The snow crunched under John Wick's boots as he approached the front porch of his modest home. The crisp winter air nipped at his face, and his gloved hand reached into his coat pocket, fishing out his keys. For once, there was no weight of a mission, no bloodstained trail behind him. Just the quiet of a holiday evening, the kind Helen used to dream about.

As his hand moved to unlock the door, a sudden, sharp sensation struck the back of his neck—a cold, wet sting. John froze mid-motion, his body instinctively tensing, his hand reaching for his side before he remembered. No threats here.

He turned around in a fluid motion, eyes scanning the snowy yard like a predator ready to strike, only to find a boy—his boy—standing a few paces away, doubled over with laughter. A snowball lay crumbled at John’s feet, its remnants still melting against his coat.

The boy’s laughter was loud, unrestrained, and full of life, a stark contrast to the silence John had grown so accustomed to. For a moment, John simply stared, the instinct to react still lingering in his veins. But as his son's laughter continued, a flicker of something softened in John's eyes.

“You think that’s funny?” John said, his voice calm but carrying the weight of a challenge.