---
The wind outside howled through the broken windows. Dust drifted lazily in the shafts of fading light that cut across the crumbling walls. John Wick sat propped against the stone, a half-empty syringe discarded at his side. The bleeding had slowed. The wound was bandaged—roughly, but effectively.
The medic had already left. No unnecessary words exchanged. Just one ghost tending to another, then fading into silence.
John was alone again, finally allowing exhaustion to press down on him. His eyes closed, just for a moment.
Then—footsteps
Light but deliberate. Two distinct sets. John's instincts flared instantly. His hand slid to his side, and within seconds, **two pistols** were drawn, aimed directly at the heads of the two figures that stepped through the broken doorway.
One was tall, dressed in a long black coat, his presence calm, almost cold. The other walked with a smug swagger, hands in his pockets and a slight smirk on his lips, like this was all some game.
John's voice was low and dry. "Two brats. Picked the wrong time to walk in."
The man in the coat met his gaze without flinching.
Michael.
He recognized John Wick instantly—the name that still sent shivers through the underworld. The Boogeyman. A ghost. A legend.
Michael didn't bother with theatrics.
"Mr. Wick," he said respectfully, "my name is Michael. This is Raphael. We were sent by Father Gabriel… to bring you to the church."
John didn't react—until Michael pulled something from his pocket and held it up.
A black metal cross etched with red, old, ceremonial—the mark of the Honor Church.
John's guns lowered. His eyes flicked to the symbol, then back to Michael. "You better not be lying."
Michael held his ground. "I wouldn't dare."
---
Later... at the Honor Church
The cathedral doors creaked open, and the light from the stained glass bathed the hall in reds and blues. John stepped inside, Michael and Raphael behind him. Hooded priests moved silently in the background, but all eyes avoided the man in black.
John Wick was led deeper into the church until they reached a heavy wooden door. It creaked open slowly.
Inside waited Father Gabriel
The room was old, lined with relics and candles. Gabriel stood at the altar, arms folded, expression unreadable. The years had not softened him.
John walked in, slow and steady.
They argued. Quiet at first, then sharp. Years of history between them boiling beneath every word. Trust fractured. Alliances questioned. Old wounds reopened.
Until finally, John reached into his coat and placed a seal on the table before them.
A small, circular token—blood-marked, sacred.
Gabriel's eyes darkened. Silence fell like a blade.
"I told myself I'd never use this," John said, voice low and cold. "But you've left me no choice."
Gabriel stared at the seal for a long moment before replying, "You always did know how to twist the knife."
John didn't blink. "What do you think assassins are for?"
Gabriel stepped back, turned toward the stained glass behind him.
"It's started again," John added. "The experiments, the disappearances, the monsters. This isn't about a contract anymore. This is about ending what *you* started and buried."
The old priest was quiet for a moment. Then he sighed.
"You'll have sanctuary," he said. "Access to the archives. And whatever information we still have. But John…" he looked at him with a hard expression, "this time, if you fall, no one's coming to save you."
John nodded. "Good. I'd rather not be saved."
---
Michael and Raphael stood waiting quietly outside.
The door creaked open.
John stepped out, Gabriel beside him.
Then Gabriel turned to Michael. "You're going with Mr. Wick to America."
Michael blinked. "Just me?"
John narrowed his eyes slightly. "This brat only?"
But after a beat, he shrugged. "Fine. I trust you, Father. Let's see if the kid can keep up."
Michael gave a half-smile, then nodded. "I'll get my gear."
He left and returned a short while later with a single **black suitcase**. Simple. No words.
Raphael gave him a lazy two-finger salute. "Don't die, little brother. Or worse—don't embarrass us."
Michael rolled his eyes. "Try not to miss me too much."
---
Outside, the sky had darkened. A black SUV waited by the gates of the church. Michael opened the passenger door while John slid into the back seat, still silent.
No words were exchanged as the vehicle rolled off into the night, tires cutting through wet gravel. Their destination: **the airport**.
A new war was beginning. And John Wick was back on the battlefield.
**To be continued…**
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