Agent 47 X Everything

Location: Abandoned Street near Warehouse District – New YorkTime: 2:58 A.M.Weather: Cold. Damp asphalt. Fog clinging to the shadows.

Streetlights flickered. A low wind carried the echoes of distant sirens. In the tension-thick silence, two silhouettes stood just meters apart—each poised, coiled, and honed by blood-soaked experience.

John Wick exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders.Agent 47 adjusted his red tie slightly, a subtle tell that something lethal was about to begin.

Then he moved.

No warning.No stance.Just explosive action.

47's body lunged forward with terrifying efficiency, his coat flaring as his first punch cut through the air. Wick dodged sideways, the blow grazing past him.

CRACK.

The punch slammed into the side of the sedan, crumpling the metal like paper. The door bent inward with a brutal dent, echoing across the empty street.

Wick's eyes narrowed.

"What the hell are you made of?"

But 47 didn't answer. His eyes were locked onto Wick's center mass, reading every twitch of movement.

He launched a low kick—fast and calculated.

Wick jumped back, barely dodging it, then spun and threw a punch aimed at 47's neck.47 leaned sideways, catching Wick's arm with one hand and driving his elbow down—hard—towards the joint.

Wick rolled with it, using 47's grip to rotate and slam his palm into 47's ribcage.A solid hit—but not a stagger.

47's enhanced physique—stats more than 400 across the board—absorbed it with almost no reaction. His Adaptive Instinct perk was live, adjusting reflexes and angles in real time.

The system in his mind pinged softly:

[Opponent Threat Level: HIGH][Reaction Sync: Optimized]

47 spun around, launching a rapid series of elbow strikes, knees, and open-palm redirects. His hands moved like clockwork — clean, mathematical violence. Wick blocked two, ducked the third, then landed a solid hook to the temple.

47 took the hit.

Didn't even flinch.

He grabbed Wick's arm with one hand, twisted the wrist outward, and moved to trap him in a shoulder lock.

Wick reversed the torque with a fast step, breaking the angle and slamming a headbutt into 47's face.

Blood from Wick's brow.A red line across 47's cheek.

Now they both stepped back.

Breathing hard. Calculating.

For a moment… silence.

Wick raised his hands.

"You're not with the High Table. You're not Continental. What are you?"

47 answered coldly.

"Efficient."

He rushed forward again, this time with full speed—his Reflexes and Dexterity pushing beyond human reaction time. He unleashed a flurry of strikes, his fists weaving a cage around Wick's defense.

Wick was forced into retreat, blocking high and low, twisting around lampposts and the battered car for space. He ducked under a spin kick and delivered a snap kick to 47's thigh.

47 staggered back half a step, then countered with a rising knee that caught Wick square in the stomach.

Wick groaned, bent over slightly—and grabbed 47's suit with both hands, slamming him into the side of the car with brute force.

Metal groaned. Glass cracked.

But 47 didn't lose control. He slid down, sweeping Wick's legs and forcing the man to the pavement.

Wick rolled with the fall, using his momentum to flip backward, springing to his feet. He tore his jacket off and flung it aside, blood dripping from his lips.

"You're faster than you look."

47 circled him slowly.

"You're slower than I expected."

Wick's eyes glinted dangerously.

They charged again—this time together.

Fists collided mid-air.Elbows traded.Feet stomped and slid against cracked pavement.

Each move was met by a counter.Each step forward, denied.

Equal. In a way neither man liked.

Wick swept a discarded pipe from the ground, swung—47 ducked under and slammed his palm against Wick's shoulder, forcing him into a wall.

He pressed Wick's neck against brick.

"I don't miss."

Wick growled back.

"Neither do I."

And headbutted him—hard.

Both staggered back, a rare mutual stumble.

Blood on lips.Sweat down brows.Eyes locked.

And then... footsteps.

Someone was approaching.

A civilian?

No.

47's head barely turned. He saw a shadow duck out of an alley—an underworld runner with eyes wide open, watching the impossible unfold.

Wick caught the distraction.

He moved. A jab to the throat.

47 caught the wrist—just in time.

But both froze.

This wasn't the end.It wasn't even the true beginning.

47 looked down at his hand. Wick's pulse—still steady. Not panicking.

This wasn't a hit. Not yet.

"You're not like the others," Wick said.

47 stepped back.

"Neither are you."

The street was quiet again. Somewhere in the distance, the gears of the underworld turned.

But here, tonight, two executioners had tested each other.

And survived.