C 24

"Just kill me."

John Wick spoke without a tremor. His voice was calm, his eyes unwavering as he looked up at the armored figure looming over him. He had lived his life in a world of violence, betrayal, and death. 

Closing his eyes, he allowed himself a brief, fleeting memory of a warm face that was never conventionally beautiful, but that held infinite tenderness. Then, he thought of a small, lively dog, and his heart tightened.

"Is that so?" Anton, observing him with a scrutinizing gaze, could sense the heavy aura that only the most skilled killers radiated. Batman's training had taught him to distinguish between amateurs and professionals. 

The man before him was clearly the latter.

"Everyone wants to live," Anton continued, his tone steady but edged with subtle authority. 

"Especially people like you, who've lived so long in the darkest corners of the world. You yearn for the light more than anyone."

John Wick's expression remained unchanged, though his silence was telling.

"Woof!"

A sudden bark snapped him out of his stoicism, and his eyes flew open. He glared at Anton, the anger blazing in his eyes almost palpable.

"Your dog's fine," Anton reassured him, stepping behind Wick to reveal the animal, its limbs bound just like its master's. 

"But I can't guarantee that it'll stay that way. In certain parts of the world, dog meat is considered a delicacy. Served in a hot pot, spicy yet smooth, flavorful but never too greasy."

Wick's jaw tightened, a slight twitch betraying the rage he was struggling to suppress.

"The Continental Hotel," he finally said, his voice barely above a whisper. "I come from there. The assassins never know who hires us; the jobs are assigned by our handlers. In my case, that's Winston."

Now that the stakes were laid bare, Wick didn't bother concealing the truth any longer. His identity was no secret in New York. 

Many knew his reputation, but he'd been unfortunate enough to underestimate this young man standing before him. At this point, his only wish was to save the dog—the final gift from his late wife, his last link to a life that once held love and hope.

Anton nodded, piecing together the situation. "The Continental Hotel, and John Wick," he muttered under his breath. Though he recognized the name, the person before him didn't look quite like the famous Keanu Reeves.

If Anton weren't playing the role of Batman, he would have dispatched Wick without hesitation. But he was, in fact, embodying Batman's persona and, thus, bound by his code: no killing. 

Batman's approach was to confront violence without becoming its instrument, to stop death rather than perpetuate it.

The line between justice and vengeance was thin, and Batman walked it carefully. He had heard once that Batman, if he killed, would cease to be a hero and instead resemble his most notorious enemy: the Joker. 

Anton didn't wholly agree with this sentiment, but he understood its logic. With the skills he had inherited as Batman, slipping into the role of the Joker would indeed be all too easy.

Wick, observing the man before him, watched as the anger in his eyes softened, replaced by a quiet contemplation. Then, without warning, a sudden blow struck him on the head, plunging him into darkness once more.

When Wick regained consciousness, he found himself in the same position, bound hand and foot, his dog snoring peacefully at his feet. Relief washed over him as he noted the dog's steady breathing. 

Meanwhile, the armored figure had vanished, replaced by two men deep in conversation nearby. One was young, likely in his early twenties, while the other had the wearied look of a man hardened by years of ruthless business dealings.

John Wick immediately recognized the elder as Jonah Jameson, a powerful figure in New York's society and next to the target of his current contract.

"He came here to kill you?" Jameson's face was tense, his voice laced with an unsettling calm. His intuition, honed over years of maneuvering through dangerous waters, had quickly led him to the most likely mastermind behind this attack.

"The Life Foundation," he spat, his jaw clenched. 

"I underestimated them." Turning to Anton, he continued, "You need to keep a low profile for a few days while I handle this. They'll pay for their arrogance."

"No need," Anton replied, his voice steady. "I'll deal with this myself. All I ask is that you tie up any loose ends on your side."

"Deal with it yourself?" Jameson was momentarily taken aback, studying Anton closely. "How do you plan to do that?"

Anton gestured toward Wick, now fully alert and listening. "You think I captured this man by accident? This is John Wick, the top assassin in New York—not exactly someone you'd confuse with an amateur thief."

"John Wick?" Jameson's eyes widened, taken aback as he regarded the man before him, now bruised and battered but still projecting an air of quiet defiance.

A flicker of amusement crossed his face. "Well, he doesn't look like much at the moment, but his dog seems well taken care of."

After a moment's pause, he continued, "Do what you will with him."

Anton nodded, giving his instructions. "Contact the NYPD and tell them to keep an eye on Manhattan's Financial District, particularly Wall Street Court, at midnight tonight."

Jameson's eyes narrowed. "You're going after the Continental Hotel?"

"Exactly," Anton replied, locking eyes with the older man.

Jameson's expression darkened with concern. "Anton, the Continental Hotel isn't the root problem here. Its owners, the High Table, are enforcers of their own brutal order. They follow rules, and they expect everyone else to do the same. Our real enemy is the Life Foundation."

Jameson didn't need proof that the Life Foundation was behind the contract on his life; to him, it was an undeniable truth. 

Anton, however, had his own reasoning. "The High Table may not be our enemy," he said thoughtfully, "but they've accepted a job they couldn't complete. If you take a job, you pay the price when you fail."

The older man sighed, his gaze heavy with doubt and worry. "You're walking into a storm, Anton."

But Anton's resolve was unshakable. As he left the basement, Jameson watched him go, catching a glimpse of the determined young man as he slid behind the wheel of Wick's classic 1969 Ford Mustang and sped out of the villa.

Returning his attention to Wick, Jameson observed him with a calculating expression. "So, the infamous John Wick,"he mused, stroking his chin thoughtfully. "You have quite the reputation."

He reached into his coat and pulled out an old revolver, aiming it squarely at Wick's head. Wick's face was stoic, accepting his fate.

But then, to his surprise, Jameson lowered the gun, a hint of a smile playing at his lips. "How would you like a change of employment?" he asked. 

"If my grandson manages to take down the Continental Hotel, then you'll work for me. If he fails, I'll kill you myself."

The offer was laughably one-sided, but Wick sensed Jameson's absolute confidence. Despite the absurdity of the situation, the veteran assassin found himself asking, "Why do you trust him to succeed?"

Jameson's face softened. "Because he's my grandson," he answered simply. "And he's grown up."

…

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