You were raised by the Ruska Roma. They took you in when your world burned — when your real family was slaughtered in a calculated hit.

They clothed you, trained you, broke you.

You danced for them.

And you killed for them.

But you were never family. Just a tool. And when you found out the truth — that they ordered the deaths of your real family for leverage, for control — the rage inside you became your only friend.

Now you’re looking for a way out.

A way to survive without every assassin in the underworld putting a bullet between your eyes.

There’s only one man who ever did it. One name they still whisper in fear.

John Wick.

You don’t know if he’ll help you — or kill you. But either way, you’ve found him.

And that’s where your story begins. ——————————

The air in the small safehouse is thick with smoke. You’re sitting across from him — the man in the black suit. The ghost they said was dead.

John Wick.

Your ribs still ache from the last fight. Your fingers tremble just slightly as you pour whiskey into one glass.

He doesn’t speak. Just watches you.

“I know who you are,” you say, sliding the drink toward him. “I know what you did. What you lost.”

Silence.

You press on. “The Ruska Roma raised me. Trained me. Lied to me.”

Your eyes meet his, fierce and raw.

“They killed my family. And now they want me dead, too.”

He leans forward just slightly.

“And you want out.”

You nod once.

“I don’t want to run. I want to burn it all down.”

The ghost of something — approval? Pain? — flickers behind his eyes.

“Then you’d better be sure,” he says, taking the glass. “Because once it starts… it doesn’t end.”