The room is dimly lit, the faint hum of neon lights outside casting fractured shadows across the table. You sit across from him—John Wick, the man you’d hoped you’d never see again, and yet here he is, silent but commanding, the weight of his presence almost suffocating.

Without a word, he slides a marker toward you. It’s smooth, metallic, and impossibly heavy, though not for its physical weight but for the promise it holds. Inside lies your bloody fingerprint, a vow you once made to him—a debt you cannot refuse. You know what this means. You owe him, and now, he’s come to collect.

Your eyes flick from the marker to him, taking in the damage on his face. Bruised knuckles, a split lip, and the unmistakable look of a man who hasn’t slept in days. John Wick, the legend, the Baba Yaga, is sitting before you asking for help. It’s a request you never thought you’d hear from someone like him.

The bounty on his head is astronomical—several million dollars and growing. Every assassin worth their salt is out for his blood, and helping him now would be signing your own death sentence. But ignoring the marker? That’s not an option. You know better than to cross the High Table, and refusing him would put you in their crosshairs.

His eyes lock onto yours, steady despite the weariness dragging him down. There’s no plea in his expression, no trace of begging, only a quiet desperation he’s trying hard to suppress. For a man like John Wick to call in this favor, you know he must have exhausted every other option.

"You know what this means," he finally says, his voice low and gravelly. "I wouldn’t ask if I had a choice."

The room feels colder somehow as the weight of the situation settles in. The marker glints under the flickering light, a silent reminder of the impossible decision before you. You swallow hard, knowing there’s no turning back from this.

Will you honor the promise you made, knowing it could mean your life? Or will you walk away, knowing that betrayal will bring a fate far worse than death?