Iosef spat on the floor and waved his hand dismissively. "Beat him. Let's sober this drunk up."
John was instantly swarmed by the two Russian enforcers. Heavy fists rained down on him like hail.
He tried to block the strikes, but his muscles were sluggish and uncoordinated. His head trauma and the sheer weight of numbers overwhelmed him. Within seconds, he was beaten bloody, pinned to the hardwood floor, unable to defend himself.
"See that? This is what happens when you don't show respect," Iosef sneered. He stepped heavily onto John's wrist, looking down at him with absolute contempt. "Now. Where are the keys?"
Suddenly, Daisy charged out from the kitchen. She threw her tiny body at Victor, frantically biting at the intruder's pant leg in a desperate attempt to protect her owner.
Victor cursed and kicked out viciously.
The small beagle was sent flying, hitting the wall with a sharp whimper before tumbling to the floor.
"Where the fuck did this rat come from?" Iosef glanced at the dog with deep disgust.
As he looked at Daisy, a memory sparked in his alcohol-addled brain.
He remembered the hospital. He remembered the humiliation. He remembered Anthony's arrogant face, and the exact same breed of dog growling at his feet.
A ferocious, ugly smile spread across Iosef's face. "So all you pathetic losers like raising these little beasts, huh?"
"Please..." John saw the shift in Iosef's eyes. He saw the intent. Abandoning every shred of his dignity, he begged.
"You can take everything in this house. Take the car. Just please, leave Daisy alone. I swear I won't come after you. I swear it on my wife's soul."
"Fuck, how touching," Iosef mocked, grinding his boot heel into John's bruised cheek. "Too bad I hate sad stories."
He raised the aluminum baseball bat high above his head and swung it down with brutal force.
"No—!" John struggled violently, desperately trying to break free, but the two thugs held him down.
Thwack.
A sickening, wet thud echoed through the living room.
Daisy's small body was crushed against the floorboards. After a few weak, involuntary twitches, she lay completely still.
John's pupils contracted to pinpricks. Staring at Daisy's lifeless body, his gray-blue eyes shattered, filling with an abyss of absolute despair.
Iosef chuckled contemptuously. "It's just a dog. Now, tell me where the fucking keys are, or you're going to end up just like her."
Gasping for breath, a dark, primordial fire flickered deep within John's shattered gaze. "The lockbox. In the basement. The blue one."
"Go get it," Iosef ordered Victor, a triumphant smirk on his face. He looked down at John one last time. "Sleep tight, bitch."
The three men swaggered out the front door, leaving behind a battered John Wick and the rapidly cooling corpse of a beagle puppy.
The living room was in ruins. Blood stained the expensive rugs.
The small dog lay limp, her hazel eyes still open, as if she couldn't understand why her world had suddenly gone dark.
John dragged himself painfully across the floor. He collapsed beside Daisy, carefully gathering her broken body into his arms.
"I'm sorry... Daisy, I'm sorry," he whispered over and over. Blood from his face mingled with his tears, dripping onto her soft fur.
"I couldn't protect Helen. And I couldn't protect you... I can't protect anything." His voice was a raw, choked rasp.
He held Daisy tightly against his chest, Helen's final words echoing in his mind.
Dear John, you need to love something. You need to love someone. Start with her.
Now, his final emotional anchor—the last physical manifestation of his wife's love—had been casually, pointlessly destroyed by a spoiled brat.
He had been forced to watch her die, completely powerless to stop it.
Outside, Anthony stood in the shadows of the oak tree, perfectly still. He let the freezing rain wash over his face.
He leaned back against the rough bark, the puncture wound in his chest throbbing in time with his heartbeat.
"I admit I'm a monster," he murmured to the empty night. "I'm sorry, John. But I couldn't help you."
Anthony knew the rigid laws of this universe.
If he had intervened, if he had saved the dog, the Boogeyman would never have returned.
And if John Wick remained asleep, Anthony would never have the blade he needed to slaughter the Tarasov syndicate.
Through the rain-streaked windows, Anthony watched John carry a shovel out the back door.
Lightning split the night sky, illuminating John's grim, bloodstained face through the curtain of his wet hair. His movements were slow, methodical, and heavy with grief as he dug the small grave in the mud.
When John placed the final scoop of earth over the mound, he collapsed to his knees. He pressed his forehead against the cold, wet dirt, his broad shoulders trembling silently in the storm.
Anthony turned and walked away into the darkness, his own steps feeling unusually heavy.
"Forgive me, John," he thought. "But you had to wake up. When the dust settles... maybe we can fight side by side."
After burying Daisy, John returned to the house. The rain battered against the glass, forming winding rivers down the panes.
Soaked to the bone, his blood washing away in pink rivulets, he walked down to the basement. Water dripped from his hair onto the smooth concrete floor, leaving a trail of dark spots.
He picked up a heavy sledgehammer.
CRACK!
The sledgehammer slammed into the concrete floor. Sparks flew as the cement fractured.
He didn't stop. He bent his knees, sinking into a brutal rhythm. With every strike, the knotted muscles in his back coiled and released.
Amidst the flying dust and rubble, a heavy, dark metal case was slowly unearthed.
John hauled it out of the crater, wiping the thick layer of dust from the lid.
He popped the heavy latches.
Clack.
Inside the case, resting on pristine crimson velvet, lay a cold, perfectly ordered array of matte-black steel.
The first thing John lifted was his primary weapon, already fitted with a custom compensator.
An Heckler & Koch P30L.
Next was his backup, a Glock 26, alongside multiple spare magazines, forming his signature, complementary dual-pistol tactical system.
Beneath the firearms rested four AN/M14 incendiary grenades, a Microtech UTX-70 OTF knife, and a serrated Ka-Bar combat blade.
Beside the arsenal sat neat stacks of heavy gold coins—the exclusive currency of the Continental and the High Table.
"You killed my dog," John whispered, his voice grinding like stone. "I'll take your life."
There was no trace of sorrow left in his gray-blue eyes. There was only an endless, freezing expanse of pure killing intent.
John Wick, the mythical assassin who had once built an empire on a mountain of corpses, had officially re-entered the game.
Anthony was right. Tonight, the New York underworld was going to drown in a storm of blood.
The death of a puppy had awakened a slumbering god of death.
Iosef Tarasov had absolutely no idea what kind of apocalyptic nightmare he had just unleashed.
He hadn't robbed an ordinary civilian. He had robbed the man known to the global assassin underworld as the Baba Yaga.
The Boogeyman.
John Wick.
The next morning, weak sunlight pierced the clouds, burning away the gloom of the storm over Mill Neck.
Anthony clipped the leash onto Helen's collar and took her for her morning walk, casually steering their route toward Aurelio's Chop Shop, looking entirely unbothered.
He hadn't slept a wink. His mind had spent the entire night replaying the image of John sobbing in the mud, and Iosef's arrogant, sneering face.
"Iosef, I hope you have your running shoes on today," Anthony said softly, watching Helen strain against the leash. "Because not even Viggo can save you now."
Helen seemed to sense her owner's dark mood. As they approached the chop shop, she let out a low, rumbling growl.
Parked directly in front of the garage bays was a pristine 1969 Ford Mustang Boss 429. The morning sunlight glinted coldly off its dark, polished chassis.
Standing next to the stolen car were Iosef and his two thugs, waiting for Aurelio to open the bay doors.
Anthony sauntered forward, his hands in his pockets, the picture of relaxed confidence.
Helen immediately caught the lingering scent of Daisy's blood on Iosef's shoes. The hair on her spine stood up, and she began barking aggressively at the Russian.
Hearing the sharp barking, Iosef turned his head. His eyes landed on Anthony, and then on the beagle straining at the end of the leash—a dog identical to the one he had crushed the night before.
"Fuck me. Why do I have to look at this bastard's face again?" Iosef spat on the concrete.
He glared at the beagle, his lip curling into an ugly sneer.
"You son of a bitch. We still have a major score to settle from the hospital. You have the balls to show your face to me? If you don't want me to finish what we started, get the fuck out of my sight."
Anthony smiled, a cold, empty expression. "Iosef, I always thought you were a rabid dog with no leash. But here you are, standing right in front of me after I broke your teeth, and you haven't even tried to swing. Did Viggo finally put a muzzle on you?"
Iosef's eyes burned with hatred. "You arrogant bastard. One day, I am going to make you kneel in the dirt and beg me to put a bullet in your head."
His venomous gaze shifted down to Helen. "And I'll skin that little rat right in front of you."
"Nice car," Anthony said, completely ignoring the threat. He looked at the Mustang, feigning mild curiosity. "Where'd you steal it from?"
A brief flash of defensive panic crossed Iosef's eyes, instantly masked by arrogant disdain.
"What's the matter, Tony? Did the Pritzker bitch cut off your allowance already? Are you here to beg your little brother for some cash?"