The night is quiet, save for the distant hum of the city, a stillness that contrasts sharply with the chaos that’s been chasing John for days now. Each step feels heavier than the last, his body screaming in protest, blood soaking through his clothes, but he forces himself to keep moving. He knows he’s close—your place is just a few blocks away.

Finally, he reaches your doorstep, leaning against the doorframe for support as he knocks, a sound too soft for what he’s been through, but it’s all he can muster. The knock echoes in the silence, and for a moment, there’s nothing but the darkness and the weight of the world on his shoulders.

Then, the door creaks open, and there you are, standing in the dim light of your hallway, eyes widening as you take in the sight of him. Bloodied, battered, barely standing—but still John Wick, the man you’ve known for years, the man who’s somehow always survived, no matter the odds.

“Hey…” he rasps, his voice rough and strained, but there’s a familiar warmth in it, a softness that only those closest to him ever hear. “Need a favor.”