Location: Red Circle Club — Private Lounge | Red Neon and Shadows
The bass throbbed like a heartbeat outside as Agent 47 sat perfectly still on a leather couch, one polished shoe pressed onto the trembling skull of a terrified gangster. Around him, five of the man's colleagues lay crumpled, pools of blood reflecting the club's strobing lights through glass walls.
47's face was a blank mask — cold, expressionless — as if the massacre was nothing more than an inconvenience.The gangster beneath him whimpered, hands trembling at 47's ankle as he fought for breath.
"Baba Yaga," 47's voice was smooth and measured, slicing through the man's panic like a scalpel."What does he look like?"
The goon shuddered violently. "I-I swear, I don't kn—!"
Sudden gunfire shattered the quiet downstairs — sharp cracks and bassy echoes.47 didn't even blink.He kept his gaze fixed on the quivering wreck under his heel.
More shots.More bodies hitting marble.None of it mattered.47's focus never wavered.
"Baba Yaga," he repeated calmly."Where is he?"
And then — the door to the lounge exploded inward.
John Wick filled the threshold.
Wick's dark eyes instantly scanned the scene:Bodies strewn like discarded mannequins.A suited killer seated with one leg on a gangster's head like a trophy.No panic.No fear.Just cold silence.
"Professional," Wick thought as his fingers reflexively gripped his pistol."That one doesn't blink."
47 finally glanced up — measured, unhurried — meeting Wick's gaze.There was a fleeting instant of mutual recognition, predator to predator.
"Baba Yaga," 47 noted internally, assessing him with ice-cold precision."Efficient. Dangerous."
And then the trembling gangster, sensing one last chance, squeaked and pointed wildly at Wick.
"H-HIM!" the gangster screamed. "That's him — Baba Yaga!"
That was all 47 needed.Without looking down, he pulled the trigger.A suppressed shot shattered the gangster's skull under his heel, silencing him forever.
Wick didn't even flinch.He'd seen enough.And as 47 rose smoothly to his feet, silverballers held loose and steady at his sides, John took a careful step into the lounge.
"You here for me?" Wick's voice was a low growl, one brow arched.
47's gaze was as unreadable as ever.He holstered one silverballer with a smooth, practiced motion, then met Wick's stare.
"No," 47 replied, his voice flat as a scalpel."Just gathering information."
Silence held between them — tense as a hair-trigger.
Wick's jaw tensed slightly.He could feel it: whoever this was, he was not someone to underestimate.Someone who moved like a shadow and killed like a ghost.
"This a contract?" Wick finally asked, gaze fixed, voice like gravel."Or just bad timing?"
47's expression never changed.
"Coincidence," 47 answered simply.
And that was all.
Wick considered him for a long heartbeat before lowering his gun an inch.47's fingers never even twitched — he stood as composed as a statue,unbothered by the chaos surrounding them.
"Then stay out of my way," Wick muttered.
"Likewise," 47 replied without hesitation.
Neither one broke eye contact as they measured one another — two killers bound by an unspoken understanding.
And then 47 stepped past him without hurry,the crisp sound of his shoes on marble fading into the bass and distant screams.
Wick remained still a moment longer,the weight of what had just happened settling like a shadow.
"That one…" Wick thought, glancing after the vanishing figure."…is going to be trouble."
And then, as the Red Circle's chaos resumed around him,John Wick disappeared into it like a ghost, his own path unfolding.
TO BE CONTINUED…