For three days, it kept raining. The rain was steady, somber, and heavy, falling at a rate that mirrored the rhythm of his heartbeat. The flickering candlelight danced against the profound wounds that lined John Wick’s face as he sat alone in the poorly illuminated sanctuary of a deserted cathedral in Prague. His hands shook, not out of dread, but out of fatigue, sorrow, and something far more: purpose.
He had buried far too many. It all began with his wife, Helen. The loss of the puppy she had left behind—a token of love and peace—brought back the storm within him, even if her passing had devastated him. The underworld will never be able to forget the fire that was started by that suffering. The fire was still burning five years later, having burnt through mafias, high tables, and secret councils, but it was now consuming him from the inside out.
In the shadows, a creak.
With his pistol already in hand, John remained silent. An elderly face suddenly appeared out of the gloom; it was Marcus Vorel, a former murderer who had long been assumed to be dead. Once upon a time, he was a brother-in-arms, a ghost from the ancient wars that Wick fought in silence.
John stated bluntly, “You should’ve stayed dead.”
Without a weapon, Marcus advanced. “I came to offer you peace.” A means of escape. Wick, just one more agreement. “It’s all over once you’re done with this.”
“They always say it’s the last one,” John said with a dry, empty smile. After that, another ghost shows up.
Marcus tossed a worn file onto the stone bench and said, “This one’s different. The one pulling all the strings now is The Sculptor.”
John’s jaw clenched. He had heard the name in hushed tones. An anonymous strategist who molded the world’s most lethal assassins like clay. Ruthless. Systematic. wickedly patient. Unbeknownst to Wick, he was one of his first prototypes.
“They say you were his worst mistake,” Marcus said.
John leafed through pictures of massacre in the file he had taken. Innocent people used as bait, and killers transformed into monsters. From the shadows, towns were destabilized.
A photo of Helen that he had never seen before was on the last page. It was written weeks before she passed away.
His pulse stopped.
“You believe he—”
John, he planned everything, including her sickness. He intended to break you, to shape you.”
John made fists with his hands. The candle next to him went out. His chest discomfort turned into a weapon.
He traveled to The Sculptor’s fortress by passing through ancient ruins in the Carpathians and over snow-covered deserts strewn with traps and shattered soldiers. Blood was drawn in every interaction. Every step left discomfort in its wake. Now that his bones were cracking from years of violence and his spirit was yearning for rest, he felt it more acutely.
However, he persisted. Not at this time.
Mirrors covered the walls of the fortress, each one displaying a distinct representation of John—John the murderer, John the spouse, John the myth.
The Sculptor followed.
Tall, masked, quiet.
They moved around one another like wolves. No speeches. No showmanship. Just the sound of cold metal being dragged. The battle was really cruel—more than just physical. There was a conflict of wills. John, the man sculpted by sorrow. The Sculptor, who thought that pain was the key to managing chaos.
John fell and bled. He got back up.
He wasn’t trying to kill. He was trying to put an end to it.
He stabbed The Sculptor in the heart with a knife in one last, wheezing breath, staring into his eyes for any sign of remorse.
None whatsoever.
There was complete quiet.
The world awoke to reports of unexplained fires in the Carpathians a few days later. The Sculptor was dead, according to rumors circulating underground. John Wick was missing.
However, not exactly.
It’s said that in a Romanian hamlet, they observed a man with a limp giving food to a stray dog. Others whisper that he established a monastery in the highlands, where he resided with monks and never discussed his history.
Still, the shadow of the ancient assassin lingers for those who tread the same route.
Because pain never forgets.
And legends never really pass away.
