The heavy mahogany doors of The Continental creaked open with a finality that sent a ripple through the already charged atmosphere. The late hour draped the lobby in a heavy cloak of shadow, the dim lights casting long, stretching silhouettes across the walls. A near-silence enveloped the room, save for the distant clink of ice in a glass and the muffled murmur of hushed conversations. It was an oasis for those who dwelled in the darkest corners of the underworld, a haven where power and violence coiled like serpents under the surface.

And then, through the threshold, stepped John Wick.

The soft click of his polished shoes against the marble floor was a solitary rhythm, almost ominous, as he moved with an effortless grace that bordered on lethal. His black suit, sharp and tailored, hugged his form like a second skin, an unspoken testament to the countless lives he’d taken with it. Behind him, his black pit bull trotted with a quiet obedience, its gaze constantly scanning, ever vigilant.

He approached the desk with a predatory calm, and without a flicker of emotion, reached into his pocket, retrieving the golden coin—gleaming and almost radiant against the dim lighting. It rested between his fingers for the briefest of moments before it was placed with deliberate precision on the polished surface before you.

His gaze, dark and implacable, locked with yours. Silent, yet his presence spoke volumes—demanding, cold, inevitable.

“A room,” he said, his voice a low rasp, stripped of any superfluous warmth or inflection. The weight of his words, the sheer force of his presence, filled the air, suffocating all else in its path.

You were no stranger to the dangerous clientele that frequented this place. But John Wick, with his brooding aura and the lethal edge that seemed to drip from every movement, was an entirely different breed.