I think I must have passed out, because when I come to with a start, dawn is just breaking over the horizon. Shaking my head, which is buzzing with pain and blood loss, I look down at my leg to see my jeans saturated with blood. 

The flow of blood has slowed, but the wound is painful. My shoulder is at least partially dislocated and I have a variety of other scrapes and bruises. Slowly, choking on my pain, I push myself back up against the wall of the Continental.

With trembling, bloody fingers, I pull a knife from the sheath on my right wrist. I use it to tear the cloth of my shirt, nicking the skin of my hip. My movements are clumsy as I tear a strip of cloth away and begin to wrap it around my thigh.

I barely manage the knot before gunshots ring out above me.

My movements are drowsy as I tip my head back just in time to watch a figure in black come tumbling off the roof of the hotel, eight stories up. My mouth drops open as he hits a stone ledge, rolls off it to a fire escape where he slams into the railing with a bone-shattering clang. I cringe when he bounces off a metal awning above the dumpster beside me and finally hits the pavement with a sickening crack.

I stay huddled beside the dumpster, staring. This can't be real. He can't be...

I can't force my mind to believe that anyone could survive a fall like that.

But John Wick doesn't move.

Swallowing hard, I pull myself to my feet and limp forward, falling to my knees by his prone form. My breath rasps too loudly as my hands flutter forward, first brushing the dark, bloody hair away from his face. I barely touch him, afraid that—if he is miraculously still alive—he'll wake up and decide it's more expedient to kill first and ask questions later.

When he doesn't move, I press two fingers tentatively to the inside of his wrist.

When I don't feel anything, I bite my lip.

This can't—he can't be...

John Wick can't be dead.

He is death. The Baba Yaga. The last thing many men see.

Abandoning any sort of caution, I place my hand on his shoulder. Still nothing, so I gently roll him over, praying that his back isn't broken. Nothing pops or cracks, giving me a measure of hope. It is a small, ugly thing, but there it is.

Breathing fast now, I lean down, pressing my ear to his chest as I close my eyes. Nothing. Nothing.

Then...thud-thud...thud-thud...

It's slow and uneven, but the beat of his heart is there. 

I suck in a sharp breath, nearly crying in relief. Glancing up, I find that his eyes are slitted open, staring at me. I freeze under that dark stare, but Mr. Wick doesn't move. His breath is too slow.

"I..." My throat seizes and I cough. My hands are shaking, making me realize they are still resting on his chest. I snatch them away like I've been burned and whisper, "I'm going to help you."

He just blinks, then closes his eyes.

I suppose that's indication enough that he isn't going to kill me right now. Or...that he's dying.

My own heart is thudding in my chest, faster than the feet of the Four Little Swans.

I move around him, knowing my window is limited before anyone comes searching for the body. My shoulder is shrieking, but it's hard to pop a shoulder back into place by yourself, and I can manage with just my left for now.

Crouching beside his head, I get my hands under his arms and heave. A harsh grunt of pain escapes as my arm feels like it's going to come out of its socket, but that's hardly my biggest problem.

I strain with my legs and get him propped up for a bare second before I realize he's simply too heavy. So I slowly release him back to the ground. Getting to my feet, I look at the unconscious, possibly dying master assassin.

John Wick's legend can't end here. It just can't.

And I'm the only one who can do anything about it.

I place a gentle hand on his shoulder, whisper, "I'll be right back," and begin to limp down the alley.

The Bowery King might be in hiding, but his agents are everywhere. I begin to jog down the alley, limping hard, each step sending ripples of agony through me.

Art is pain. Life is suffering.

I begin to giggle as the Director's voice echoes in my head. She's right, but it's also this. It's this blood-pumping sensation. It's this moment of terror and possibility. It's the knowledge that right now, that in this moment, I am going to change the world.

I almost miss what I'm looking for. The man is all but buried beneath a collection of tarps and blankets beside a shopping cart.

Skidding to a halt, I point at him. "I can deliver John Wick to the King."

The man smiles at me, revealing perfect, white teeth. I wait a bare moment for him to get to his feet, then begin to run back the way I came. A clatter behind me lets me know he's following.

We return to Mr. Wick, who hasn't moved so much as an inch. The only thing that's changed is the dog curled up by his side, whining pitifully as he nudges his owner's arm with his wet nose. I slow a little, approaching with caution.

The dog looks as liable to bite as his owner.

He growls softly at me, but stops when I hold up my hands. "I just want to help him," I whisper, creeping slowly closer. "Good dog. You're a good boy."

The dog perks his ears and thumps his tail softly against Mr. Wick's arm. Then he bristles and begins growling again as the rattle and squeak of wheels announces the arrival of the Bowery King's vassal. I put my hand on the dog's head, stroking his velvety ears as I whisper something comforting to him.

We watch silently as the guy loads Mr. Wick into the shopping cart, none too gently, and then we begin to move.

The dog sticks right between me and the shopping cart as we move through the city. It doesn't surprise me when we go subterranean, into old tunnels beneath the city. We walk until the faint glow of candlelight shows itself 

When I finally catch sight of the King, I gasp in shock at the bright red slashes across his face.

But then the homeless man tilts the cart forward, and John goes sprawling onto the floor.

"Careful!" I hiss and make to move forward, but a hand on my arm stops me.

My eyes are glued on Mr. Wick, who is finally beginning to stir.

"How you doing, John?" the Bowery King asks softly. "Well, you look as bad as I feel." He laughs softly and I bristle. Why isn't he helping him?

"Johnny, Johnny, Johnny." The King shakes his head. "Raise a hand if you can hear me, John."

I have to bite my lip to keep from demanding some medical attention. Can't he see Mr. Wick is hurt? Can't he see how badly he's been wounded?

Grunting softly, his entire body shaking with pain and fatigue, John manages to lift his left hand in the air. He's missing his ring finger. My brow furrows at this, shocking coursing through me when I don't find a wedding ring on the stump.

"Oh, shit. They took a finger." The King seems unduly delighted by this. "Ain't that a bitch."

He laughs when John shows him which finger they haven't taken.

John lowers his hand back down, his body jerking as he struggles with each breath—as he struggles to make his body obey. I long to step forward, to help him, but I know I can't interrupt what is happening here. I do jerk away from the King's man and crouch beside Mr. Wick's dog, wrapping an arm around him.

The King shakes his head. "Oh, John fucking Wick. So, the old boy keeps his hotel and you take the fall. Can't say I blame him, I would've done the same thing if I was in his shoes. But this High Table shit, seven cuts." The King heaves himself to his feet with a groan. "Under the table is where shit gets done. And they're about to find out if you cut a king, you better cut him to the quick."

My grip on the dog tightens as the King begins to approach John.

Mr. Wick struggles to do something. To turn over, to get up. I bite more fiercely into my lip. It's probably best to just let the King speak. He kneels down in front of John, his voice getting a little softer, a little more intense.

"So, let me ask you, John. How do you feel? Because I am really pissed off. You pissed, John? Hm? Are you?"

It seems like everyone is holding their breath. I know I certainly am.

My eyes are glued on John when he turns his head. I can't see him. I know that his face is bloody. I imagine how the dark abyss of his eyes are full of fury—hot enough to burn down the world. Rage strong enough to bring the Table to its knees.

But his voice is still so calm. 

"Yeah."

First, thanks for reading! Ever since we were introduced to the Ruska Roma and John's origins in John Wick 3: Parabellum, I've wanted to write this. I hope you enjoyed it even half as much as I enjoyed writing it :)