Dr. Elias Marrow staggered, clutching his leg as blood seeped between his fingers. He dropped to one knee, his breathing ragged, but his eyes never left Michael.
"You always were always quick to aggravate," Marrow rasped, a twisted smile breaking through the pain. "That's why you're my masterpiece. But it's finally time to come back, my masterpiece."
Michael kept the gun raised, jaw clenched. "Start talking. Now."
Marrow let out a low chuckle that dissolved into a cough. "You think you found your way here by chance? You think Gabriel took you in out of kindness?" He shook his head slowly. "No, boy. You were placed in his care… by the Upper Table themselves."
Michael's brow furrowed. "Why?"
"Because you're theirs," Marrow said, his tone dark and deliberate. "You've always been theirs. I made you what you are—stronger, faster, sharper. Every drop of blood in you has been carefully calculated, thoroughly tested, and perfected. And when my work was done, they sent you to Gabriel to finish the shaping. To turn my creation into their weapon."
Michael's grip tightened on the M4. Flashes of cold surgical lights, muffled voices behind glass, and the sting of needles tore through his mind like glass shards.
"You remember it, don't you?" Marrow pressed, grimacing as he shifted his weight. "The cold table… the burning in your veins… my voice telling you to hold on."
Michael's chest rose and fell, his breathing uneven. "You're lying."
Marrow's eyes narrowed, almost pitying. "Then tell me… why do you wake up some nights hearing a man count backwards from ten?"
The rain began to fall, and with it came a creeping sensation under Michael's skin—a phantom ache, cold and metallic, just like Marrow said.
Michael then shouted, "Enough!!"
The shot cracked through the room like thunder. Marrow's head snapped back, the life leaving him instantly. The chair tipped slightly before settling in a grotesque stillness, a thin ribbon of smoke curling from Michael's pistol.
Michael lowered his gun slowly, his gaze dropping to the ornate carpet now splattered with red. His breathing was heavy, almost ragged.
From the far corner, John Wick stood like a statue — hands relaxed, eyes unreadable, saying nothing. Just watching.
Then… Michael laughed.
At first it was a dry, bitter chuckle, but it grew — louder, sharper — until it was a jagged, manic cackle that bounced off the polished wood and high ceiling.
He looked up, eyes wild, pupils turning crimson. His smirk twisted into something between pain and insanity.
"All of it… all this time…" he muttered. "My life — my entire life — was just a goddamn science project."
He stumbled back a step, the laugh dying into heavy, uneven breaths.
"They wrote the script before I even knew how to hold a gun. I thought I was surviving… turns out I was just playing my part."
The clock ticked behind him, steady and calm — mocking in its indifference. The storm outside howled, but in the room, time felt frozen.
Michael's fingers twitched on the pistol grip. His eyes darted to Marrow's body, then to John.
"They think I'm just gonna keep playing?" He grinned again, but this time it was colder. "I'll burn their whole damn stage to the ground."
John said nothing. But his eyes… his eyes told Michael he understood.
Then they heard the sound of glass shattering.
Michael's M4 roared, sending men crashing to the ground before they could react.
One charged him with swinging a baton. Michael caught the strike with the rifle's stock, then smashed it into the man's ribs. He twisted the attacker's wrist, drove an elbow into his throat, and watched him go down.
John moved like a shadow—disarming a man, slamming him down, then shooting another cleanly in the head.
Bullets flew. Michael ducked behind a table, reloaded fast, then popped up, firing bursts that dropped two attackers.
Another rushed Michael. He swung the rifle low, breaking the man's knee with a sick crunch. Before the attacker could recover, Michael drove an elbow into his temple and finished him with a burst to the chest.
John was relentless—using a fallen attacker's knife to silently kill another, then taking down a third with a precise shot.
Michael grabbed a man by the throat, using him as a shield against incoming fire. When the shooter faltered, Michael spun and emptied his mag into the man's chest.
The last attacker hesitated—too slow. John's pistol barked twice, and the man dropped.
Silence.
John said calmly, "They underestimated us."
Michael's eyes burned cold. "They'll regret it."
He slung his rifle over his shoulder. "Let's finish this."
----
After a while, it finally ended. Both Michael and John were fully covered with blood. Not their blood but the blood of their enemies. Dozens of corpses lay around them, blood pouring out of them.
John looked at Michael and said, "It is just starting, kid.
End.....
I try to update regularly now. I can finally see the end of the story now. It's coming close...
Stay Tuned