Agent 47 X Everything

Location: Warehouse District – New York

Time: 3:37 A.M.

Weather: Cold and fogged, thin trails of smoke curling from street vents.

Silence.

Both men stood across the street, breaths still steady, neither reaching for a weapon.

Agent 47 adjusted his sleeves.

John Wick rolled his shoulder, blood at the corner of his mouth.

The wind whispered between shattered windows. The broken car between them steamed faintly from its ruptured engine. In any other life, they'd have finished each other.

But not tonight.

Wick finally broke the silence, stepping forward, voice level and cold.

"You're not here by coincidence. You don't show up where I do, kill half a crew, and interrogate my target—unless you're hunting the same thing… or something bigger."

Agent 47 didn't respond immediately. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, wiped the blood from his cheek, then tucked it away like the moment didn't exist.

"I was sent here for you."

His tone was absolute. Flat. Surgical.

Wick narrowed his eyes.

"Who sent you?"

47 gave no answer.

Instead, he turned slightly, looking up at a flickering streetlamp across the road—thinking. Calculating.

Wick didn't press.

He knew the type. He was the type.

"You have no idea what this place is, do you?" Wick asked, quieter now. "You're in the middle of a war zone. The people I just killed? Not just mobsters. They worked for them."

"Them?"

Wick looked away, jaw tightening.

"The High Table."

47 raised an eyebrow. Just barely.

"Explain."

Wick sighed, voice lowering like he was about to share a ghost story.

"Twelve seats. Old money. Old rules. They run the underworld. Every hit, every sanctuary, every marker, every contract. They see everything. Control everyone. If you're a problem, they erase you. If you're useful, they own you. Everyone answers to them."

47 blinked slowly.

"Then I won't."

Wick looked at him sharply.

That response was too easy. Too certain.

But before he could say anything else—

[System Notification]New Primary Contract Available.

—––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

Target(s): The High Table (12 Seated Entities)

Location(s): Global

Reward: "??? Legendary Perk"

Penalty: Chain-of-Fate Protocol – Failure Results in Lockdown of Current Universe—––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

Accept? [Y/N]

Another ping followed, as a private message slid in like a whisper:

[Administrator's Note:]"A pawn no longer. Let's see if a king can shatter the table it was never invited to sit at."

47's eyes glinted.

He didn't speak.

He didn't smile.

He simply pressed "Y".

Wick tilted his head, watching him.

"You are off"

47 finally looked at him again.

"You won't understand"

Wick almost chuckled. Almost.

They stood in silence once more. No gunfire. No alarms. Just quiet resolve.

Two men standing on the edge of a storm.

Wick looked up at the sky, hands on his belt.

"If you're going to war with the High Table…"He paused. Then gave the barest nod."…then I guess we're on the same side."

47 didn't respond.

But in his system, new objectives lit up across a global map—each marked with red seals and encrypted names. The web of power stretched from Rome to Osaka, from Morocco to Berlin.