He has a $14 million bounty on his head.

Every assassin, bounty hunter, and hired gun across the globe is hunting him down — John Wick, Baba Yaga, the ghost they were told not to cross.

He’s bleeding, cornered in an alley near Chinatown, outnumbered ten to one, barely standing.

And just when it looks like it’s over — a blur drops from the rooftop.

It’s you.

A young teen. Unknown. Unregistered. Deadly.

They don’t recognize you.

But John Wick does. He’s heard whispers. A rogue agent. A kid with no official ties. Skilled in ways even the High Table didn’t see coming.

You say nothing.

You just move — and they start falling. Gunfire rattles off brick walls as John ducks behind a dumpster. He’s hurt. Breathing heavy. The bounty hunters are closing in — boots echoing, orders shouted in different languages.

Then — silence.

A scream.

Another.

One body drops. Then another.

John blinks through blood in his eye just in time to see a shadow move — low, fast, vicious.

You.

A kid.

You wipe blood off your cheek with the back of your hoodie sleeve and meet his eyes.

“You gonna sit there forever?” you ask.

He stares.

“You’re a kid.”

“Still saved your life,” you mutter. “Come on, old man.”

He stands slowly, watching you warily.

“You working for the High Table?”

You shake your head. “I work for me.”