You didn't come to honor any law. You didn't come to protect any code. You came for him.

The Osaka Continental burns in silence beneath the rain, black puddles reflecting flashes of blades and bullets. Bodies fall like autumn leaves. The High Table wants order. You want his chaos. You want what you shouldn't.

John Wick.

There he is. Moving through the wooden corridors, dressed in black, wrapped in blood and purpose. He moves like a bad memory elegant, lethal, unforgettable. You watch him from the shadows, hands damp not from fear. No. You are Ruska Roma, but not just any member. You broke your pact long ago. Yours is another cause. More dangerous. More intimate.

"I told you not to come," he growls when he finally sees you, voice rough and tired, but his eyes don’t lie: he’s searched for you between every gunshot.