---
The chamber was lit only by the long table's flickering candles.
Twelve figures sat in silence, their faces masked in shadow. The air smelled faintly of incense — and blood.
At the head, the Adjudicator placed a black dossier on the table.
"John Wick," she said coldly, flipping it open. A still image of him mid-fight, eyes burning with fury.
"And… Michael." Another photo — younger, sharper, a half-smirk on his face as if daring the camera.
"They have slain the Elder," she continued, voice echoing against marble. "They have spat on our laws. The damage to our authority is… intolerable."
A woman in crimson silk leaned forward. "We send our killers. All of them. Make them an example."
The Adjudicator nodded. "Effective immediately — every assassin, every syndicate, every freelancer with a trigger finger… will be given incentive." She slid a sheet across the table. On it, the number: $50 million.
Each.
A ripple of murmurs moved through the chamber.
"Alive or dead?" asked a deep voice from the far end.
"Dead," the Adjudicator replied without hesitation. "And let it be known… the High Table will match any cost in blood."
From the shadows, an old man in a black suit spoke softly:
"When the world learns John Wick and Michael are marked… it will hunt them without rest."
The Adjudicator closed the dossier. "Good. Then the hunt begins."
A single gavel struck the table.
The candle flames shivered.
And far beyond those walls… the contracts began to spread.
---
*New York – Continental Bar, 1:12 AM*
The bartender pushed a glass of whiskey over to a man wearing a black coat with a scar across his face.
A cell phone vibrated on the counter.
He looked at the screen — froze — then smiled slowly.
"John Wick… Michael…" he growled. "Fifty million apiece."
He drank the whiskey straight, left the half-full glass of ice behind, and left without paying.
---
*Berlin – Warehouse Gym*
A huge guy was halfway through the deadlift when one of the burner phones on the bench began vibrating.
He took it, reading the note. The weight descended with a thud on the ground.
He grinned, the sound low and threatening. "Guess my ticket into the big time just walked in."
---
*Tokyo – Neon Alleyway*
Several Yakuza leaned next to a parked bike, smoking.
A man's watch glowed — an alert from the network of the underworld.
They all gathered there, searching for names.
A whistle. "Fifty million.".
The boss threw his cigarette on the floor. "Get prepared. We hunt tonight.".
---
*Paris – Luxury Apartment*
A woman wearing a silk dress with her feet bare went into her kitchen to prepare tea.
Her laptop pinged — encrypted channel.
She opened it and looked at the pictures: Wick and Michael.
Her smile was slow, predatory. "Finally. something worth my time."
---
*Underground Broadcast – All Continents
Somewhere within the city's darknet channels, the voice of Adjudicator, broken and dark, echoed through:
> "John Wick. Michael. Excommunicado. Active now. Global contract. Dead — no exceptions. Payout… fifty million each. The High Table will not be denied."
The feed cut.
---
*Continental, New York*
John sat in the corner, quietly, and Michael was by the bar, staring at the wall. They could sense it — the change in the atmosphere. The stares at them. Each phone that rang. Each whisper. Each step. The world had recently become hostile to them. ---
--
After a while----
*Continental – New York, Manager's Lounge*
Soft hum of jazz music drifted from the lobby but was unable to muffle the tension between Michael and John.
Michael's fingers drummed atop the bar, his other hand close to the handle of his gun. John sat across from him, glancing into each of the mirrors and corners in the room without shifting his head.
The lounge glass door hissed open. Three men in suits entered — too well dressed, too courteous to be visitors. They looked at Michael, then John.
"Good evening, gentlemen," hands clasped. "Contract's open. I hope you know the rules."
Michael tilted his head. "The Continental? You are so desperate?
The second man smiled, pulling out a silenced gun. "Fifty million I am."
---
That was the rookie mistake that killed him — moving before John Wick.
A single bullet was fired from John's gun, and the second man collapsed with his silenced pistol falling to the ground.
The other two sprinted, using tables for cover, flipping them over. The bartender ducked down. Guests ran. Michael went sideways, pulling out his M4 from behind the counter — stored there for a moment, such as this.
Rounds shredded the lounge's liquor shelves, glass pelting down like glitter. Michael swept the gun low, driving them out of cover, then burst in and slammed the first man against the wall, the M4 nozzle pressed hard under his jaw. He shot — point-blank.
---
The elevator chimed. Five more assassins spilled out — all armed, all smiling like they'd just smelled blood.
John didn't waste time on words. He picked up the dropped killer's gun, dual-wielding now, and moved like a ghost, every shot dead on, clinical.
Michael jumped over the bar, choosing to fight in close range — elbow to the jaw, a knee to the ribs, then a finishing shot to the temple.
---
*Infraction*
Abruptly, the glass lobby doors swung open. A thug who carried a shotgun walked in, spraying the room. Michael merely rolled out of the way, his coat ripped.
They shared a glance — no words, just comprehension.
They had to move. Now.
John took out the shotgun man with a controlled burst. Michael took spare mags from a corpse. They moved together towards the service exit.
The Continental was no longer a neutral ground. Hunting had begun. --- If you want, I can make the *next scene* them *fighting through New York night streets as assassins just keep coming in waves* — intercutting M4 bursts with brutal hand-to-hand takedowns. That's where it'll really ratchet it up.
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thanks for reading. I'm trying to post regularly, stay tuned for the next chapter