Somewhere in New York
John Wick woke up to the sound of his front door being kicked in.
He didn't have time to reach for a weapon. Didn't have time to roll out of bed or take cover. Three men rushed into his bedroom, and the first baseball bat caught him across the ribs before he could even process what was happening.
The legendary assassin, the man they used to call Baba Yaga in the underworld, the Night Demon who'd earned his retirement through rivers of blood, went down under a flurry of blows. They beat him methodically, professionally. Not enough to kill, but enough to make sure he stayed down.
John tried to fight back. Years of muscle memory kicked in even through the pain. But he was rusty. Out of practice. And there were three of them.
When they were done with him, when he was curled on the floor gasping for air, they did something worse.
They killed his dog.
Daisy. The beagle puppy. The last gift Helen had arranged before she died. The final piece of his wife that remained in this world. They killed her right in front of him, laughing as they did it, and then they stole his car.
His 1969 Mustang. The car Helen had convinced him to keep instead of sell.
Then they left him there, bleeding on his bedroom floor next to Daisy's body, and drove away into the night.
John buried Daisy in the backyard as the sun came up.
His hands shook as he dug. Not from the pain in his ribs or the bruises covering his body. From rage. From grief. From the horrible, familiar feeling of something precious being ripped away.
He'd thought he was done with this life. Thought he'd earned his peace. Helen had been his redemption, his way out. She'd seen something in him worth saving, something human underneath all the blood and death. And when she died, when the cancer finally took her, she'd left him Daisy. A reason to keep living. A reason to stay out of the darkness.
Now Daisy was gone too.
John patted down the last of the dirt and stood, looking at the small grave. He thought about Helen. About the life they'd built together. About her smile and her laugh and the way she'd never been afraid of what he used to be.
About her last gift.
The choice crystallized in his mind with perfect clarity.
He knew who'd sent those men. Knew the red Mustang was distinctive enough that only a few chop shops in the city would touch it. He'd make some calls. Find out where it went. Find out who was stupid enough to break into John Wick's home.
And then he'd remind them why people used to fear his name.
Violence it was, then.
John Wick's House - Basement
John stood in his basement, a sledgehammer in his hands, staring at the concrete floor.
He'd made a few calls. Found out exactly who was responsible. Iosef Tarasov. Viggo's son. The spoiled, stupid, arrogant son of the man who used to be John's employer.
The kid had no idea what he'd done. No idea who he'd attacked.
But he would learn.
John swung the hammer down. The impact jarred his arms, sent cracks spider-webbing through the concrete. He swung again, harder this time. And again. Each blow was for Daisy. For Helen. For the peace he'd tried so hard to build and maintain.
CRACK.
The concrete shattered.
John dropped the hammer and fell to his knees, sweeping away chunks of broken cement with his hands. Underneath, exactly where he'd left it five years ago, was a metal case.
He pulled it free and opened the lid.
On the left side, four pistols lay in perfect condition, each one a tool he knew intimately. Four magazines full of ammunition. Four grenades, two of them explosive, two smoke. Several suppressors that could thread onto the pistol barrels.
On the right side, a box of gold coins gleamed dully in the dim basement light. Continental Hotel currency. Each one worth a favor, a service, a transaction in the underworld's economy.
And in the center of the coins, something that shouldn't be there.
John's hand froze halfway to the guns.
It was a sphere. Perfectly round, orange in color, with what looked like a star suspended in the center. The whole thing seemed to glow faintly, like it had its own internal light source.
John frowned. When he'd retired, when he'd buried this case, he'd placed a smooth stone from the beach in that spot. Helen had found it one day while they were walking along the shore, thought it was pretty, and given it to him. He'd kept it as a reminder of that moment. Of her.
This wasn't that stone.
"Did Helen put this here?" John muttered to himself.
But that didn't make sense. Helen had died after he'd sealed the case. She'd never been down here. Never even known about his hidden cache.
So where had the stone gone? And what was this crystal ball?
Still confused, John reached out and picked up the sphere.
The moment his fingers touched it, light flared.
Fraternity Headquarters - Conference Room
Smith was half-listening to Mr. X discuss supply chain logistics when information suddenly flooded into his mind.
Someone had touched one of the Dragon Balls.
Smith's eyes widened slightly, though he kept his expression neutral. Already? He'd only activated the system two days ago. He hadn't expected anyone to find one of the balls so quickly.
But then again, they'd been scattered for eighteen years. Plenty of time for them to end up in strange places, to be picked up by curious people who thought they were just unusual stones.
As the guardian of the Dragon Balls, Smith had certain privileges. He could sense their locations at all times. And when someone made direct contact with one, he could see through it. View the scene. Understand who had found his creation.
Smith closed his eyes briefly, focusing on the connection.
The vision came instantly. A basement. Dim lighting. A metal case full of weapons and gold coins. And a man, dark-haired and intense, holding the one-star Dragon Ball in his hand.
Smith recognized that face immediately.
"John Wick," he breathed.
The Night Demon. The Baba Yaga. The man who'd killed his way out of the Russian mob, earned an impossible task to retire, completed it, and then actually managed to stay retired. One of the most dangerous assassins in the world, right up there with the best the Fraternity had to offer.
Smith had seen the John Wick movies in his previous life. Knew what was about to happen. Viggo's idiot son had stolen John's car and killed his dog. The dog his dead wife had left him. And now John was about to paint New York red with Russian blood.
The Russian mob in New York was about to be destroyed. Systematically. Brutally. Efficiently.
Smith smiled to himself. "What an unlucky guy."
He could feel John's confusion through the Dragon Ball, the man's uncertainty about what he was holding. John Wick was many things, but he wasn't stupid. He knew something was off about the sphere.
On impulse, Smith reached out with his will and activated the Dragon Ball's informational function.
John Wick's Basement
The sphere in John's hand pulsed with light, and suddenly information poured directly into his mind. Not words he was reading. Not a voice he was hearing. Just knowledge, appearing fully formed in his consciousness.
Gather all seven Dragon Balls and you can summon the dragon Shenron to grant your wish.
John stared at the sphere, at the single star floating in its center.
"One star," he murmured. "This is one of seven."
The knowledge was absolute, unquestionable. He knew it was true the same way he knew how to breathe or how to field-strip a pistol. The information had been placed directly in his brain by whatever power created this thing.
Seven balls. Seven star. Gather them all, summon a dragon, make a wish.
Any wish.
John's breath caught in his throat.
"Helen," he whispered. "Could I bring you back?"
The thought was almost too much to bear. His wife, alive again. Healthy. Whole. No cancer eating her from the inside out. No slow, painful decline. No watching her slip away piece by piece while he stood helpless.
Just Helen. Alive. With him.
His hand closed around the Dragon Ball, holding it tight. Carefully, reverently, he slipped it into his pocket.
But first things first.
He had a score to settle. Had to deal with Iosef and Viggo and everyone who thought they could violate his home, kill his dog, steal his car. Had to remind them all why people used to cross the street when they saw him coming.
After that, after the blood was spilled and the debts were paid, he'd find the other six Dragon Balls.
And then he'd make his wish.
But even as the determination settled over him, doubt crept in. Could this really work? Could magic like this actually exist? In all his years in the underworld, moving through the shadows of the criminal world, he'd never heard whispers of anything like this. No legends. No rumors. No stories of wish-granting dragons or mystical spheres.
It seemed impossible.
But the knowledge in his head was real. The sphere in his pocket was real.
John looked at the weapons in the case, then up at the ceiling, toward where Daisy was buried in the backyard.
"I'll find out," he promised quietly. "I'll find the Dragon Balls. And if they can really bring you back, Helen, then nothing in this world will stop me."
He began pulling out the pistols, checking their condition, loading the magazines.
Time to go to work.
Fraternity Headquarters - Conference Room
Smith opened his eyes, breaking the connection to the Dragon Ball. A slight smile played at his lips.
John Wick now had hope. And a man like John, with hope and motivation beyond simple revenge, was an incredibly dangerous thing.
Cross was speaking now, addressing Smith directly. "GOD, we're going to select a mission for you. Consider it your debut. Your formal introduction as the leader of the Assassin's League."
Mr. X nodded, his expression serious. "This won't be a simple assassination. We're talking about dismantling an entire organization. A group that's committed serious crimes and needs to be stopped."
The Gunsmith looked between them, frowning. "Isn't a whole organization a bit much? The kid's good, sure, but that's a tall order."
The Butcher shifted his considerable bulk in his chair. "What if we compromise? GOD takes out the leader and the top executives. The rest of the organization can be handled by other members of the Fraternity. Spread the work around."
Smith leaned back in his chair, considering. Taking down an entire criminal organization alone would be difficult, even with his new abilities. But it wasn't impossible. And if he was going to lead the Fraternity, he needed to prove he could handle the big threats.
"I don't have a problem with it," Smith said. "Pick an organization, and I'll handle it. Just make sure they're actually evil. Not just competitors or people someone doesn't like."
Mr. X's expression didn't change, but there was approval in his eyes. "Of course. We've been gathering intelligence on several potential targets over the past few weeks. Organizations involved in human trafficking, weapons dealing, terrorist activities. Real scum."
"You'll be able to choose from the list once we finish compiling all the information," Cross added. "Should be ready in a few days."
"So it's a multiple choice test," Smith said with a slight smile. "Got it. Let me know when you have the list ready."
He stood up, pushing his chair back. "Until then, I've got some other things to take care of. Just call me when you need me."
Smith headed for the door, pushing it open and stepping out into the hallway. Fox was sitting on the couch just outside the conference room, her red hair tied back, cleaning one of her pistols with practiced efficiency.
She looked up when Smith emerged. "Done already?"
"For now. Feel like going for a drive?"
Fox raised an eyebrow but stood up, holstering her weapon. "Where to?"
"The Continental Hotel."
They walked through the textile mill, out to the parking area where Fox's black Dodge Viper SRT-10 Coupe waited. The car was her pride and joy, sleek and fast and dangerous, just like its owner.
Fox slid into the driver's seat while Smith took the passenger side. The engine roared to life with a deep, satisfying growl.
"You still have some Continental gold coins, right?" Smith asked as Fox pulled out onto the street.
Fox glanced at him, confused. "Yeah, I've got a few. Collected them from targets over the years. Some of the people we've taken down were connected to that world." Her eyes narrowed. "Why? You're not planning to attack the Continental, are you? Because even with your new abilities, taking on that place would be suicide. They've got hundreds of assassins on call."
Smith laughed. "Relax. I'm not planning to start a war with the High Table. I just want to show you something interesting. There's going to be a good show at the Continental soon."
"What kind of show?"
"The kind where a very angry man reminds everyone why they used to be terrified of him."
Fox's expression shifted to one of interest. She loved a good spectacle, especially when it involved high-level assassin work. "Now you've got my attention."
She pressed down on the accelerator, and the Viper shot forward through New York traffic.
John Wick's House
The phone rang.
John was in the process of loading his weapons into a duffel bag when the sound cut through the silence. He paused, looking at the cordless handset on the wall.
He knew who it was. There was only one person who would be calling right now.
John walked over and picked up the phone. "Yes."
"John." The voice on the other end was familiar, Russian-accented, weary. Viggo Tarasov. "I heard about your wife. I'm sorry for your loss."
John said nothing.
"Fate, perhaps," Viggo continued. "Or chance. Or just bad luck that brings us to speak again after all this time."
Silence.
"John?"
More silence.
Viggo sighed. "Let's not do this. We're civilized men. We can resolve this situation without violence. Whatever my son did, whatever happened, we can make it right. Name your price."
John hung up.
He didn't need to hear any more. Didn't need Viggo's explanations or apologies or offers. The man's son had violated John's home. Killed his dog. Stolen his car.
There was only one way this ended.
Viggo's Office
Viggo stared at the dead phone in his hand, his face pale.
One of his lieutenants stepped forward. "Boss?"
"He hung up," Viggo said quietly. He set the phone down and rubbed his face with both hands. "My idiot son has doomed us all."
"It's just one man, boss. We have—"
"You don't understand." Viggo's voice was sharp. "John Wick is not just one man. He is what we send to kill the thing you send to kill the Baba Yaga."
The lieutenant looked confused. "The boogeyman?"
"No," Viggo said. "The one you send to kill the boogeyman. And my son, in his infinite stupidity, has brought John out of retirement."
He stood up, moving to the window, looking out over New York. Somewhere out there, John Wick was preparing for war. And when John went to war, bodies piled up like cordwood.
"Get everyone together," Viggo ordered. "Everyone we have. Every soldier, every enforcer, every ally who owes us a favor. Get them all ready."
"You really think—"
"John Wick once killed three men in a bar with a pencil," Viggo interrupted. "A pencil. Do you understand what I'm telling you? We need an army to stop him."
The lieutenant swallowed hard. "Yes, boss. I'll make the calls."
As the man hurried out, Viggo remained at the window, his expression grim.
"Prepare our people," he said to the empty room. "Prepare them all."