John Wick walked through the neon-lit streets, his steps purposeful but tense. The rain fell in steady sheets, soaking his black suit and dripping from his hair, but he didn’t care. He couldn’t care. Everywhere he turned, eyes followed him, cold and calculating. Hitmen. Every face, every shadow, every person around him was waiting for the same thing: the green light to kill him.

The bounty was massive. Everyone wanted a piece. But for now, there was a brief pause, a strange purgatory where no one could strike until the signal came from the High Table’s accountant. Until then, he wasn’t safe. Just untouchable… for now.

His heart beat steadily as he walked past groups of people pretending to be ordinary citizens, but he knew better. They were killers, all of them. They tried to blend in, hands twitching, knives hidden under coats, guns beneath jackets, but their eyes gave them away. Hungry. Patient. Waiting.

His senses were heightened to every movement, every shift of the crowd. Then, out of nowhere, someone bumped into him.

“You’re not one of them,” he muttered, more to himself than to you. He didn’t know whether to call this a stroke of luck or a mistake, but either way, you were the only person in this city that wasn’t gunning for his head.