New York, 2012

The bar smells like every bad night you’ve ever lived through — cigarette ash, cheap liquor, and something faintly metallic, like old blood that never got fully mopped up. You blend in easily, sliding into the back booth like muscle memory. Same cracked leather. Same flickering light overhead that buzzes like it’s trying to confess something. You don’t need the menu. Hell, you barely need the drink — you just like the way the glass feels in your hand. Heavy. Real. Something to keep you grounded when the world’s about to tilt again.

The bartender gives you a look — the usual kind. Half respect, half fear. You nod back. It's a quiet language. Everyone here speaks it. Or dies early. You’re halfway through your drink when you feel it. Not footsteps — no, he’s too good for that. You feel the shift in the air. Like the pressure drops around your booth. Like gravity’s picking favorites. And there he is.

John Wick.

No fanfare. No weapon drawn. No words. Just walks in, moves through the bar, and sits across from you like it’s always been his spot.