Location: Manhattan Underworld | Late Night | Neon Reflected in Rain-Soaked Pavement
John Wick moved like a specter of retribution.Every footstep was deliberate. Every breath measured.
He started at the first lead — a decrepit safehouse that belonged to Viggo Tarasov's men, hidden behind a butcher shop in Little Odessa.There were two guards at the door.He took them before they could scream.
A whisper of silenced gunfire, and their bodies crumpled into the shadows.John slipped inside.
The room smelled like cigarette smoke and blood.A third gangster jumped up, reaching for his holster.John was already moving — a flash of a leg sweep, his own gun tucked tight against the man's chin.One shot.Silent and final.
He moved further into the gloom.Papers on a desk.Surveillance photos.He scanned them quickly, looking for Iosef, for connections to Viggo's men who had stormed his house.
And then came the fight.More gunmen burst in.John was fluid — elbows into throats, knives to hands, gunshots perfectly placed as bodies fell.The place was cleaned out in less than three minutes.
And amidst the wreckage, he pulled a crumpled slip of paper from a pocket.A shipment manifest — one heading toward a shipping yard by the docks.That was where they'd taken his Mustang.That was where they'd hide next.
John left like a shadow through the back, bleeding into the city's underbelly.
🎬 Elsewhere — "The Gateway" | Hidden Club Beneath a Strip of Red-Light Bars
Agent 47 stepped through the side door that only those who lived in the underworld would recognize.Behind a rusty steel door at the end of an alley, through a narrow staircase glowing with dim red neon,he entered the world of hitmen, smugglers, and information brokers.
"The Gateway," they called it — the one place every contract killer, gun runner, and rogue intelligence agent drank side-by-side without drawing guns.
A hum of bass-heavy music thudded through the place.The air was rich with the scents of aged whiskey and spent cartridges.And there, scattered across booths and over polished wooden bars, were his contacts — people who might recognize the name Baba Yaga.
"A ghost story," one whispered to him as he approached the counter, face blank, suit immaculate.
"A legend," chuckled a sniper from across the room, eyeing him carefully as if wondering whether 47 had come for him.
47's gaze was calm, unfazed.He pushed a photograph across the counter — an empty space where John Wick's face would have been if he had it.
"Do you know this man?" his voice was clinical.The bartender paused, then nodded to a backroom.
47 moved without hesitation.
The backroom was dense with smoke.An informant — jittery, nervous — sat waiting.
"You want Baba Yaga?" the informant stammered as 47 took the chair across from him.
47 gave nothing away.He simply stared, hands resting calmly, silverballers tucked neatly into his belt holsters.
"I want information," was all he said.
The informant swallowed hard."They call him Baba Yaga," he whispered."But his real name is John Wick."
And in that moment, 47's brow hardly twitched —But something clicked in his mind.A path.A hunt.
🎬 Elsewhere — The Docks, 3:15 AM
John Wick moved in like a ghost across the rain-slick crates.More of Viggo's men were waiting.More men who thought they had a chance.
They were wrong.
Silenced gunfire flashed through the dark like muted lightning.John took the last one with his hands — a vicious twist of the neck —And then dropped into the container where they had stashed his stolen Mustang.He paused.His hands moved over the battered hood like a ritual.And then he was gone into the dark.
🎬 Back in "The Gateway," Agent 47 stepped into the neon-lit night once more.
He checked his system window.A new lead was syncing — the target he was after was one John Wick.And now he had a face to go with the myth.
The city was full of killers tonight.And two of its deadliest were now on a collision course.