September 28th. Raccoon City. 8:30 pm
The old bookstore was a temporary, silent sanctuary. John Wick lay on the cement floor, unconscious, his ballistic suit torn in several places, a map of dark contusions across his skin. Ada Wong knelt beside him, her P-9 pistol drawn.
The barrel of her weapon rose slowly and silently. The weight of the gun in her hand was the weight of twenty million dollars. Her eyes, now cold and determined, fixed on John's left temple.
A single shot. Fast. Clean.
Ada held the aim, her finger inching toward the trigger, the awareness that she had just been saved by this man drilling into her head—a distant annoyance against the magnitude of the prize.
Her finger trembled slightly as it made contact with the trigger guard. Her eyes, fixed on the assassin's bruised face, flickered between calculated fury and cold resolution. He had saved her life; it meant nothing. In her line of work, gratitude was a vulnerability.
She squeezed.
The click of the firing pin hitting the empty chamber echoed in the small space with a deafening clarity. There was no explosion. No light. Just a dry, definitive sound of failure.
Ada's body tensed in an immediate reaction of professional horror. Safety? She racked the slide back with feverish speed. The slide glided smoothly. Empty. The dummy round wasn't there. She tried to release the magazine to check for spare ammunition, but when she pressed the release button, the confirmatory click never came: the entire magazine had been extracted from the weapon.
Ada felt a chill that had nothing to do with the cold cement floor. It wasn't a failure of ammunition. It was a deliberate act.
Her memory, still clouded by shock, suddenly cleared. She vaguely remembered the sensation of strong, expert hands moving over her while she was unconscious, readjusting her makeshift bandages with the torn fabric of her trench coat. In that brief window of vulnerability, after the impact knocked her out and before he succumbed to the exhaustion of his wound, John Wick had ensured his safety.
He hadn't just bandaged her to save her; he had disarmed the immediate threat to his life. It was a chess move so simple and elegant it hurt.
A cold shiver ran down Ada's spine. John's foresight, his survival instinct operating even on the edge of unconsciousness, was a brutal reminder of whom she was dealing with. The Baba Yaga didn't just kill; he planned every step, even with a collapsed lung and a bleeding head.
She bit her lip in anger, the empty pistol now a useless weight which she tossed silently onto a pile of debris. John Wick didn't stir; his shallow breathing remained the only sound in the stagnant air. He was so injured that not even the dry click had awakened him.
Ada lay back down on the floor, returning to her original position, feeling the cold cement beneath the thin fabric of her dress. She glanced at John.
The idea of trying to check if he had extra ammunition hidden in the folds of his expensive three-piece suit was unthinkable. If John was capable of disarming her with such precision while on the brink of collapse…
Ada didn't dare to get closer. If, by some divine chance, he woke up and she was at that distance, she would lose. The difference between her strength and his was abysmal, and hers was compromised by the impact.
There was something terrifying about the tranquility of John's shallow breathing, as if his body was only hibernating, ready to spring up at any moment and counterattack at the slightest hint of danger.
Ada sat beside him, sighing. She brought a hand to the makeshift bandages John had placed on her, feeling the pressure on her skin.
"Well, Ada," she thought with bitter self-criticism. "Here you are, out of the game. To have hesitated, even for an instant, is the kind of weakness you can't afford."
She forced herself to refocus, scanning the immediate surroundings of the store. The place, a former bookstore, offered scant usable cover, just piles of rotting books and fallen shelves that wouldn't stop a bullet.
She checked her hip. To her surprise, everything else was in place: her grappling hook, her spy tools, the emergency knife hidden in her boot. John had only removed the P-9's ammunition. A selective disarming. Absolute precision. He hadn't stripped Ada of her ability to move or evade, only of her ability to kill him.
A few minutes passed that felt like an eternity. The only sound was the constant dripping of water seeping through the damaged ceiling. John still seemed unconscious, submerged in a shock and pain-induced blackout.
His face, usually chiseled and severe, was relaxed in an expression of vulnerability Ada never expected to see. Yet, there was nothing comforting about that peace.
Ada supported herself on her elbows to stretch slightly, relieving the tension in her back and ribs. Her injuries, until now anesthetized by adrenaline, began to claim her attention. The urgency to escape intensified. She was about to fully stand up, use her grappling hook, and abandon John Wick to his fate, when a sound paralyzed her.
A deep, heavy vibration resonated through the floor. It wasn't the distant roar of the burning city, but a rhythmic, nearby shake, as if a giant were marching. Plaster dust fell from the beams of the old bookstore; the shelves with the remains of books groaned in protest.
Ada, who had only felt the Humvee impact, initially assumed it was the collapse of a nearby building, but the vibration grew stronger, more constant, more deliberate.
Quickly, her body tense as a piano wire, she ducked and positioned herself next to John, in the deep shadow of a fallen shelf, a pool of darkness among the debris. The vibration grew, turning into slow, monstrous footsteps that stopped in the street just outside the library's front wall.
Panic seized her. Ada approached John with forced silence and gave him quick, cautious pats on the cheek, then the shoulder.
"John!" she whispered, her voice barely audible, afraid the sound would betray her to the thing outside. She couldn't afford to wake him up in a panic, fearing John would attack her by instinct or that his concussion would make him violent, but the time for caution had run out.
Then, she heard it. A loud, rough breath, like a forge bellows, and the rub of wet leather. A beast with respiratory problems was just on the other side of the brick. And then, the voice, forced through a distorted, deep, almost guttural tone modulator.
"J O H N."
The sound wasn't a question, it was a declaration of the hunt. Ada's hair stood on end.
She looked at John, confirming what she had just heard. The thing outside was here, and it was looking for the assassin.
The possibility of escape became almost irresistible: the skylight above with the hook, disappearing, and letting the bounty collect itself. It would be her perfect solution: the problem (John Wick) eliminated by a third party.
But then Ada looked at her own bandages, the memory of the unbearable pain mitigated by John's quick, expert action. She frowned in anger. In her mind, she told herself: "Damn it, just because you saved me, I'll save you this time, but then I'll kill you."
She told herself that, but as the creature's roar began to sound like a bulldozer hitting the outer wall, something about John's seriousness and the imminence of the danger made the promise of murder feel hollow.
It was an imposed life debt, not a strategy, and for the first time, Ada hated that feeling. She was about to risk her life for a man who was worth 20 million if she let him die.
The creature had stopped. The silence that followed the roar was worse than the noise.
Ada crawled on her stomach across the floor, using the fallen shelves and debris as cover, to the far end of the store, where a small, high window, barely visible in the darkness, offered an oblique angle toward the street. The glass was dirty and covered in soot, but it allowed her to see without being seen.
She carefully stood up, leaning against the wall. Her eyes adjusted to the gloom, focusing on the silhouette projected against the orange haze of Raccoon City's polluted sky. What she saw made her swallow hard.
It wasn't a person. Not even a zombie in the usual grotesque sense.
It was a corpulent, black mass, nearly three meters tall. Its body was encased in a thick leather coat that barely contained the monstrous musculature. Its head was covered by a sort of mask or bandage that only revealed a single, cruel red eye that scanned the surroundings.
On its shoulder, a rotating metal structure projected the shadow of a rocket launcher. It was a bionic killing machine, armed with what looked like tentacle limbs moving under its trench coat.
"What the hell..." Ada's internal voice was a whisper of professional astonishment. "What the hell is that thing? It's... too much. If this finds me, not all my training will save me."
The monster, Nemesis, slowly turned its massive body, the vibration of its movement reaching even Ada's fingers through the cement. The single red eye paused, as if searching for a heat signature or a specific smell. It was too close to the bookstore.
"Time. I need time, and I have no bullets," Ada reasoned. "If it finds me here, not only will I die, but John will die too. The only option is to redirect the target, give it a lure that activates that artificial hunting instinct and draws it far enough away for me to drag John to safety."
She looked at John, who remained unconscious. He was too heavy, too injured to move silently through the back door.
Her gaze shifted to her utility belt. She had a high-powered flare and the grappling hook. The flare could mimic the signature of an activated weapon or create an intense light to attract Nemesis.
Quickly, she grabbed the grappling hook. She unrolled the steel cable silently and tied it to the magnesium flare. She couldn't risk using the hook to climb herself; she needed all the distance possible.
She inhaled deeply, stabilizing her nerves. Nemesis's forced breathing was now a constant bellows sound.
"If John wakes up and sees me trying to abandon him, I won't be able to use him later. But if this thing finds us both here, it will rip my spine out," Ada thought, the decision made. "Damn it. The devil I know and the monster I just saw. I guess for now, John is still the best option for long-term survival."
With a quick motion, she used the hook not to ascend, but to launch it with surgical precision toward the skylight of an uninhabited building on the adjacent street. The hook flew in a low, silent arc before snagging on the edge of a zinc roof.
She tugged gently, ensuring the flare was ready. Nemesis hadn't moved, but the red eye was still scanning.
With a silent kick, Ada broke a small, loose wooden panel near the floor, a dry noise in the stillness. Nemesis immediately turned its head.
In that microsecond, Ada ignited the flare and pulled the cable with all her strength. The magnesium projectile flew through the air, igniting as it released from the cable, and landed with a loud clank against the metal roof fifty meters away.
A blinding white light burst out, followed by dense smoke that quickly rose. Nemesis emitted an unmistakable engine-like roar. Its head, with the single eye, swiveled to track the signal. The heavy steps resumed, heading towards the blinding light.
Ada took a breath of relief. That monster was engaged and moving away.
"Time to move the prize, John Wick," she muttered, turning back to John's unconscious body. Playtime was over.
She knelt beside him and grabbed his ballistic vest to try and drag him. The result was nil.
John Wick was a dead weight of solid rock.
His Kevlar suit, hidden arsenal, and the sheer muscle density of a man who had spent half his life in brutal combat made him an impossible burden. She pulled again, straining her back muscles, feeling the stab of her own broken ribs in protest. She only managed to slide him about eight inches.
"No. He's too heavy," Ada gasped, a thin layer of cold sweat forming on her forehead. Her breathing quickened. "I'm compromised, injured, and my window of opportunity is closing. I can't drag 200 pounds of unconscious assassin through the debris to the back door. I need him to move himself. Even if only for a few feet."
She tried a different technique, wrapping a piece of fabric around his torso and pulling with her back, using her weight as a counterbalance. The rub of John's suit against the cement made a dull, squeaking sound. She moved him perhaps another foot, but the effort made her see stars for a second.
The pain in her bruised torso was piercing, a warning that any physical exertion beyond this could send her into unconsciousness too.
She stopped, resting her head on her knees, gasping in the darkness as she listened to the mechanical, increasingly distant roar of Nemesis.
"Absurd," she told herself with silent rage, wiping a bead of cold sweat from her temple. "I've moved heavier assets than this, but never in a state of exhaustion and constant pain."
Frustration was an acidic taste in her mouth. John's immobility was a mockery of her ability.
Determined, she abandoned brute force and opted for stimulation. She approached John and gave him light slaps on the cheek, gentle, trying to elicit a minimal reaction.
"John. John, wake up," she called in a firm voice, then with impatience. "Come on, Wick, this is no time for naps."
She assessed the depth of the shock. His eyes were closed, but his reflexes were slow, almost nonexistent. His lips were slightly parted, and the paleness of his skin beneath the dirt was worrying.
There was no response. His face was too pale; the unconsciousness was too deep.
With a chill of alarm, Ada moved to his side, her lips pressed together. It had to be painful. It had to be immediate.
She leaned down, joined her knuckles, and pressed them with considerable force into the center of John's sternum. The sternal rub was a first-aid technique designed to inflict intense pain and elicit a response from an unconscious patient. It was the last resort before desperation.
Ada pressed firmly, ignoring her own pain and focusing all her determination. Nemesis was distracting itself with the flare, but that trick wouldn't last more than a minute. She could feel the hardness of the bone under the pressure of her knuckles, a point of pure pain.
The instant her knuckles reached the pressure point, the effect was immediate and brutal.
John Wick didn't open his eyes slowly. He woke up with a jolt.
It was an explosion of instinct. The pain forced a primal reflex. His left hand, with the speed of a projectile that defied his injured state, shot out from under his vest and gripped Ada's wrist with an inhuman crushing strength, pinning it against his chest.
At the same time, his other hand sought the hidden weapon in his lower back. In less than half a second, his suppressed P30L pistol was at her temple, the cold metal pressing with terrifying firmness. His eyes, now open, registered no recognition, only the cold, murderous intensity of survival.
Fear hit Ada like an icy gust. She was trapped, her hand still on his chest, forced to inflict the pain that had awakened him. Instinct had instantly converted her into the threat.
"John! It's me!" Ada hissed, adrenaline surging like a wildfire. The tone was urgent, not flirtatious—the only way to breach the wall of pure instinct that John Wick had become.
John blinked slowly, once. His breathing, initially a hoarse gasp, began to calm, becoming slower and more controlled. The fog of shock dissipated, revealing the landscape of pain in his own body and the face of Ada Wong, trapped under the barrel of his pistol.
Slowly, millimeter by millimeter, John lowered the barrel. The gun remained in his hand, but the muzzle no longer pointed at her head, but at the floor between them. However, his grip on Ada's wrist did not loosen. She was still the closest threat.
His voice was a rough whisper, full of the irritation of physical pain and reflective terror. "What... What happened?"
Ada felt immediate, albeit partial, relief. Her wrist, still imprisoned, throbbed.
"It found us. The... the monster. The one that attacked us in the Humvee. It's in the street. I distracted it, but it will come back," she said, noticing how the grip on her wrist became less crushing, more inquisitive. Ada felt a chill remembering the distorted sound. "He said your name, John."
John paused. His gaze momentarily darted to the front wall, then returned to Ada's expression, searching for the truth in her eyes. The echo of the modulated voice resonated in his memory, overlaying Jill's warning from hours ago. 'A monster... one that knows your name.' Nemesis wasn't a random zombie; it was a targeted tracker. A job.
With an almost imperceptible sigh that moved the stale air, John released Ada's wrist. Relief washed over her.
"Apologies," John said, his voice deep and flat, returning to the controlled calm that defined him, although there was still a palpable tension in his jaw. He was referring to his reflexive attempt to kill her. "It's something I can't control. It's... a protocol."
Ada rubbed her wrist, assessing the bruise that would soon form. She nodded, her own face reflecting a professional understanding.
"I understand. I have protocols, too. No problem, Wick."
John, now fully awake, moved, feeling the piercing pain in his ribs and the throbbing in his head. He looked around. The floor. The debris. It wasn't where he had collapsed.
He glanced at Ada.
"You moved me by yourself, didn't you?"
Ada couldn't help a grimace of frustration, mixed with pride despite her injury.
"Yes. And you weigh as much as a Fiat from the eighties. Next time, be a more cooperative asset," Ada retorted, with a sarcastic tone that attempted to lighten the tension.
John, humorless, began to rise. He ignored the stabbing pain in his broken ribs and stood up, using the sheer muscle of his arm to push himself against the cement wall. He stopped short.
His eyes, trained to notice the smallest detail, focused on a point. A small red light. A dot that danced on the brick wall, just behind Ada's head, piercing the suspended dust. It wasn't the flicker of a flashlight or the reflection of a fire. It was a targeting laser.
And it was steadying.
John didn't need a second thought. He spun sharply, rising fully, ignoring the persistent pain. He saw the creature's shadow silhouetted against the orange haze of the street. Nemesis had already ignored the flare and was back, standing in front of the bookstore. Its single red eye glowed, and over its shoulder, the rotating rocket launcher was pointing directly at the spot where Ada was sitting.
Time froze.
"Down!" John roared, his voice pure urgency, as he pushed Ada with sudden, savage force.
The push was a controlled, brutal impact. Ada, who was sitting, had no time to react; she was thrown forward, sliding across the floor. In a split second, John interposed himself between her and the wall, falling on her. He didn't embrace her gently; he covered her out of pure instinct, his heavy armored suit serving as the only possible shield between the explosive and the spy's more vulnerable body.
John's body closed around Ada's on the floor, his face pressed against her neck, the wool and Kevlar suit a forced embrace in the darkness. She inhaled the scent of gunpowder and old leather that enveloped him, and felt the dull thud of his bruised chest against her ribs. In that intimate, unexpected contact, Ada's mind, for a moment, froze.
Only seconds earlier, she had considered the idea of killing him for a bounty. Now, the man whose body was her ticket out, and also her target, had become her refuge. The contrast was so violent it gave her a shiver, but there was no time for irony.
A second later, the rocket launcher fired. The roar was deafening; the air fractured.
The projectile impacted the brick right where they had been moments ago. The bookstore turned into a cauldron. The blinding white heat of the explosion penetrated the wall in a destructive flash. Concrete and brick exploded in a cloud of debris. John and Ada were engulfed by the shockwave.
She felt the crushing pressure of the expelled air, the sound of her own eardrum struggling, and the weight of John Wick, that solid rock, cushioning the most lethal impact.
The sonic pressure dissipated, leaving behind a silence broken by the creaking of beams giving way and a sharp ringing in their ears. John rose with a grunt, his hand brought to his right ear from which a thread of warm blood trickled, proof of the projectile's proximity. He didn't hesitate.
His gaze immediately went to Ada, who was trying to sit up on her own. Without losing a millisecond, he grabbed her hand. The grip was a command. He pulled her off the ground with mechanical speed, ignoring the pain tearing through his torso.
Ada regained her footing, feeling the dull thrumming of the explosion in the center of her skull. Before she could process the adrenaline, John had already reached into a hidden pocket of his suit. He pulled out a P-9 pistol magazine and pressed it into Ada's hand.
"This is yours," John said, his voice slightly muffled by auditory trauma, but completely firm.
Ada, without a word, nodded. The silent transaction was more eloquent than any apology or thanks. She retrieved her empty P-9 from the debris and, with the familiarity of constant practice, inserted the cartridge, hearing the satisfying click that put her back in the game.
John turned toward the smoking hole in the wall, a jagged gap where the rocket had detonated. Through the thick dust that still swirled, he saw the monumental silhouette of Nemesis. The monster was walking with quick, determined strides, its red eye fixed on the remains of the store, as the hydraulic mechanism on its shoulder emitted a clack-clack-clack sound while loading another missile into the rocket launcher.
"How does that monster have so many missiles?" John cursed aloud, a rare display of genuine frustration.
There was no time for ballistic analysis. The second projectile would mean the total collapse of the building. John headed toward the opening with quick strides, jumping over a pile of charred books. Ada followed closely.
They exited onto the main street. The night air was a soup of smoke and ash.
"Where are we going?" Ada asked, her weapon already ready.
"I have no idea," John replied, as his gaze quickly scanned the horizon for any cover or escape route that didn't end in a dead end. Then, his face darkened. "But first we have to deal with the pursuit so we can think."
They moved between overturned cars and bus carcasses, but their rapid movements drew attention. Ahead, a group of infected were finishing devouring the remains of a police car. Sensing the movement, the zombies lifted their putrefied heads, their white eyes turning in the darkness.
John swore under his breath. If they started shooting to clear the path of infected, the sound of the gunfire would attract Nemesis, who was already less than a hundred meters away. Facing the behemoth with a rocket launcher and a dozen undead at the same time would be their end. They were at a lethal crossroads.
It was Ada who broke the impasse, speaking with surprising calm, as if discussing a change of strategy in a poker game.
"I have a grappling gun. It can lift us, but I can't lift your weight with my ribs. You have to use it. I'll hold onto you. Rooftop of the building on the right. It's the only way to avoid the street."
John stopped just long enough for Ada to take the Grappling Gun from her trench coat and toss it to him. He caught it in the air. The tool felt light and strange in his hands, more a toy than a weapon, and for a moment, John, the master of all weaponry, looked like a novice holding a high-tech gadget.
"You aim the anchor at a fixed point on the rooftop, fire, and press the retraction button. Don't let go," Ada said quickly, positioning herself behind John, ready for the ascent.
John heard the final click in his mind. He drew his suppressed P30L and, without stopping his movement, fired a controlled burst. Pfft. Pfft. Pfft. Three silent shots took down the nearest infected who were approaching dangerously.
At that moment, the ground began to tremble with a familiar intensity. The heavy, methodical stumbling of Nemesis echoed down the street. It was no longer walking; it was jogging. It was approaching rapidly.
"Now, John. Quick!" Ada urged.
John aimed the hook at the edge of the nearest office building. It was a difficult shot, fast, and under duress. He pressed the trigger. The anchor shot out with a pressurized hiss, the high-strength cable unspooling behind it as the hook fixed itself with a satisfying sound of metal on stone.
Instantly, Ada launched herself onto John, wrapping her arms and legs around him, hugging him tightly with her face hidden in the wide back of his suit, a necessary position for her safety.
John pressed the retraction button. The Grappling Gun, powered by a potent motor, pulled them upward with violent force. The speed was blinding.
The ascent was abrupt and uncontrolled, a vertical jolt. John's little experience with the device was evident; he didn't regulate the retraction speed, and the cable shot them up with maximum force. They nearly crashed into the edge of the ten-story rooftop.
In that critical moment, Ada, her face tense with concentration, stretched out a hand and struck the side control dial of the gun in John's hand. The cable speed abruptly reduced, stopping their momentum just in time. She used the remaining impulse to swing slightly and push both of them onto the landing.
They landed on the rooftop with a dull thud, both gasping, adrenaline burning every fiber of their bodies.
Ada separated from John, completely frustrated.
"I am never giving you that gun again!" she snapped, straightening her dress.
John, catching his breath as he heard the furious roar and the impact of another missile detonating far below, smiled with dry sarcasm.
"And the explanation was very intuitive, considering I was fleeing a beast with a rocket launcher."
John immediately crouched, seeking cover behind the edge of the rooftop parapet, and Ada instinctively followed him.
"Tell me you have something that tells us where that... enforcer is," John whispered.
Ada slid her hand inside her trench coat and pulled out a small, compact hand mirror, with a polished mother-of-pearl back.
"What's mine, I always keep."
"A useful tool, I don't doubt it."
John took the mirror, sliding it barely over the edge of the building. The angle allowed him a clear view of the street below. He watched Nemesis burst into the space where they had been moments ago. The air around the monster seemed to vibrate with pure fury, the rocket launcher resting on its shoulder like punishment ready to be delivered.
"Ah, look who just showed up," John muttered, his mouth curving into a grim smile. "Mr. Missiles has come to say goodbye."
Ada let out a small laugh, a surprised, amused puff of air. It was momentary relief, a surreal pause in the midst of horror.
But John's smile froze. What happened next was a horror that surpassed Nemesis's standard brutality. The creature approached the group of infected John had taken down moments before.
From its body, specifically from its hands and mouth, a viscous mass of pale, thick tentacles shot out. The appendages plunged with surgical precision into the back of the zombies' skulls. Upon retracting, the head of each infected exploded, replaced by a pulsating tangle of dark red parasitic tentacles.
The new infected weren't the same. They moved with terrifying speed and brutal coordination, spreading through the area. John cursed, the sound rough and low.
"It's a plague control. It doesn't just use weapons, it also uses... soldiers," he murmured, his strategist mind processing the new, dangerous dimension of the threat: Nemesis was a commander, not just a brute.
As John watched, he felt a chill that had nothing to do with the cold night. Nemesis's gigantic head moved with spasmodic movements, like an optical scanner. And then, for an impossible microsecond, the monster's red gaze directed itself through the mirror's reflection, fixing directly on John.
John pulled the mirror back with animal quickness.
"It's impossible it saw me. How the hell is that possible?"
"I don't know, John," Ada replied, her voice tinged with disbelief, her hand already reaching for the grip of her P-9. "But I don't like it at all."
John carefully peered out with the mirror again. Nemesis was no longer moving. It was still, and its red fusion eye was looking directly at the rooftop, the rocket launcher already adjusting on its shoulder, the barrel elevating at a precise angle.
"It saw us," John confirmed softly, lowering the mirror, the cold, precise knowledge of their compromised position once again sinking in.
Ada was ready to run, but John didn't move. She stared at him, confused.
"What are you going to do?" she asked.
John watched the mirror for a moment longer. The image of Nemesis preparing to attack was not a death sentence, but an opportunity.
"Counterattack," he said simply. He unbuckled his belt, pulling out two fragmentation grenades, the last ones left in his emergency kit.
Ada immediately recognized the plan: the only way to neutralize the covering fire of a rocket launcher was to attack the shooter before he fired.
John rose in a fluid movement, boldly exposing himself. He looked directly at Nemesis, who already had its finger on the trigger. The rocket began to ignite in the barrel.
John didn't hesitate. With the speed and precision of a professional baseball pitcher, he launched the two grenades, one after the other, directly at the beast's position. Just as the grenades fell on the asphalt at Nemesis's feet, the monster fired.
John was already moving. He threw himself sideways, rolling behind a ventilation duct. The two missiles passed over the rooftop with a thunderous whistle, narrowly missing and veering into the sky.
Seconds later, two loud explosions resonated in the street, the sound of the grenades detonating at the monster's feet.
Ada watched the counterattack, the bold, suicidal maneuver. She was impressed. She would have chosen escape, but John chose confrontation as cover.
"We have to go. Now," John said, getting up quickly, without looking back, knowing that wouldn't stop it, only slow it down.
Ada followed him, her mind already in escape mode.
"How do you plan to proceed?" she asked as they ran.
John looked at a building about fifty meters away, across an abyss of dark rooftops.
"Does your gun reach that far?"
Ada frowned, remembering John's novice maneuver earlier.
"Yes, but..."
"Don't worry. I'll do it right this time," John said.
Ada, seeing the black smoke and fury rising from the street, nodded with resignation.
"Yes, it reaches. But John, regulate the cable speed, for God's sake. I don't want you hugging me that tight again."
John took the gun again, his eyes fixed on the anchor point. Ada repositioned herself, hugging him tightly. John pressed the hook, and this time, the ascent was controlled, the speed perfectly modulated. They glided across the void like a shadow.
Upon reaching the edge of the new building, Ada detached herself from him.
"Don't get used to that, John," she said playfully, as she straightened her scarlet dress.
John handed her the gun, ignoring the game. His gaze was fixed on the street, where Nemesis was already rising from the flames, its rocket launcher visibly damaged, but its dark form and its anger, intact.
John turned to look at Ada, his expression now serious, without a trace of the sarcasm from a moment ago. His eyes, deep and dark, were not looking for a temporary escape, but a final solution.
"We can't keep doing this," he declared, pointing his chin toward the smoke rising from the previous rooftop. "It's not about how fast we run. That thing knew exactly where we were before we moved, even through a reflection. It seems wired to track me. Every step we take isn't an escape; it's just a delay. There's going to be a point, probably in the next mile, where there will be no more rooftops, no more escapes, just a corner. And in that corner, Nemesis will be waiting for us with fresh ammunition."
Ada nodded, her face becoming a map of concentration. The lightness was gone.
"I agree. Running is no longer a strategy. And the tentacle thing... that thing isn't just a weapon; it's a platform for biological control. If it can reanimate the dead to help it, the numerical superiority will never be on our side."
She looked directly at John, the night wind blowing through her hair.
"We have to kill it here, now, or we'll never reach the Hive."
John narrowed his eyes. "And what's your plan, Ada? We wasted your only high-powered tool and my last two grenades on a distraction. Tell me what you've got."
Ada smiled again, but this time it was a predator's smile, cold and calculating. She took a step closer, lowering her voice.
"My first impression is this: Nemesis is designed for destruction, yes, but it seems to prioritize living targets over civilian infrastructure. If my hypothesis is correct, Nemesis's ultimate goal is not to cause a total collapse of the city, but to neutralize threats and protect something. Look how it used the rocket launcher on the bookstore to kill us, but it didn't attack vital buildings. Its AI, or whatever directs that thing, might be that of a selective hunter with strict rules."
She paused, ensuring John was processing every word.
"The rocket launcher is damaged, you saw it. Its only other offensive weapons we know of are its fists and those tentacles. But there is a bigger target than Nemesis in this city, something that could destroy it, or at least neutralize it permanently. Something Nemesis and Umbrella would want to keep intact."
"The Hive?" John said, understanding the concept.
"No, John. The Raccoon City Primary Energy Reactor," Ada pulled a small communicator from her belt. It was a GPS tracking device with a superimposed city map. "What most people don't know is that the Umbrella R&D Lab relies heavily on that very reactor. My theory, based on its size and complexity, is that Nemesis doesn't run only on an internal battery. Its weapon systems and massive locomotion likely require a constant, powerful supply or at least periodic high-power recharging. If we manage to violently cut or overload that main power source, we could, potentially, leave it completely immobilized. It's a risk, but it's the only shortcut."
John listened, his military mind already breaking down the plan.
"That's a bomb. Literally. How do we get to a reactor? And how do we 'cut' it?"
"We can't reach the reactor itself; it's underground and protected. But we can collapse the only above-ground supply line. We are three rooftops away from the Electronic Voltage Conversion Central," she pointed on the map. "It's a huge substation, an easy target, but too vital for Nemesis to destroy. My hypothesis is that its programming will force it to defend it if we try to attack it, because without power, the Umbrella lab and Nemesis itself are useless."
Ada looked at the hook John was handing back to her.
"The plan is simple: We will use the substation as bait and a weapon. You and I are going to that Central. We'll attack it with what little ammunition and explosives we have. Not to destroy it, but to force Nemesis to change its priority: from hunting us to protecting the power. And when it gets close to defend it, we'll use what you have."
John frowned. "What do I have? I have nothing."
Ada smiled again, wilder than before.
"You have the only cable we have left, John. You have my Grappling Gun, and now you know how to use it—for this trap, the hook won't be an escape tool, it will be the conductor. We're going to use that cable, and the 500,000-volt electricity, to give Mr. Missiles a high-voltage ending."
John stared at her, the determination in his face belying the question he asked.
"Will it work?"
"I can't think of anything else," Ada answered with complete honesty.
John nodded, the gesture minimal but decisive. In the absence of a better option, the riskiest one became the only one. They prepared to move toward the Electronic Central.
In that instant, Nemesis, whose silhouette was already rising from the smoke of the grenades in the street below, stopped. It had discarded the damaged missile launcher, and its hammer-like hands were held at its sides. Its red eyes, fixed on the rooftop, were ready for the pedestrian pursuit.
But just as Nemesis was about to advance, its gigantic head turned sharply. The bionic eye reoriented itself in another direction, toward the area of the collapsed bookstore.
John and Ada stopped, looking at each other with identical confusion.
"Why did it stop?" Ada asked in an incredulous whisper.
John followed the creature's gaze. In the distance, near the smoking remains of the library, a slender silhouette moved cautiously, dodging debris and fire. The way she moved, the angle of her head, the color of her clothes... John felt a cold punch of recognition in his chest.
Only one person in that hell combined tactical grace with the courage to face the Raccoon City night.
"Jill," John murmured, barely audible. The sudden change of Nemesis's target was explained. The monster was programmed not only to eliminate him but also S.T.A.R.S. agents.
John cursed under his breath, a rough sound. Jill couldn't know about the plan, and now she was an easy target. He couldn't just let the monster, even in its damaged state, focus on her.
He turned to Ada, his final decision non-negotiable.
"We have to go," John said, pointing his finger toward the direction where Nemesis was beginning to turn its body to head toward Jill.
Ada was genuinely surprised.
"Go? John, that monster just gave us a golden opportunity! It's gone somewhere else! We should take advantage of the distraction and run straight to the R.P.D.!"
John shook his head firmly, his face like a stone mask.
"The person it's pursuing is a friend. And she can be our advantage. If Jill is in the area, we can use her to flank, lure Nemesis to the substation, and have another chance. But I won't leave her at the mercy of Mr. Missiles without knowing what we plan."
Ada sighed, a long, guttural sound of tactical frustration. She looked at John's back, realizing the decision was already made; John Wick's loyalty had prevailed over the logic of her mission.
"Damn it," she muttered, nodding. "Alright. Let's go."
John moved with a renewed urgency. He headed to the edge of the building and quickly located the fire escape that ran down the exterior wall. He dropped down without thinking, using his hands and feet with astonishing speed, with Ada following closely.
As they descended, John checked his ammunition. He felt his P30L and his MP5, feeling the comforting weight of both. The shotgun Kendo had given him before leaving was gone; he didn't remember the exact moment he had lost it, perhaps when the Humvee rolled over. Now they were approaching the monster they had just fled from.
Ada observed John's descending figure. There was no fear in his movements, no dramatic bravery, only tremendous confidence, the certainty of a man who knows exactly what he's doing, even when heading toward an almost certain death.
It was a strange feeling that Ada, the woman of total self-sufficiency, hated: the sensation that, by following John, everything could turn out alright.