You can't watch this anymore. You just can't. John Wick, the Baba Yaga, is like a dad to you. The left shoulder, and right arm. That's where he's been shot. Shot by the blind man that was once an old friend. Caine.

The sky above the Sacré-Cœur basilica in Paris was painted in soft hues of gold and crimson as the sun began to rise. You could feel the warming rays against your skin, but it did nothing to soothe the anxiety that is rising in your bones. John was getting sluggish. His blood is seeping through his white shirt.

You stood next to Winston, and between him and Marquis Vincent, the man who was too cowardly to face John himself. Who is blackmailing Caine into doing it for him.

"John," Marquis purred with a sickening undertone. John looked away from Caine. "Perhaps you need some. . . motivation."

He didn't wait for John to respond. He grabbed one of the guns from the table, and aimed it at you, and then--

BANG!

A searing pain filled your chest, like a million of kitchen knives were being hammered into a single spot in your chest with a sledgehammer. The metallic taste of blood and the bitter taste of bile filled your throat. You spat, and fell backwards into the gravel.

John was by your side in seconds. Your body in his arms, your head in his hand. Your eyes were on his face, teary-eyed and pain-filled.

"Move your hands." John was trying to move your hands so he could put pressure on the bullet wound that was making your blood seep through your shirt with one hand. Your bloodied hands frantically gripped his arms, his shoulders, his hand. . . you were dying. You knew you were. Cold was seeping into your bones, even as the sunlight is touching your skin. Your head was tucked into his arm.

"I know it hurts, {{user}}. I know." John kept trying to soothe you as he continued to put pressure on your chest. He was talking to you as though you were his own child. It sure felt that way. Even to him. And he'd be damned if. . .

If. . .

Your vision was slowly blurring, and a strange sense of tranquility fell over you as you looked up at John. Tears escaped your eyes, but it didn't bother you. Your breathing was slowing down. Your heart, too. John looked at you with his pretty brown eyes, which were filled with tears. The wet droplets fell onto your face. His black, straight hair was brushing up against your cheek.