---
The night in New York pulsed with neon and threat. Every shadow threatened, every corner a potential ambush. Michael moved alongside John, his M4 strapped firmly, eyes darting constantly.
"They'll come quick," Michael grumbled. "The first one won't wait."
John nodded barely, running his finger over the slide of his pistol. His silence said enough.
The first blow fell in Times Square. A group of mercenaries, dressed as tourists and street performers, closed in on them. Hidden blades, silenced pistols—wolves among men.
Michael smiled, wild. "Finally."
The battle raged into a blur of bloodshed. John operated like machinery, spot-on headshots breaking one after the other. Michael was not the same—wild but frightening, trading shots to close quarters with primal rage. He slammed an assassin into the hood of a cab, broke his arm, and fired at the next.
A clown-masked murderer hurled himself at Michael's throat. Michael caught the guy in mid-leap and slammed him into the pavement before shooting two bullets into his head.
John had no more bullets left, so he chucked his empty gun aside and took up a knife from one of the fallen assassins, flipping it into another's ribs. He skittered by them, barely breaking pace, methodical, merciless.
When the dust finally settled, corpses covered the square. Blood collected between flashing billboards. Michael wiped his face, panting, then looked at John.
"That's just the opening act," Michael said. A snarl replaced his grin. "The High Table sent someone *big* to New York. And I say we get to him before he gets to us."
John reloaded, his gaze keen. "Then we move."
The war had started.
(scene changed)
---
HIGH TABLE HALL — NIGHT*
The Marquis lounged in a velvet armchair, champagne in his hand, ea. High Table emissaries crept around him. One spotlight pierced the shadows, illuminating *Caine*, who stood in silence with his cane. His face was empty, but his fists were clenched at his sides.
The Marquis smiled, relishing the moment.
"John Wick is not going to die. He returns from the dead, like a cockroach, over and over again. And now… he has a sidekick."
He threw a dossier onto the table. Michael's face scowled up from the photograph, his eyes burning.
"Michael. An error that the Table should have expunged years ago. Together, they are an infection. Together, they are a threat."
Caine leaned back a little, his tone even.
You already have an army. Why me?
The Marquis leaned forward and touched the dossier.
Because John Wick… trusts you. Because Michael has never had to contend with a person like you. And because you, Caine—" he sneered, "—owe me. Owe the Table. Your freedom. Your daughter's safety.".
Caine's jaw clenched when his daughter was mentioned. His fingers on the cane went white.
"I said so. I don't want to hunt him."
The Marquis laughed sarcastically.
"Wishes are luxuries, Caine. You will find them both. Wick. Michael. You will bring me their heads. Or… perhaps your daughter's violin will play at her funeral instead."
The corridor fell silent.
Caine was quiet for a moment, then let out a soft sigh. His voice was soft, but with a hint of steel.
".Then their blood is on your hands, Marquis. Not mine.".
The Marquis lifted his glass in a cruel smile. Send me results, Maestro. Otherwise, I'll do the ending myself. Caine spun, backing away, cane thumping out rhythm on the marble floor. Each step sounded like a war countdown.
---
After a while
-------
---
Continental ashes smoldered in Michael's mind as the night fell and was silent. Too silent. Michael and John prowled the deserted Chinatown side streets, guns at the ready, measured steps.
Next was the gentle thud of a cane against damp sidewalk.
Michael stiffened, squinting. John snapped his jaws shut. He knew that sound.
From out of the shadows stepped *Caine* — serene, unruffled, in a sharp-pressed suit, sunglasses over his blind eyes, but every step economical. A small knife glinted at his waist, and hidden devices strapped to his belt.
"John." Caine's voice was one of familiarity and steel. "I told you I don't want it. But you've given me no choice."
Michael pointed his gun reflexively. "Who the hell is this guy?"
John did not lower his gun, though his voice was softer. "A friend… once."
Caine tilted his head to the side, as though he was listening to their breathing. "And then, your executioner. Both of you. The Marquis forgives not. And I am not capable of refusing." He cracked the cane once and stood in the center of the street perfectly. "You should have stayed buried, John. And you, boy… you chased the wrong shadow."
Michael smiled in spite of the tension. "Amusing. Everyone says that. But they are the ones who get killed.".
Caine smiled the slightest. "We'll see.".
And then the battle commenced — a tempest of steel, bullets, and brutal hand-to-hand. Caine flowed like water, predicting shots by sound, slicing the air with precision. John counterattacked with close-range pistol shots, and Michael adjusted quickly, charging with fury, attempting to overwhelm the blind assassin's unnatural senses.
For once in a long time, John Wick was not fighting faceless killers. He was fighting someone who could keep up.
And for Michael. it was a trial unlike any he had ever experienced.
---
end
sry for the late update...