Watching the torrential rain outside the window, Shiranui Hayate sat in the lobby of the agency, deep in thought.
"You have long since severed ties with the Ruska Roma," he mused silently. "Will you crawl back to them for protection just to survive? Or will you head straight here?"
He glanced at the clock hanging on the wall and murmured, "John, your time is running out."
Back in the library, John Wick had just finished Ernest with a book.
Gazing down at his fallen enemy, John picked up the volume and placed it back on the shelf. Suddenly, a sharp sting flared in his shoulder. He reached back, his palm coming away soaked in crimson. During the struggle, Ernest had managed to bury a short blade deep into his flesh.
"Damn it!"
John cursed under his breath and rushed out of the library. Clutching his wounded shoulder, he calculated the distance to the Shiranui Agency. He needed to stitch this wound now; otherwise, he doubted he would have enough life left in him to reach Hayate.
There were only ten minutes left before his Excommunicado status became official.
In the shadows of the city, the Bowery King spoke to his subordinate, Earl.
"Spread the word. The Bowery will respect the Excommunicado. No help, no services, and no sanctuary for John Wick."
John had sprinted all the way to a black-market doctor in Chinatown. He pounded on the door with desperate force.
"Doctor! Doctor, it's Wick!"
The slide on the door clicked open. The doctor stared at the man outside, his voice trembling. "Mr. Wick... No, you shouldn't be here. Time is almost up."
"I know," John wheezed. "Doctor, please. There's still time."
The doctor hesitated, fear etched into his face. "I can't. I shouldn't."
John pulled a gold Continental coin from his pocket and held it before the doctor's eyes. "I still have five minutes. Please."
The doctor snatched the coin through the small window and unlatched the door. "Get in. Quickly."
He checked the hallway for tails before slamming the door shut.
"Sit. Fast!"
John stripped off his suit jacket, revealing the mangled flesh of his shoulder and neck. The doctor moved with practiced speed, dabbing at the wound with gauze.
"A puncture... deep. It nicked an artery. You need stitches."
He began to sew immediately. The seconds ticked away like hammer blows. John sat rigidly, his eyes locked onto the doctor's wall clock.
"Doctor."
"Almost... half done," the doctor muttered, his hands moving frantically.
"Doctor, five seconds left."
John began the countdown.
"Five... four... three... two... one."
As the clock struck six, a heavy bell tolled. The doctor froze, pulling his hands away.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Wick. I can no longer serve you."
John nodded slowly, the pain radiating through his body. "I understand. It's the Rules."
"The Rules," the doctor echoed.
The Excommunicado was now in effect. No organization or individual under the High Table could offer John Wick so much as a drop of water.
Without a word, John took the scissors from the doctor's hand. Facing the mirror, he began to sew the rest of the wound himself.
The Continental, Information Processing Center.
A broadcast was sent to every registered member of the guild:
Target: John Wick.
Bounty: $14 Million.
Distribution: Global.
Status: Open.
Last Seen: Chinatown, New York.
Update: Excommunicado is officially active.
In the hotel lounge, Winston watched the alert pop up on his phone while playing Scrabble.
"It begins," he whispered.
At the front desk, Charon watched as every assassin in the lobby looked down at their screens simultaneously.
At the agency, Shiranui Hayate received the same message. He tossed his phone onto the table and took a sip of Bourbon. He sat back in the silence, waiting for the Boogeyman to knock on his door.
Back in the clinic, John finished his stitches and began raiding the doctor's medicine cabinet for painkillers. After several fruitless seconds, the doctor—driven by a lingering respect for the man—spoke up.
"Top shelf. On the right."
John paused.
"Take four. They will help with the pain and keep you alert."
John looked at the doctor with a brief flash of gratitude before swallowing the pills. The doctor then walked to a drawer, pulled out a handgun, and turned to him.
"Mr. Wick, they won't believe I stopped the treatment exactly on time."
"But you did," John said.
"They will find something," the doctor insisted. "They will find out I told you where the medicine was."
John adjusted his clothes, his face grim. "Find what?"
"That I helped you."
The doctor walked up to John and handed him the pistol. He then sat in a chair and gripped a piece of gauze, bracing himself.
John took the weapon and stood opposite him. "Where?"
The doctor pulled up his shirt, pointing to his abdomen. "Here. Below the floating rib. Don't hit my—"
BANG.
John fired before the sentence could end. The doctor cried out in agony, slumped over in the chair. John turned to leave, but the doctor gasped, "Wait!"
"One might not be enough."
He unbuttoned his collar, exposing his shoulder. "Make sure you don't hit my—"
BANG.
The second shot echoed through the room. The doctor groaned in pain, but he was alive. John grabbed his jacket and headed for the door.
"Good luck, Mr. Wick," the doctor whispered through gritted teeth.
John stopped at the threshold, looking back at the man clutching his wounds.
"Thank you, Doctor."
With that, John Wick stepped out into the rain-soaked streets, a ghost haunted by an entire world of monsters.