but grief has a way of digging up bodies.
The doorbell rings. Once. Soft. Patient.
John rises, hand brushing the pistol on the table before he even realizes it.
He opens the door.
Santino D'Antonio stands there — expensive suit, snake's smile, a blood-mark medallion gleaming between his fingers.
"John," he says like they're old friends.
"I'm sorry for your loss."
From a rooftop four blocks away, I watch through rain-specked lenses.
Santino's face looks exactly as I remember it from the old Continental records — charming, venomous, already dead in my eyes.
John doesn't see me. He doesn't need to.
The System hums in my ear.
> SYSTEM NOTICE: Event synchronization: "The Marker."
Canon divergence risk: 0.02%.
Recommendation: Observe. Intervene only upon breach.
My fingers twitch near the trigger. Observation's never been my strong suit.
Down below, the conversation unravels like fate.
Santino reminds John of his debt, the blood marker sealing it.
John refuses.
Santino smiles, polite, rehearsed — the look of a man who believes power can buy gods.
You feel the anger rise — slow, molten, measured.
You tell him no again.
He leaves the house with an apology too gentle to be real.
You watch him go, already knowing what comes next.
From my scope, I see the glint of the grenade launcher before the sound hits.
Flames bloom across the night, devouring the house, the memories, the last peace Wick ever had.
I don't breathe.
Not because of shock — because of recognition.
I've seen men lose homes, families, faith.
But John Wick?
They just detonated the world's fuse.
The next morning, I find him standing in the ashes.
I land beside him, boots crunching on what used to be his floor.
He doesn't look up.
"You watched?" he asks, voice flat.
"Yeah."
"Why?"
"Because you would've done the same for me."
He nods once. That's all.
We don't do comfort — we do consequences.
You stand over the ruins.
Smoke curls like ghosts between your fingers.
The medallion lies half-buried near your feet — Santino's marker, glinting red in the soot.
You pick it up, thumb pressing against the wax seal.
There's no going back now.
"I need a car," you say.
Third-person — the screen widens.
Jameson turns away first, flicking his lighter open and shut, the tiny flame painting gold across the mask he wears.
Ares idles by the curb, sleek, silent, and waiting.
John follows, retrieving what remains of his past — the Mustang still scarred from Abram's war.
Two cars roll down a road painted with firelight, heading toward the only neutral ground left in their world: The Continental.
The lobby smells of leather and iron.
Charon greets them with his usual calm, but there's an extra flicker in his eyes when he sees them both.
"Gentlemen," he says smoothly. "Mr. Wick. Mr. Toretto. It's… been a while."
John's nod is curt.
Mine's quieter. "We'll need rooms."
"Of course. Mr. Winston is expecting you."
Upstairs, Winston stands behind his desk, glass of bourbon in hand.
The man's presence feels like an empire folded into a suit.
"John," Winston says, "you're looking remarkably alive for someone who's supposed to be retired."
His gaze slides to me. "And you, Jameson. The Shinigami himself. I thought you'd buried that title."
"Sometimes death just changes names," I say.
"You both know the rules," Winston continues. "Santino's marker is binding. To refuse it is suicide."
John doesn't answer. He just places the medallion on the desk between them, wax seal half-melted from the fire.
Winston exhales, almost sadly. "Then I suppose you're going to Rome."
Rome at night smells like perfume and powder burns.
The catacombs beneath the city hum with the weight of old blood and older promises.
Santino's sister, Gianna D'Antonio, walks through candlelight in slow motion — regal, doomed, unaware her fate's already been signed in wax.
From my vantage point in the catacombs, I move between shadows — unseen, unheard.
I'm not here to change the story.
I'm here to make sure no one else tries to.
You walk through the mirror room like a reflection of your former self.
The silencer breathes again.
Gianna turns, surprise turning to understanding.
You give her the courtesy of a choice — and she takes it.
Her blood fills the bath, soft ripples marking the moment a kingdom falls.
When the shot echoes — mercy's punctuation — I flinch, just slightly.
Not because of death. Because of the elegance of it.
The Shinigami recognizes his counterpart.
You move through the corridors as bullets bloom around you.
Cassian appears — loyal, relentless, and fast.
The fight is surgical: blades against bullets, bodies slamming into marble, reflections shattering like glass memories.
Third-person — the camera splits the action in two:
Wick and Cassian, a deadly dance through tunnels of light and shadow.
Jameson above, eliminating guards, redirecting enemy patrols with calculated precision.
Every shot, every move, perfectly timed to preserve Wick's escape route.
> SYSTEM NOTICE: Canon trajectory stable.
Hidden bonus unlocked — "Guardian Protocol: Shadow Intervention."
I watch John fight like he was born for this — a man who makes chaos look like choreography.
And for a heartbeat, I remember the nights we trained in silence, trading hits, laughing after the bruises faded.
It feels like centuries ago.
Maybe it was.
By the time we reach the street, Cassian's bleeding but alive.
John spares him.
Mercy between predators — something rare, something beautiful.
We regroup in a back alley, the neon rain painting our faces red and blue.
"Gianna?" I ask.
"Done."
"Cassian?"
"Alive."
I nod. "Then the war starts tomorrow."
You sit in the Continental Rome suite, bandaging your hand.
Blood stains your cuffs, but your pulse is steady.
You glance at Jameson across the room — still armored, still alert, still more ghost than man.
He's cleaning his guns, methodical as ever.
"You could've gone home," you say.
He doesn't look up.
"There's no home for people like us."
He's right.
There's only the next bullet, the next road, the next ghost.
Third-person now, camera pulling back through the window as thunder rolls across the city.
Outside, Santino's men gather like locusts.
He's signed the contract — $7 million for John Wick's head.
Every assassin in the world just got the message.
Back inside, both men rise in unison.
No hesitation. No words.
Just motion.
The Continental's rule holds for now — no blood on hotel grounds.
But outside, the streets are a warzone.
Jameson loads red-tipped rounds into his pistol — his mark of war.
Wick checks his clips with that haunted calm.
They move together out the door.
> SYSTEM ALERT: Canon event "Open Contract" initiated.
Secondary thread: "Shinigami Support" — active.
Probability of joint survival: 43%.
Override accepted.
I grip the wheel of Ares as we hit the streets, sirens wailing in the distance.
John rides shotgun, eyes scanning reflections in puddles, every angle a potential deathtrap.
Rain cuts visibility, but that's fine.
We were both born in storms.
They come for us fast — two on bikes, one van from the rear.
I swerve left, clip one rider into a pillar.
John leans out, fires once — the other biker folds mid-turn, body skidding into the van's grill.
I cut the wheel, drift through a narrow alley, sparks carving the night open.
Bullets sing past.
John reloads, hands steady.
"Miss this?" I ask.
He doesn't smile.
But there's a flash in his eyes — something close to alive.
You reload with the rhythm of memory.
You look out the window and think about Helen, about the dog, about everything that was stolen.
Then you think about Jameson — the Shinigami — and realize that in some twisted way, he's the only person who understands what you've become.
Third-person — the car bursts onto the highway, two assassins framed by neon light and rain, myth and mortality sharing the same wheel.
The city breathes beneath them, unaware it's harboring gods disguised as men.
They drive until dawn breaks over the skyline — tired, bleeding, but unbroken.
When they finally stop, it's at a safehouse buried beneath an abandoned warehouse.
They clean their weapons in silence, the hum of machinery the only heartbeat in the room.
John finally speaks.
"What happens when we're done?"
Jameson glances up, eyes unreadable.
"When has that ever happened?"
The screen fades to black.
> SYSTEM NOTICE: Mission "The Marker" complete.
Canon maintained 100%.
Reward: Enhanced Reflex Sync +10%.
Hidden Reward: "Assassin's Covenant" — loyalty between Wick and Shinigami reinforced.
Outside, the first light of morning cuts through the rain.
Two cars sit waiting — one black, one silver, engines whispering like old gods plotting their next war.
The storm's far from over.
The world just hasn't realized it yet.
---
Night dripped down the skyline of New York, slow and black as spilled oil.
The rain hadn't stopped since Rome — like the heavens were cleansing the blood that wouldn't wash off.
The Shinigami drove in silence.
Beside him, John Wick watched the city crawl by in reflected neon.
The contract was still active.
Every assassin alive wanted his head.
And Santino D'Antonio — the man who caused it all — sat protected by the one sanctuary no one dared break: The Continental.
I watched Wick's reflection in the windshield — his jaw tight, his eyes darker than the storm outside.
Every breath he took felt like a countdown.
He'd lost his home, his peace, his redemption.
And now he was being hunted for honoring a debt he never wanted.
"You don't have to follow me in," he said quietly.
You keep your eyes forward. "We started this together. We finish it the same way."
John's voice drops, almost a whisper. "You know what'll happen if we do."
"Yeah," I say. "The rules burn."
The Continental's entrance glowed gold against the rain, like the last holy place in a city of sin.
Winston's establishment. The one law left in this underworld.
No business on Continental grounds.
You walk through the doors, soaked in shadow, your dog padding at your heel.
You can feel the stares from the lobby — killers, mercenaries, ghosts of your past.
You keep walking. You don't look at them. You only look at the bar, where Santino sits like a serpent on a throne, surrounded by luxury, feeding on his own arrogance.
He raises his glass. "John. Jameson. Please — sit. Eat. You've had a long journey."
You can almost taste the mockery in his voice.
You sit because you want him to feel safe before the storm hits.
Third person — the camera glides around the table.
Santino leans back, smug.
John and Jameson sit across from him like specters at judgment.
"Contracts come and go," Santino says, "but legends… legends endure. And you two—" he gestures lazily "—you're stories told to scare men like me. But stories end, don't they?"
He smiles.
It's the last mistake of his life.
First person — I see John's hand move before he even knows it.
His eyes are glass — calm, resolute, final.
He doesn't raise his voice. Doesn't warn him.
Just pulls the trigger.
The shot echoes like thunder through the marble halls.
Santino's head snaps back, wine spilling across the table like blood on a saint's cloth.
He falls. Silent.
And the Continental's sanctuary falls with him.
Everyone in the room freezes.
For one impossible second, the world forgets to breathe.
Then Winston's voice cuts through the air, quiet but lethal:
"Jonathan… what have you done?"
You look up, weapon still warm in your hand.
Your voice is steady, almost empty.
"Finished it."
Third person — chaos swells.
Charon moves to lock down the hotel, guards seal the exits, and Winston's calm veneer fractures for just a moment.
He knows what must come next.
Every rule, every creed, every tradition demands it.
John Wick — the man who survived retirement, who walked out of hell — has broken the sacred law.
Jameson stands at his side, the crimson line on his visor catching the firelight.
"You knew this was coming," Winston says to him.
"Yes," Jameson replies. "But I couldn't stop it."
"Then you know the cost."
"I always do."
You stand together in Winston's private suite, the world's judgment closing in.
You can hear the hum of phones lighting up across continents — the word spreading through the network like a plague.
Excommunicado.
You feel the weight of it sink into your bones.
Every marker, every favor, every alliance erased.
You're alone again.
Only this time, you're not the only one.
Third person — the lobby clock ticks toward midnight.
Winston pours two glasses of bourbon, places one in front of John, one in front of Jameson.
A requiem toast.
"Jonathan," Winston says softly, "walk away. I'll give you one hour before they come for you."
He turns to me. "You, however, are not bound by this law. You may leave now."
I shake my head.
"You gave him an hour. He won't make it alone."
Winston studies me for a long moment.
Then — just for an instant — something human flickers behind his eyes.
"Then I suppose the world will remember both of you as madmen."
First person — I step outside into the rain, the city alive with whispers.
Every light feels like an eye watching us.
John falls into step beside me, his coat dark, his silhouette mythic.
> SYSTEM ALERT: Global Contract Update:
"John Wick — 14 million."
"Jameson Toretto (Shinigami) — 7 million (secondary interference)."
Countdown to activation: 1:00:00.
One hour.
The longest, shortest hour of our lives.
We walk in silence.
No words left to say.
Just ghosts, rain, and the rhythm of footsteps echoing down a world that wants us dead.
Second person — you move through the crowd, feeling eyes on your back, the storm in your veins.
You think of Helen.
You think of Daisy.
You think of everything Santino took from you.
And for the first time in years, you don't feel grief. You feel purpose.
You look beside you — at him.
The Shinigami.
The only other soul cursed to keep walking when death should've claimed him.
He doesn't look back.
He doesn't need to.
He's been here before.
Third person — the countdown begins.
Digital clocks across the city synchronize, their glow reflected in puddles and windshields.
Assassins stir. Blades sharpen. Guns load.
The streets breathe like a living organism preparing to strike.
John and Jameson reach the edge of Central Park.
They stop.
Dogs bark in the distance.
Thunder cracks overhead.
Winston's voice echoes in the wind, carried on unseen channels.
"You are now excommunicado. All services revoked. Good luck, gentlemen."
First person — my HUD blinks red.
Target locks appearing across rooftops.
The System whispers probabilities, escape routes, kill patterns.
But none of it matters.
This isn't about survival anymore.
It's about the war that follows.
I glance at him.
John Wick.
The man who walked out of death.
The man I once called brother.
"You ready?" I ask.
He holsters his weapon, eyes forward.
"Yeah."
Then we move.
The first wave hits — three shooters at the fountain.
John takes two before they even lift their barrels.
I flank right, drop the third with a suppressed burst.
Movement everywhere now — reflections in glass, snipers on spires, blades flashing between crowd and chaos.
The park erupts into war.
You dive behind stone, switch clips, pivot, fire.
Everything slows — every heartbeat, every breath, every bullet's path.
You are pure instinct, pure intent.
Beside you, the Shinigami moves like liquid violence — blades humming, muzzle flashes carving crimson arcs.
The world falls away.
There is no noise.
Only rhythm.
Two men, one purpose.
Not to live.
To defy.
Third person — the camera pulls wide, rain hammering down as assassins drop one by one, the fountain spraying mist over the carnage.
Jameson spins, slides behind cover, reappears on the flank.
John fires twice, reloads, headshots a rifleman through broken glass.
They move like reflections of one another — past and future, light and shadow.
When the last body falls, silence hits harder than any bullet.
The rain hides the blood, but not the meaning.
The legends are no longer myths.
They're war gods walking among men.
> SYSTEM NOTICE: Canon trajectory preserved.
Status: Excommunicado (John Wick & Jameson Toretto).
New arc unlocked — "Parabellum."
Hidden synergy: "The Duality Protocol — Two Reapers, One War."
You stand together at the park's edge, breathing hard.
The lights of the city pulse like veins in a sleeping beast.
Every killer in the world knows your name.
But for the first time, you don't feel hunted.
You feel awake.
You look at each other — a nod, nothing more.
Then you walk into the rain, two silhouettes dissolving into legend.
The Boogeyman and the Shinigami.
Side by side.
One war away from the end of the world.