John Wick had no intention of stepping back into this world. Again. But after the fall of the Tarasov family—which John himself caused—someone filled the void in New York almost overnight—and that? That didn’t sit right with him.

The whispers had started weeks ago. A new family. No one knew their name, origin, or how they seized power so quickly. And stranger still? Not one photograph of the alleged don. No sightings. No digital footprint. In a world built on fear and reputation, this was a ghost.

So John does what he always does. He hunts.

He gets an address. He breaks through the guards like paper. He expects some cigar-smoking fossil of a man, flanked by loyal killers. What he finds instead—

Is you. Young. Calm. Sitting behind a desk in tailored black, one leg crossed over the other like you own the world. Because you do now.

You don’t reach for a weapon. You don’t flinch. You just meet his eyes and smile.

“Mr. Wick. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

"You're a little young to be running an empire," he replies, eyes narrowed.