Elsewhere in New York...
John Wick's quiet night shattered in an instant.
The former assassin—once known as Baba Yaga, the Boogeyman, the Night Devil of the underworld—was yanked from sleep by violence.
They came with baseball bats. No words. No mercy.
Three men in black masks, moving like shadows through his bedroom. The first swing caught him across the ribs—a crack that echoed through his body. The second missed as John rolled instinctively, muscle memory from a life he'd tried to bury.
Blood trickled down his temple as he struggled to rise, only to receive a boot to the chest that sent him sprawling back against the hardwood floor. His vision blurred, but he could still make out the silhouette of the smallest intruder—a young man with a dragon tattoo peeking from his collar—as he scooped up Lucy, the beagle whimpering in terror.
And when it was over, he lay bloodied on his bedroom floor, watching helplessly as the last gift from his late wife, a beagle named Lucy, was murdered right in front of him.
The crack of her neck was a sound that would haunt his dreams.
They didn't stop there—they took his car, too. The '69 Mustang that he and Helen had restored together, the one with her initials carved discreetly under the dashboard.
Once they were gone, John buried Lucy in the backyard with trembling hands. The rain had started—gentle at first, then pouring, soaking through his shirt as he worked the shovel into the earth. The pain cut deeper than any knife. She was more than a dog—she was Helen's last goodbye. The way Lucy would curl at the foot of the bed where Helen once slept. The way she'd rest her head on John's lap during those endless silent nights.
Now, that goodbye had been stolen.
And John Wick? He made a choice.
No more peace. It was time to return to war.
He found their identities fast.
A single phone call to an old contact—Charon at the Continental Hotel—was all it took. The elegant concierge's voice betrayed no emotion, but the information came quickly. They were connected to Iosef Tarasov, son of Viggo, the Russian crime lord who once employed John.
"I trust this information finds you well, Mr. Wick," Charon had said, his refined accent crisp through the phone. "And may I add... welcome back."
Then he went home.
There was something buried deep beneath the floor of his house—something he hadn't touched since retirement.
In the basement, John pulled back the worn Persian rug, revealing the concrete underneath. His muscles, still aching from the attack, tensed as he lifted the sledgehammer.
The ground shook with each blow of the sledgehammer. Bang. Bang. Bang. With every swing, he remembered Lucy's yelp, Helen's smile, and the silence they left behind.
Sweat beaded on his forehead, his knuckles white around the hammer's handle. Each impact sent vibrations up his arms, into his chest, where grief and rage mingled into something cold and purposeful.
The cement cracked open.
Buried in the concrete was a heavy case.
Dust filled the air, dancing in the dim light filtering through the basement windows. The case was exactly as he'd left it—unmarked titanium with reinforced corners, designed to withstand fire, flood, and time itself.
He tossed the hammer aside and knelt down, brushing debris away with his hands until the latches were exposed.
Click.
Inside, it was split in two.
On the left, weapons:
Four pistols, two with silencers—Glock 26s and Heckler & Koch P30Ls, each one meticulously maintained despite years of disuse
Four loaded magazines, the bullets gleaming under the light
Two fragmentation grenades, their pins secure but ready
Two smoke bombs, military grade, with ten-second delay mechanisms
On the right, a stack of gleaming Continental gold coins—the currency of assassins. Each one worth far more than its weight in gold—they bought services, silence, and sanctuary in a world normal people never glimpsed.
Nestled in the center of that gold?
A strange amber-colored crystal orb with a single red star at its core. It pulsed softly, as if awakening after years of dormancy, casting ethereal patterns across John's face.
John's brow furrowed.
"That's odd... I remember this spot. Back when I retired, I buried a smooth stone here. Helen found it on the beach. Said it was 'perfectly round.' A keepsake."
The memory washed over him—that day at Montauk Point, her laughter as waves crashed around their ankles, the way she'd pressed the stone into his palm and closed his fingers around it. "Something to remember this day," she'd said.
He picked up the orb slowly, turning it over in his hand.
It was warm to the touch, almost alive. The star inside seemed to float, suspended in amber honey, following his movements with an unnatural precision.
"Did Helen... put this here?"
His voice was a whisper, like he was asking a ghost.
His thumb traced the smooth surface, finding not a single imperfection. Something about it felt ancient—older than the city around him, older perhaps than civilization itself.
Meanwhile – Assassins' Guild HQ
Smith Doyle sat at the head of a long obsidian table, mid-briefing, when a sharp jolt of information flashed across his mind.
The sensation was electric—like lightning traveling through his neural pathways. His words faltered mid-sentence, pupils dilating slightly.
Someone had just touched one of the Dragon Balls.
"One-Star Ball detected. Accessed."
The other assassins around the table exchanged glances. They'd seen this before—their leader's connection to the mystical objects he'd created through forgotten arts.
Smith's lips curled slightly. He closed his eyes and focused.
As the creator of these Dragon Balls, he could tap into their vision—see what they saw. The connection was imperfect, like peering through frosted glass, but clear enough to identify locations, surroundings, handlers.
In a moment, the scene materialized in his mind:
The underground vault. The arsenal. The unmistakable silhouette of a man holding the orb.
Tall, lean, with hair falling across his face. Even through the orb's limited perception, Smith could feel the coiled violence in the man's posture—the controlled breathing of someone who had killed hundreds.
His eyes snapped open.
"...John Wick."
The name fell into the silence like a stone into still water. Around the table, faces changed—some paled, others hardened, all recognized the significance.
The John Wick. The Reaper of the Continental. The one-man apocalypse. The man who once killed three men in a bar with a pencil.
Smith leaned back in his chair and smirked.
His fingers tapped rhythmically against the obsidian surface, a gesture that betrayed his excitement. He'd heard the stories—they all had—but to see the legend in action would be something else entirely.
"Looks like the Russian mafia in New York is about to be wiped off the map."
The Butcher, a burly man with scarred hands, scoffed. "Tarasov's got an army."
"Won't matter," Smith replied, his confidence unwavering.
He watched a moment longer, then whispered to himself:
"Poor bastard. Let's give him a little hope."
With a subtle gesture of his hand—so slight that the others might have missed it—he sent a psychic pulse through the connection, activating the Dragon Ball's latent knowledge.
Back in John's Basement
The orb glowed faintly.
John's eyes narrowed. He felt... something.
A pulse of knowledge entered his mind, quiet and ancient:
"Gather all seven Dragon Balls to summon Shenron, the Eternal Dragon. He will grant you one wish."
The message wasn't spoken—it simply appeared in his consciousness, as if it had always been there, waiting to be remembered. With it came impressions of power beyond comprehension, of a serpentine creature coiling through storm clouds, eyes blazing with cosmic fire.
John's jaw clenched.
"One wish…?"
He stared at the red star within the orb.
His assassin instincts screamed caution—this was unknown territory, possibly a trap. But another part of him, the part that still woke reaching for Helen's side of the bed, couldn't ignore the implication.
"If this is real... If there's even the smallest chance…"
He thought of Helen. Her laughter. Her voice. Her absence.
The spaces between his heartbeats where her presence should be.
"Could I bring you back?"
The possibility was intoxicating. Dangerous. He'd accepted her death once—let her go as cancer took her piece by piece. To hope again felt like betrayal of that acceptance, yet...
He gently pocketed the orb and stood, steel returning to his gaze.
But first—he had a score to settle.
Wishes could wait. Revenge came first.
He loaded the weapons methodically, each movement precise. The familiar weight of the Glock in his hand felt like greeting an old friend. He slipped the coins into a specially designed pocket inside his suit jacket—one of many tailored by Continental's exclusive outfitters.
As he ascended the basement stairs, John Wick was gone. In his place stood Baba Yaga.
Elsewhere – Assassins' Guild Briefing Room
The lights dimmed.
Shadows lengthened across faces hardened by years of contract killing. The air smelled of gun oil and expensive whiskey.
The man known only as Cross leaned forward.
Silver streaked through his temples, but his eyes were sharp as ever. He'd trained Smith personally—recognized his potential early.
"God—this is your initiation mission. A proper debut for the one taking over the Guild."
Smith's nickname—'God'—had been earned through his uncanny ability to know exactly where targets would be, as if omniscient. Few knew the truth about the Dragon Balls that gave him this power.
Another assassin—Mr. X—chimed in:
His face was completely obscured by a black mask with a red X crossing it. His voice came through mechanically altered.
"This isn't some solo cleanup job. You're taking down an entire organization."
Across the table, The Gunsmith raised a brow.
Her fingers moved constantly, assembling and disassembling a small derringer as she spoke. At fifty-two, she was the oldest active member of the Guild, respected for her precision.
"Bit much for one guy, don't you think? Even for Smith?"
The Butcher chuckled and offered a compromise:
He cracked his knuckles, the sound unnervingly similar to breaking bones.
"How about this—we target the head. You take out the king. The rest of the Guild will handle the pawns."
Smith didn't answer right away.
He was still watching Wick move through his house like a specter of death. Through the One-Star Ball, he could sense the methodical preparation, the cold focus sharpening in the legendary assassin.
Then he nodded once.
"Let the game begin."
Smith leaned back in his chair as the room fell silent, eyes shifting between the heavy hitters seated around him.
"No problem on my end," he said smoothly. "Let's go with a full-blown organization."
His confidence wasn't just bravado—Smith had already claimed twelve high-value targets in his short career. The Dragon Balls had accelerated his rise through Guild ranks, though none but he understood their true power.
He glanced at them, a spark of curiosity behind his calm expression.
"So, uncles… picked out this 'evil target' yet?"
He used the term 'uncles' loosely—none were related by blood, but all had contributed to his training. Family in the Guild was defined by bullets and blood, not birth.
Mr. X nodded, though his tone remained calculated.
"We're still gathering intel. When the time comes, you'll get to choose which enemy becomes your first trophy."
The mask hid any expression, but there was something in his posture—a subtle tension that Smith didn't miss.
Smith raised a brow.
"A multiple choice debut? How generous."
He stood and stretched, cracking his neck with a soft pop before flashing a relaxed grin.
"Alright then. I've got some things to handle in the meantime. Let me know when our 'evil empire' is ready for execution."
Without waiting for a reply, he turned and headed for the door. As it slid open, he found Fox—the ever-deadly and ever-elegant Foxy Fox—waiting on the couch just outside.
Her copper-red hair was pulled back in a severe braid, her amber eyes alert despite the early hour. A jagged scar ran from her left ear to collar—a reminder of the Helsinki job that had nearly cost her life.
"Let's roll, Fox."
She stood, brushing imaginary dust off her jacket, and followed without a word.
The relationship between them was complex—mentor and student, partners and rivals. Fox had found Smith as a teenager, recognized the raw talent, and brought him into the Guild's orbit. Now he outranked her, but old habits died hard.
Moments later, a black Dodge Viper roared to life and peeled out of the old textile mill, disappearing into the early morning light.
The abandoned factory that housed Guild headquarters faded in the rearview mirror, its crumbling façade masking a network of ultramodern facilities beneath.
Fox kept one hand on the wheel as they tore through the quiet streets. The sun was just beginning to rise, casting golden light across the windshield.
"Where to, Smith?"
Her tone was casual, but there was an edge to it. Fox never asked questions without purpose.
Smith's gaze never left the horizon.
"Continental Hotel."
The name hung between them. The Continental was neutral ground—sacred to assassins worldwide. Violence was forbidden within its walls, on pain of excommunication or death.
Fox raised a brow, curiosity piqued.
"You still have their coins?"
"Yeah. Collected a stash from some of the targets we took out—some gangs, a few rogue cells."
The golden coins were artifacts of an underground economy—markers of respect in their world, and the only currency the Continental accepted.
She glanced at him. Her voice dipped a little lower.
"Wait… you're not thinking of going toe-to-toe with them, are you?"
A hint of concern colored her words. The Continental's security was legendary—armed guards, cameras everywhere, and the ever-watchful eye of Winston, its enigmatic manager.
"We're not exactly equipped for that kind of suicide mission. Not just the two of us."
Smith smirked, eyes glinting with mischief.
"Relax. We're not there to start a war."
His fingers drummed against his thigh, a habit from childhood that emerged when his mind was racing ahead.
"We're there to watch one."
That caught Fox's attention.
The implications clicked immediately—she'd been in the game long enough to know when massive shifts were coming.
She grinned, slammed the accelerator, and let the engine scream.
"Now that sounds like a good time."
The Viper shot forward, weaving through the increasing morning traffic like a bullet.
Neither spoke for several minutes. Finally, Smith broke the silence.
"The One-Star Dragon Ball has found a keeper."
Fox's knuckles whitened on the steering wheel. "Who?"
"John Wick."
"Shit." The word escaped as a whisper. "The Boogeyman himself."
Smith nodded. "And someone just murdered his dog."
Elsewhere…
Back at the modest suburban home, the phone on John Wick's kitchen wall began to ring.
Riiiing. Riiiing.
John had just finished loading his arsenal into specially designed compartments in his suit. The weapons disappeared into the fabric, invisible to the casual observer.
He picked up, silent.
The voice on the other end was calm… but tense.
"Hello, John."
It was Viggo Tarasov, the Russian crime boss.
The man whose son had broken into John's home, beaten him in his sleep, murdered Lucy, and stolen his Mustang.
John could hear the fear beneath Viggo's controlled tone. The sound almost brought satisfaction.
"I heard what happened to your wife," Viggo continued. "I'm sorry. Truly. My condolences."
John remained silent, his breath steady, measured.
"This… this must be fate. Or misfortune."
Viggo sighed heavily through the line.
"Or maybe just really, really bad luck that we've crossed paths again."
Still no reply from John.
In his free hand, John turned the One-Star Ball, watching the light play through its amber depths.
Viggo pressed on, almost pleading.
"John? Listen, we don't have to give in to our worst impulses."
The desperation was growing more evident with each word.
"Let's settle this like civilized men."
Click.
John hung up.
He already knew.
He knew who it was.
He knew what needed to be done.
No more warnings. No more words.
Just bullets.
The One-Star Ball pulsed in his pocket as he stepped outside, as if eager for what was to come.
Back in his office, Viggo sighed and slowly set down the phone.
The office was wood-paneled and old-world, filled with relics of Soviet glory and Orthodox icons. A jarring contrast to the brutality of his business.
He looked at his men and nodded.
"Prepare everyone."
His voice was hollow, already mourning losses not yet suffered.
There was no turning back now.
The Baba Yaga was awake.