Raccoon City. 10:40 pm
The rocket launcher's explosion had broken Nemesis's unstoppable assault, replacing the metallic thunder of the Gatling with a deafening silence. Smoke and the smell of burnt cement filled the air, but there was no time to celebrate. Nemesis was a force of nature. It couldn't be stopped by a single impact.
"Get up!" the voice with the South American accent shouted again.
John, Jill, and Ada moved with a synchronization born of necessity and experience. As nearby infected, stunned by the noise, began to crawl again, the trio ran toward the adjacent building, looking for the fire escape the mysterious savior had used to climb to the roof.
Carlos Oliveira, the man in question, quickly descended the fire escape to a small second-story platform, near the entrance to a narrow, dark alley. He had brown, slightly messy hair, and his tan skin contrasted with the clean military uniform he wore. He was equipped with a Kevlar tactical vest, and his assault rifle was at the ready.
John Wick was the first to climb up, his movements fast, despite the persistent pain in his side. As he climbed out of the immediate danger on the ground, his eyes scanned the newcomer.
A single person. Rocket launcher. Military-grade body armor.
John's mind wasn't thinking about heroes. It was thinking about logistics. A rocket launcher wasn't a weapon found by chance. A civilian didn't use it. That level of armament and discipline was typical of a government special operations unit or a military rescue team. If the rocket launcher was the tip of the iceberg, it meant that a force with heavy artillery and massive resources—possibly the United States Army—was finally in the city. The training was obvious in the way he held the rifle, and his attire was that of a well-funded operative deployed for a high-risk mission.
Jill and Ada climbed up behind him. The group quickly regrouped under the cover of the platform, the alley behind them offering a line of defense and an escape route.
Carlos let his guard down, his expression changing from combat concentration to professional concern.
"Are you okay? Any serious damage?" Carlos asked, his voice deep and with the strong accent that revealed his origin.
Jill, still with a racing heart, took a deep breath and nodded.
"We're fine. The monster didn't..."
"We're perfectly fine," Ada cut in with dry grace, calmly smoothing a small wrinkle in her silk suit, which now had a new speck of dust. "It's just a bad habit of that creature."
Carlos blinked at the total composure of the woman dressed in scarlet silk and then smiled, a flash of teeth that was purely Latin, though ill-timed. His eyes lingered on Ada and then on Jill, his look of appreciation open and honest.
"Well, let me tell you, for being in the middle of an apocalypse, you both are a sight to behold. It's a pleasure to see such beauty in all this filth."
Jill rolled her eyes internally, the old police instinct to despise superficial flirting. Ada, however, merely smiled with that touch of cynical amusement.
Carlos straightened up, returning to professionalism.
"My name is Carlos Oliveira. I'm from an emergency assistance unit."
Jill was the first to introduce herself formally, her face a mask of military focus.
"Jill Valentine, S.T.A.R.S.," she said, offering a brief nod. "And thank you, really. You saved our lives."
"Ada Wong," Ada said, with an elegant and reserved tone, her smile not reaching her eyes.
It was John's turn. He hadn't moved, remaining in place with his pistol in hand. His eyes weren't fixed on Carlos's face, but on the upper part of his chest. Carlos's Kevlar vest had a darker cloth area where a patch or insignia had been sewn. It was torn, probably from some combat mishap, but the residue from the stitching and a small, barely discernible edge of fabric were enough.
Octagonal shape. Three curved lines, like the ribs of an umbrella. Worn, but unmistakable.
The Umbrella Corporation logo. It wasn't the whole logo, but the trace. The trace of a symbol he had seen too closely and, more recently, at the massacre in the other subway station.
"John," John said, his voice a low growl, offering no last name, his face unreadable.
Carlos didn't seem offended by the abruptness. He shouldered his rifle and gestured.
"Alright, John. Now, I need you to listen to me. There's a subway station a couple of blocks away that's still working as a rally point. We have dozens of civilians there. If we stay here, that monster is going to come back looking for revenge, and I don't have another rocket in my pocket, unfortunately. It's better if we go underground; you'll be safer. I'll take you."
Hearing the mention of the subway station, John Wick's internal alarms went off. The image of Umbrella agents executing civilians in cold blood at the West Raccoon Station flooded his mind with the clarity of broken glass. There was a reason Umbrella moved people to those underground "shelters." It wasn't to save them. It was to eliminate them.
John didn't move. His body turned to stone.
"Wait," John said. His voice wasn't loud, but it held a cold authority that forced Carlos to stop. John's blue gaze locked onto Carlos's eyes, searching for the truth.
John formulated the question with a calmness that belied the icy fury running through his veins.
"By any chance, do you work for Umbrella?"
Silence fell over the alley, thick and heavy.
Jill and Ada looked at John in disbelief. Jill was about to intervene, to ask why he would ask such a strange question, as it seemed impossible that this man worked for Umbrella.
Carlos, however, showed no panic. Instead, he smiled with an alarming tranquility, as if the question were an obvious joke.
"Man, I forgot to tell you!" Carlos slapped his forehead with a feigned guilty expression. "Yeah, I work for them. I'm part of Umbrella's Biohazard Countermeasure Service, the U.B.C.S. We're here, on the front lines, saving civilians. Believe me, Mr. John, it's a graveyard out here. Inside that station, there's a real chance. It's much better to continue assessing the situation down there."
Before Carlos could turn or John could fully process the confirmation, John's hand moved.
The metallic click-clack of his P30L being cocked was the only warning. In an instant, the barrel of his pistol was pointing directly at Carlos's head.
Jill didn't hesitate. Her instinct, forged by the trauma and betrayal of the Spencer Mansion, reacted instantly. Her Beretta 92FS rose just as quickly, aiming at Carlos's chest.
Ada, for her part, did not draw her weapon. She simply observed, her face a mixture of caution and fascination, as if waiting for the explosion.
The smile vanished from Carlos Oliveira's face. His eyes widened in surprise, and then an expression of absolute disgust replaced his professionalism.
"Hey. I just saved you from that monster," Carlos said, his tone no longer joking, but defensive and incredulous. "What the hell is wrong with you?!"
Just before Carlos could try anything, his shoulder radio crackled, interrupting the tense confrontation.
"Alpha-Six, do you copy? Report your position and status. Are you securing the route to the Power Station?"
The volume of the metallic, anonymous voice filled the silence. Carlos grimaced, his hand instinctively moving toward the transmitter, but the movement stopped short.
John, with his P30L still and cold, gave him no time.
"You're going to say everything is fine, and you're heading back," John said, his voice a cold whisper, more lethal than a shout. His icy eyes promised punishment. "If you say anything else, I'll kill you right here and now."
The pressure on the trigger was palpable. Carlos Oliveira looked at the barrel of the pistol, then at John's eyes, and for the first time, saw the truth behind the suit: this wasn't a game; it was a judgment.
Ada and Jill watched the scene, holding their breath, the fate of the truce, and possibly Carlos's, hanging by a thread. Carlos nodded slowly, a small professional surrender.
He raised the radio to his mouth, John's barrel aimed at his head.
"This is Alpha-Six," Carlos said, keeping his voice surprisingly calm, almost bored. "Mission in progress. Route secured. The... traffic is heavy, but I'm heading back to the subway station. Over and out."
The click of the finished transmission echoed in the alley. The relief was tenuous, but the danger remained imminent.
John didn't lower the pistol. His face was still a stony mask.
"Why were you going to the Power Station?" John demanded, ignoring the radio transmission.
Carlos, feeling the pistol still aimed at his head, took a moment to answer, his confusion evident.
"We need the electricity. The subway station is a shelter, but my squad leader wants us to move the civilians to the Clock Tower. Apparently, an evacuation helicopter is arriving in that area. If we can restore power, we can open the subway's security doors and take them..."
"STOP LYING!"
The shout was guttural, a roar of rage that broke John's icy calm. It was a sound so rare, so out of character, that it made Jill jump and visibly tensed Ada.
"I saw your agents at the other station!" John shouted, his voice hoarse with emotion. "They got to the West Raccoon Station and started killing all the civilians! Regardless of age, sex, or if they were injured! They executed them in cold blood! Everyone would have died if I hadn't been there!"
Jill froze completely, shock running through her body. She didn't know about this. She had seen Umbrella's betrayal, but the idea of an organized massacre in a "shelter" made her tremble. Her rage toward the Umbrella Corporation, already simmering, rose to volcanic levels.
Carlos, however, multidisciplinar, his face pale beneath his tan.
"Kill civilians? I... sir, I don't know what you're talking about. I just got this job a few months ago. I just follow orders. Everything we've done since I arrived in Raccoon has been to help people and kill several of those infected monsters. I never heard anything about executing civilians."
Ada intervened, her tone inquisitive and sharp, cutting through John's fury.
"So you're a mercenary they hired at the last minute? Is your team like that?"
Carlos nodded quickly, looking for common ground.
"That's right. We're U.B.C.S., a hired containment and rescue team."
John was still aiming. The doubt on Carlos's face wasn't enough for the man who had witnessed the carnage.
Ada, with a quick, subtle movement, approached John and lightly touched his shoulder. She leaned in and whispered in his ear, in a low tone that only he could hear:
"Lower the weapon. He's not lying about being a mercenary. It's likely Umbrella is using these soldiers as cannon fodder for some twisted plan, to observe how they die, or to delay containment while they move their real objective. It's not him."
The logic of the espionage shadow was always more convincing than honesty. John absorbed the whisper and the cold logic behind it. Slowly, the P30L was lowered, though never released from his grip. His blue eyes, however, did not leave Carlos's face.
"Tell me who hired you and who gives you the orders in Raccoon," John ordered.
Carlos, relieved, took a deep breath.
"I was hired by and answer to Squad Leader Nicholai. He's the one directing the rescue operations."
John nodded, committing the name to memory so he could interrogate that man personally.
"Lead the way," John said, holstering the pistol under his suit. "Don't tell your team you have company."
Carlos nodded immediately. He turned and began to move, maintaining a cautious distance.
Ada glanced at John and couldn't help but approach again, her voice tinged with a fascinating sarcasm.
"We shouldn't waste time with this, John. We need to go to the R.P.D.," Ada whispered to him.
John looked at her. His eyes held only a cold determination.
"That monster hunting us isn't dead yet. If we go to the R.P.D. now, it will be an ambush. I have to go to that subway station to investigate this matter. And if possible, save those civilians from a death at the hands of the soldiers themselves."
Jill, who had observed the intimate and tense interaction, approached, interrupting the whisper and forcing Ada to be silent.
"John, is it right to head toward that station? It's likely a trap," Jill asked, her voice serious, her fury controlled by concern.
"It's worth finding out who is behind those deaths I witnessed at that other station," John replied calmly.
The three followed Carlos in silence. They moved quickly through the alley toward the vicinity of the subway station. The air was still charged with the threat of Nemesis, but now, the real enemy felt much closer, and he was wearing a clean uniform.
They reached the station entrance, a brick and glass structure that had been fortified with makeshift barricades. The station was a reflection of organized desperation. Carlos stopped in front of a metal door that had been welded in one of the entrances, the only visible access point that wasn't sealed.
"Here we are," he murmured, and knocked on the door three times in a secret code, a precise and monotonous rhythm that echoed in the concrete silence.
A moment later, a small peephole slid open from the inside with a harsh metallic scrape. The eye of a man in a U.B.C.S. uniform, with a grim and exhausted expression, examined them. It was Tyrell Patrick, a communications and support operative, whose serious face reflected the stress of the siege and the chronic distrust of war.
Tyrell grimaced upon seeing the three people accompanying Carlos. His hand instinctively moved toward the rifle slung across his chest. He opened the door, the movement slow and cautious.
"Carlos! What the hell? I thought you went to the Power Station," Tyrell snapped, looking at the strangers with palpable suspicion. "Who are they? You didn't have time to report you had guests."
Carlos, entering with the naturalness of someone just returning from a walk, though tense, shrugged with a carelessness that didn't fool John.
"I ran into these survivors on the way, Tyrell. They were in the middle of a firefight with the big monster. I didn't have time to call it in, only to bring them to safety. It's a miracle they're alive."
Tyrell, who knew Carlos's tendency for improvisation and skipping protocols out of compassion, sighed with false annoyance, shaking his head.
"You need to be a little more technical about the communication rules, Carlos. The Captain is going to have something to say about this. But well, welcome back." He then addressed the group, his expression returning to professional, though forced. "I'm Tyrell Patrick. Welcome to the temporary shelter. Please, follow Carlos."
As the four entered the subway station, Tyrell observed John. The communications mercenary tried to decipher the presence of the impassive man, dressed in a tailored suit that seemed to ignore the filth of Raccoon City.
Where do I know that face? Tyrell thought, a faint shiver running down his spine. John Wick's face looked extremely familiar, but he was sure this was the first time he had seen him in person. The austere elegance of the expensive suit, the predatory calm in his eyes; everything screamed danger, a type of danger that far surpassed the monsters of the city.
The group descended the fixed stairs. The underground station was large and relatively well-lit by emergency spotlights powered by portable generators, creating an oasis of peace compared to the hell on the surface. The air, however, was heavy with the smell of diesel, sweat, and the undisguised fear of the civilians.
The scene unfolding on the platform was this: there were more than a dozen civilians huddled next to the cars of a parked train, all with pale, distressed faces, some trembling from shock or slightly injured, but strangely, they were safe under Umbrella's protection. John was not reassured by the visible safety of the people.
His eyes, instead, scanned the U.B.C.S. team. There were approximately seven more squad members, all armed with assault rifles and in key defensive positions: watching the dark tunnels and the exits.
He could also notice a large artillery cache; boxes of ammunition piled with grenades, heavy weapons, and spare rocket launchers were stacked neatly in a corner of the station, suggesting a prolonged combat operation, or perhaps, a fortification for a planned assault.
Just as John, Ada, and Jill were observing the camp, a burly man with a limp approached slowly, clutching his side near his ribs. It was Mikhail Victor, the U.B.C.S. squad Captain, a man of imposing physique despite his injury to his abdomen.
He approached Carlos, his face showing pain and frustration.
"Carlos, what's the situation up there? Did you make it to the Power Station?"
Carlos responded quickly, his eyes seeking John's eye contact for him to realize he hadn't lied about saving civilians.
"I couldn't make it, Captain. I ran into that terribly strong monster, the same one that did this to you." Carlos pointed to Mikhail's wound with a nod, conveniently omitting the detail of the rocket launcher. "On the way back, I found these survivors. They say they have information."
Mikhail looked at John, Jill, and Ada. Despite his pain, his presence was imposing and military, his uniform impeccable and his posture disciplined.
"I am Mikhail Victor, Captain of this civilian rescue operation. It's a miracle you've made it here."
John, still incredulous about the "rescue" mission, frowned slightly and nodded, without saying a word. Ada and Jill introduced themselves.
"Jill Valentine," Jill said.
"Ada Wong," Ada added.
Mikhail paused upon hearing Jill's name, a glint of recognition in his exhausted eyes.
"Jill Valentine... The S.T.A.R.S. officer?" he asked, with a nuance of genuine surprise.
Jill nodded, confirming. Ada gave Jill an amused look at her side, remembering the words she had whispered earlier: "You're more famous in Raccoon City than you think." The irony of being recognized by an operative of the corporation she had exposed felt heavy in the air.
Then Mikhail observed John, who was the only one who hadn't introduced himself, staring at him as if waiting for him to speak.
John, aware of the positions of the other Umbrella mercenaries, spoke quickly.
"Just John," John said quietly, while glancing around the station.
Before Mikhail could say anything, he was interrupted by Carlos, who approached Mikhail again. He looked around the station, noticing the absence of a key figure.
"Captain, where is Nicholai? I'm surprised the squad leader isn't overseeing such a vital rally point."
Mikhail straightened up, forcing a calm that was difficult due to the rib injury.
"Nicholai went to the surface a few hours ago. He took Murphy, Brad, Petrov, and a specialist, Misha. He wanted to take advantage of the calm to look for more survivors in the commercial district and explore the general situation. He won't be long. Don't worry."
Carlos nodded. At the same time, he glanced at John, Jill, and Ada, catching the attention of all three. He approached them, lowering his voice to a professional whisper.
"Okay, the situation is this. The Power Station is out, and the train won't move without it. Captain Mikhail is injured, and we can't move with so many civilians on foot. If we don't get the power back, we'll soon be under unsustainable pressure."
John listened to every word intently, observing the sincerity on Carlos's face, a sincerity that clashed violently with the massacre he himself had witnessed. The contradiction was a slow poison in his mind.
Why would Umbrella have one team killing civilians at one point and another trying to save them a few miles away? The question was a tactical enigma for John.
The only logical answer was that there was no contradiction. Both teams were fulfilling separate objectives within a larger plan of containment and elimination; Mikhail's team was the rescue facade and the bait, while the team at the other station was the hammer cleaning up the evidence.
John remained alert, his distrust of the Corporation an unbreakable wall.
Ada, on the other hand, sat quietly on one of the metal benches on the platform, her elegance contrasting with the civilians' despair. She allowed herself a brief moment of respite, observing the chaos with cold calm.
Finally, a moment of pause, Ada thought, letting the constant tension of the last few hours dissipate slightly. The constant stalking and maximum alert imposed by Nemesis had been exhausting. That monster is a relentless machine. I wonder if John realizes how much I hate it.
Then, her thoughts drifted to the previous interaction with John. The memory of having John's gun pointed at her, and then her almost killing him earlier.
The excuse that John had taken her ammunition was a convenient lie; she always had more than one way to kill, even unarmed. She hadn't done it. And watching John walk, she observed the precision and danger he emanated.
She couldn't help but think of all those stories she had heard in China and in the High Table's intelligence circles, about John's missions, how he had orchestrated massacres single-handedly, leaving a trail of surgical destruction behind him.
When she had the chance to kill him and claim the twenty-million-dollar bounty, she couldn't. It wasn't fear, but a strange mixture of professional caution and a degree of admiration she had never felt for anyone, much less for a man. Ada shook her head; such thoughts were a luxury she couldn't afford. The target was still the virus.
It was like meeting someone famous for doing something extremely well, something almost impossible that few people can do. Although Ada didn't want to admit it, she's a bit of a fan.
As Ada immersed herself in her reflections, she watched John and Jill approach the pile of boxes containing the U.B.C.S. arsenal.
It was an impressive display of firepower. John and Jill were reloading their weapons, taking the opportunity.
John, even in that moment of resupply, kept his gaze fixed on the other members of the rescue team, evaluating their postures, their movement routes, and their blind spots. It was as if he was on alert at all times for any surprise attack.
Ada approached the two, with fluid and silent movements. Without a word, she took a few 9mm rounds for her pistol and .45 rounds for her submachine gun, placing them in the magazines strapped to a hidden belt under her dress.
This movement, briefly revealing the curve of her leg and the weapons belt, did not go unnoticed by some of the U.B.C.S. soldiers, who couldn't help but stare in astonishment before returning to their forced professionalism.
Jill, seeing Ada's naturalness in resupplying with weapons of war, couldn't help but sigh as she grabbed a grenade launcher that was on the site, assuming they would need it for the inevitable reunion with that monster.
John, besides taking enough ammunition for his P30L, took a Benelli M4 Super 90—a 12-gauge tactical shotgun—the perfect weapon for confined spaces and resilient monsters. While doing this, he also took several shells of anti-riot and buckshot ammunition.
The three leaned over the boxes, whispering amidst the background noise of the generators and the murmuring of the civilians.
"Listen carefully," John whispered in a low, rough voice. "Be alert to any movement. I don't trust these soldiers, despite Carlos's act. And this Nicholai the Captain mentioned... he was the one who hired them and now he's gone. It's likely he knows the true motive of this suspicious rescue operation. He is our real target."
Ada and Jill nodded, understanding John's deduction. The "rescue" was the cover; the truth lay hidden in Nicholai's plans and orders. They were in the lion's den, and now they had to wait for the pack leader to return.
Jill, reloading the cylinder of her newly acquired grenade launcher with an explosive round, looked at John with a grave expression. Her gaze swept over the small group of civilians huddled against the train cars, their faces uncertainly illuminated by the emergency lights.
"John, have you thought about the real risk of being down here?" Jill asked, keeping her voice low and even, but with a palpable urgency. "That monster... You know. He's relentless. He's already tracked us across half the city. If the rocket launcher blast wasn't enough to stop him, and he finds the entrance to this station..."
She paused, looking toward the dark subway tunnels, the true threat of their underground location.
"This place is a funnel, John. If that monster gets in, there's no escape for all these civilians. We could be putting all these people in danger by staying here."
John Wick finished securing the bolt of the Benelli M4 with a dry metallic sound, a noise that contrasted with the gentle concern in Jill's voice. His cold eyes did not move from the shotgun as he replied, without altering the tone of his whisper.
"Exactly," John confirmed. He slung the shotgun on its strap. Then he looked up at Jill, his blue eyes like ice floes. "And if it's not the monster, it will be Nicholai's team cleaning out the shelter. Here, at least, there is a known number of people and choke points. If the monster comes, we'll fight on our ground. If Nicholai returns with the truth, he won't be able to escape."
Ada, who had been listening in silence, intervened with her usual pragmatism.
"Miss Valentine is right in her risk analysis. That monster is the element that collapses any contingency plan. We just need a quick evacuation plan in case things get... explosive."
John nodded, his gaze having already analyzed the train track and the evacuation tunnel. The risk was immense, but the benefit of getting crucial information from Nicholai, or forcing a confrontation in a confined space, outweighed the need to escape for now. The station was a trap, yes, but a trap they could control.
At that precise moment, Carlos Oliveira approached the three, leaning in slightly so only they could hear him over the murmur of the civilians. He addressed John directly, his face, now without the flirtatious smile, was one of professional seriousness.
"Mr. John. Look at my captain, at Mikhail, look at these civilians. I swear my goal is to get them out of here. I'm not lying about the rescue mission," Carlos said in a low tone, seeking validation after the confrontation in the alley. "Have you realized I wasn't lying about rescuing the civilians?"
John, who was about to reply with his characteristic, laconic disdain, was interrupted.
A heartbreaking scream, full of horror and resentment, cut through the tense silence of the station.
"KILLER! YOU! YOU ARE THE CHILDREN'S KILLER!"
All heads turned. The scream came from a young woman, her face covered in soot and tears, who was huddled with her family. Her trembling finger, pointing like a poisoned arrow, was aimed directly at the center of John Wick's forehead.
The atmosphere in the station froze.
The murmuring of the civilians didn't cease, but transformed into a buzz of whispers, a chorus of panic that rose above the generator noise.
"It's him, the one from the posters!"
"The man who killed the school kids!"
"It's unforgivable!"
Everyone's eyes settled on John Wick, no longer with curiosity or fear of his presence, but with a much deeper, personal fear. The man in the pristine suit was a familiar specter of local horror.
The U.B.C.S. soldiers looked at each other in confusion. Their reports focused on biological containment; Raccoon City's local propaganda didn't concern them.
Carlos, standing shoulder to shoulder with John, looked at him with utter disbelief.
"What the hell does this mean, John?" Carlos's voice was a guttural whisper. "Are these people telling the truth?"
John showed no guilt, but a contained fury at the monumental injustice. There was no time to defend himself. The truth was irrelevant against the mass hysteria.
"It's propaganda, Carlos. From the same people who hired you," John hissed.
Jill Valentine, remembering the manipulated arrest warrant, briefly intervened.
"Calm down! This man is not the killer! He was framed unfairly!"
Ada Wong reacted instantly. She approached Jill and touched her shoulder with a light touch, whispering with cold pragmatism in Jill's ear.
"It's useless, Jill. When people fervently believe something, they cling to their belief. It doesn't matter if it's true or not."
But her voice was small against the rising wave of hysteria. Fear had transformed into vengeful rage. Several civilians rose from their seats.
"KILL HIM!" a man shouted, his face contorted with hatred. "Kill the monster before he kills us all!"
The tension turned into an electric charge. The U.B.C.S. mercenaries, already at their limit, began to grip their rifles. Captain Mikhail Victor, though injured, raised his radio.
"Soldiers, contain the civilians! And secure the man in the suit! It looks like we have a dangerous fugitive!" Mikhail ordered, his voice strained with pain.
John Wick was exposed. His body became a loaded spring, his hand moved to draw the P30L, preparing for the inevitable bloodbath. He knew he couldn't take down eight armed mercenaries without killing several, and the collateral damage would be catastrophic for the civilians.
The situation was critical, a second away from erupting into a conflict where John would be forced to act with a brutality he preferred to reserve for monsters.
Just then, a new voice, cold as steel, echoed from the station stairs.
"What is going on here, Captain?"
Everyone turned their heads. The spotlight of an emergency lamp illuminated a man descending the stairs with an almost insulting calm. It was Nicholai Ginovaef, the U.B.C.S. Squad Leader. He was alone, with his uniform impeccable and a slight limp, indicating a recent confrontation, and the absence of his comrades was a bad omen.
Mikhail felt a pang of relief, an instantaneous transfer of responsibility.
"Squad Leader Nicholai! We have a situation here," Mikhail said aloud for the soldiers to hear. "We've apprehended a dangerous fugitive! The civilians accuse him of the school massacre!"
Nicholai smiled. It was a cold, peculiar smile that never reached his eyes, an expression of professional superiority. He paused midway down the platform and examined the scene.
First, his eyes fell on Jill Valentine, the famous S.T.A.R.S. officer, his face a mix of recognition and contempt. Then, he focused on John Wick. Nicholai's expression suddenly became more intense, more covetous. He knew what the man represented: sensitive information, a high-value prize, and an immense problem. Finally, he briefly looked at Ada, but paid no further attention to her, as if she were merely a luxury accessory for the man in the suit.
Nicholai's mind, the Umbrella Monitor, made a quick, cold calculation. There were juicy bounties on John Wick and Jill Valentine. But that wasn't lucrative enough. The real value lay in the experimental battle data that John, the most dangerous man in the world, could generate when facing Nemesis.
A very lucrative plan crossed his mind: if he could get the group to face the monster, the experimental data would be invaluable, and he could kill them when they were weak. Two birds with one stone, and the report to Umbrella would be glorious. This imminent confrontation, with the mercenaries attacking John, was not in his interest at all, as a shootout in a confined space would ruin the chance to get the Nemesis data and endanger the valuable specimens.
With a voice that cut the air like ice, Nicholai looked at all the soldiers aiming and gave an order that baffled both his men and the civilians.
"Lower your weapons."
The soldiers were a bit hesitant; the civilians' fanaticism was contagious. One of the mercenaries began to protest, his voice tinged with hysteria.
"Leader, but it looks like this guy..."
Before that soldier could continue speaking, Nicholai approached with terrifying speed and delivered a devastating punch to his face, knocking him to the floor. The sound of the impact resonated on the concrete.
"I SAID LOWER YOUR WEAPONS!" Nicholai shouted, a tone of absolute threat in his voice.
All the U.B.C.S. soldiers, frightened by their leader's violent display of authority, instantly obeyed.
The civilians, however, were still in their frenzy; their screams about the "child killer" did not cease. Nicholai, visibly tired of the rabble ruining his plan, drew his weapon. John, who had been observing everything with a predatory calm, went on high alert.
But it wasn't an attack. Instead, he aimed at the concrete ceiling and fired a controlled burst. The roar of the rifle in the confined space was deafening, the echo bouncing off the walls.
The effect was immediate. The burst completely silenced any chatter from the civilians. The fear of the weapon was stronger than their hatred. The subway station platform was plunged into a tense silence, broken only by the generator's hum.
Nicholai turned toward John, Jill, and Ada. His smile returned, bigger and colder than ever, full of a promise of calculated pain.
"Welcome to the shelter. Captain Mikhail and I have a lot to discuss with you... especially about your true motives for being here, Mr. Wick and Ms. Valentine."
The atmosphere on the platform shifted from chaotic tension to icy authority. John frowned. Mr. Wick. Not "the fugitive" or "the guy in the suit," but his last name. That could only mean one thing: this man wasn't a simple mercenary; he was someone intimately connected to Umbrella's intelligence. John's alarms, which rarely failed, sounded with a silent fury.
Jill, seeing John's reaction and hearing Nicholai's condescending tone, also perceived the danger. John and Jill advanced toward Nicholai and Mikhail, intending to temporarily submit to their authority to avoid a bloodbath.
Ada, however, stayed behind. The tense silence and the hostile glances cast at John (even by the mercenaries, affected by the civilians' hysteria) were exasperating. She headed for the first empty bench and sat down, crossing her legs with exasperated grace.
What I do for a few million, she thought, watching the misery of Raccoon City unfold. Right now, I wish I was in my apartment watching those stupid, useless shows.
John, Jill, Nicholai, and Captain Mikhail headed to a subway car that was set apart on the dead track, used as an improvised command room. The confined space immediately intensified the tension. Nicholai sat in the only fixed seat, while Mikhail stood, leaning painfully on the stock of his rifle. John and Jill remained in front of them, like high-value hostages.
Nicholai, with his impeccable military posture, began, maintaining the façade of the professional and superior soldier.
"Captain, first, congratulations on securing the station. Second, be reasonable. We are the only hope of evacuation for these civilians. Any... incident here will only harm the people."
Mikhail let out a harsh laugh, full of contempt and pain, and addressed John, ignoring the formality of his Squad Leader.
"Reasonable? This animal? I just heard those civilians. Child killer. What kind of scum comes into a hell like this when they're wanted for that?" Mikhail spat out the word, attempting a confrontation. His injury was less painful than the idea of sharing oxygen with someone so vile. "If I weren't injured, I guarantee you'd already be tied up, trash."
John looked at him without blinking. His voice was a silent thunder that cut through the hostility with brutal precision.
"If you were tied up, Captain, it wouldn't be by you."
The retort was doubly hurtful: a direct attack on Mikhail's authority and an immediate reference to his injury having disabled him. Nicholai smiled slightly, a fleeting expression that only John could notice: the Monitor enjoyed his subordinate's weakness.
John, ignoring Mikhail, fixed his eyes on Nicholai, the real threat.
"You know our last names. A man on a rescue mission wouldn't know that. You know too much about Umbrella, Squad Leader."
John took a step forward, his voice becoming lower and more dangerous, a surgical insinuation.
"If you were here to fight, you'd be dirty like me. But your uniform is impeccable. What kind of 'soldier' manages to stay so clean in this city... unless you're just here to 'observe'?"
Nicholai remained silent for an uncomfortable instant, his professional smile wavering, but he instantly recovered, the mask of ice returning to its place.
John, however, remained impassive. Nicholai's mask had slipped. The "Monitor" had been exposed. The game had just begun.
Nicholai's face tightened with a genuine anger he did not try to hide, but he quickly covered it with false indignation. He tilted his head toward John, his tone now deliberately condescending, playing the role of the exasperated savior.
"I don't know what's wrong with you, Mr. Wick. Perhaps you're confused by lack of sleep and adrenaline. You should be... grateful," he pronounced the word with an exaggerated and annoyed emphasis. "Don't you remember? I was the one who prevented my men, not to mention those poor, hysterical civilians, from blowing your head off just now."
Nicholai leaned on the armrest, his voice irritatingly softened.
"My only concern, Mr. Wick, is those poor people. They are terrified, right? They need to get out of this city. And for that, we need electricity at the station. We just want to restore power so we can fulfill our noble mission. Isn't that also your motivation? To leave? If you cooperate, we can all go home. It's simple."
Nicholai opened his hands, offering an image of false cooperation. Before he could continue his calculated monologue, John cut him off. It was an act of abrupt interruption full of contempt, as if Nicholai's words were nothing more than insignificant noise.
John turned, his icy gaze piercing directly to Captain Mikhail Victor, who was still leaning on his rifle. John's voice, devoid of all emotion, resonated in the car, turning the focus back to the real threat.
"Captain Mikhail. In all sincerity, tell me: Of the times Nicholai has left with a group of soldiers from your team..." John paused meaningfully, "...has he ever returned accompanied?"
Mikhail froze. The question, so direct and surgical, took him by surprise. His already pained eyes widened slightly. It took him too long to process the implication, then his mouth opened to answer, but only produced a heavy, revealing silence. The implication—that Nicholai left with a team and returned alone to report their deaths and collect the reward—hung in the air like a sentence.
Nicholai jumped up suddenly, the chair scraping the metal floor with a screeching noise. His face was completely red, rage boiling over at having been exposed so openly, not only to John and Jill, but to his own Captain.
The sudden, violent movement by Nicholai in the car caused the soldiers outside, who had been tense and alert, to peer in, their faces worried by the noise.
"Shut up, you scum!" Nicholai yelled, pointing a finger at John, his voice now purely authoritarian and full of venom. "You are a fugitive! Do you dare to question the loyalty and honor of a U.B.C.S. Squad Leader, a man who risks his life for these useless civilians? I return alone because I have superior training. Umbrella's highest level. My comrades... they perish because they are no match for this plague!"
Mikhail, however, was no longer looking at John. Slowly, he moved his gaze from Nicholai's red face to the rifle he was holding. Doubt, cold and terrible, had been planted in the Captain's mind: Nicholai always returned. He always survived.
On the Station Platform
While the confrontation inside the car escalated in intensity, Ada Wong remained seated on a bench, a solitary figure in red silk amidst the chaos. Her attention never strayed from the perimeter. Although the car blocked the direct view of the occupants, the sound of the screeching chair and Nicholai's authoritarian shout resonated.
Ada noticed the mercenaries' immediate response. The U.B.C.S. soldiers patrolling the platform stopped, and their postures shifted from relaxed guard to tense alert, turning their bodies and rifles toward the car. It was an instinctive reaction to an internal conflict in the chain of command.
With the calm of someone observing a lab experiment, Ada followed the mercenaries' nervousness, looking for the variable that didn't fit. And she found it.
Near the mouth of the tunnel, behind a stack of emergency ration boxes, was a dark-skinned, thin soldier. Unlike the rest, who wore loose uniforms and sweat-covered faces, this man wore unusually thick reading glasses over his nose and his uniform seemed too clean for the hell around them.
He wasn't aiming, nor patrolling, nor even watching the civilians.
With a methodical movement, he pulled a small armored laptop from a side pocket and, without taking his eyes off the command car entrance, began to type. He was taking notes with a calmness that bordered on insolence, as if he were taking notes from a lecture. His eyes behind the glasses blinked with a controlled incredulity at the scene, but his hand didn't tremble.
Ada Wong watched him with a pang of professional recognition. That soldier was an anomaly. His calm, his immaculate uniform, his high-tech equipment that contrasted with the assault rifles of the others, all pointed to him not being a combatant. He wasn't worried about zombies or defending the shelter; he was only interested in what was happening inside that car.
For Ada, the spy, the presence of this man was a sign that Umbrella's game was much more complex than it seemed, and that there was another silent player in the station.
The tension in the command car couldn't rise any higher, but fate, or Umbrella's genetic engineering, intervened.
A sound echoed in the darkness of the subway tunnel, a heavy, metallic noise that made the platform vibrate under their feet. CLANK. CLANK. CLANK.
A gigantic mass materialized. Nemesis, his armor partially shattered and no trace of his Gatling or flamethrower (both destroyed by Carlos's rocket), was now a purely biological killing machine.
"STARSS!" the monster roared, his voice distorted and hoarse.
Fear gave no time for screams. Nemesis lunged. The first mercenary was caught by a hand the size of a riot shield. The creature closed its fist, and the man exploded in a cloud of red viscera and crushed bones, his blood splattering the ceiling and the platform.
The civilians' panic erupted into a deafening chaos.
In the command car, Nicholai saw his golden opportunity.
Nicholai drew his pistol with the speed of a cobra. BLAM. BLAM. BLAM. Three dry, precise shots shattered the car's side window.
John Wick, whose P30L was already in his hand, reacted instantly.
Nicholai lunged through the jagged hole of the window and fell to the side of the subway tracks. The steel door at the station entrance, where the civilians had fled, began to descend with a metallic roar. Immediate lockdown. Nicholai had activated the protocol.
PFUT!
John's suppressor muffled the roar of the shot, but it was enough. The 9mm bullet hit Nicholai's arm. The Monitor hissed in pain, but was already running, limping slightly and holding his injured arm toward the control room.
John and Jill exited the car.
"The bastard locked us in!" Jill hissed, seeing the steel portal descending.
"It doesn't matter. Nicholai isn't the problem now. The threat is out there," John growled, pointing his chin at the massive figure of Nemesis, who was already massacring the remaining mercenaries.
Carlos had just arrived at the platform from the stairs and joined the group, his assault rifle already spitting bullets.
"It's useless! Not even the armor stops him!" Carlos shouted, his voice barely audible over the din of the shots.
The platform was already a slaughterhouse.
Nemesis had grabbed two civilians with a single tentacle, lifting them above the crowd. The monster tensed the muscle of the appendage. The sound of bones crunching resonated in the station.
John observed the carnage. A wave of self-destructive rage, mixed with a sharp pang of guilt, hit his stomach. The image of Jill arguing with him, insisting on retreating, echoed in his mind: "This place is a funnel, John. If Nemesis gets in, there's no escape for all those civilians. We could be putting all these people in danger by staying here."
The rage and guilt settled on John's face like a grimace of pain. This massacre was the price of his stubbornness.
He saw Nemesis turn toward a huddled family, a group of four people about to be erased from existence. John Wick couldn't stand it.
Without a word, he separated from the firing group, leaving Jill and Carlos behind. John ran toward a fallen soldier and grabbed the M4 tactical shotgun he had taken earlier, whose power was the only thing that could divert the monster's attention. He turned toward the creature.
His height contrasted with the imposing figure of Nemesis. His face was a mask of relentless fury.
"OVER HERE! COME FOR ME, YOU DAMN MONSTER!" John Wick shouted with all the strength he could muster, an expression of rage, pain, and defiance.
As he yelled, he pumped the M4 and fired three shots with high-caliber buckshot, aiming at Nemesis's chest.
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
The shotgun's most powerful rounds, though they did no permanent damage, managed to stop Nemesis's action, forcing him to turn his gigantic head.
The monster, leaving the family for a moment, focused all its attention on John, the man who had approached dangerously.
Jill screamed: "John, no! He's too fast!"
Jill and Carlos opened fire, their rifles firing bursts at the monster's exposed areas, but it was useless.
John loaded the shotgun and ran, entering the creature's close-combat bubble.
Nemesis roared and launched a brutal punch, a blow that could have demolished a car. John lunged to the side, the wind of the blow passing inches from his ear. He narrowly dodged.
John, using Nemesis's momentum, turned and emptied the rest of the M4 magazine into the creature's exposed head, just above the neck. BOOM! BOOM!
The impact caused Nemesis's head to tilt violently, but he didn't stop. The main tentacle, thick as a man's torso, shot out from the monster's shoulder toward John.
John, already injured and with a spreading bloodstain on his side right near his ribs, gritted his teeth. He used the empty shotgun to slightly deflect the tentacle; the impact sent him to his knees.
In the Shadows
Ada Wong had moved to the nearest column. She had seen the analyst escape and Nicholai seal the station, the steel door resonating in the distance, condemning everyone.
For her, that wasn't her problem; the remaining mercenaries and the civilians were acceptable sacrifices for the objective. She limited herself to observing, waiting for Nemesis to clear the board.
But then she saw John.
She saw the rage, the guilt, the scream that came from the depths of a man who rarely showed emotion. She saw John launch himself into close combat, his small stature contrasting with the immensity of the monster. The art of movement, the precision of the dodges inches from death, and the way he fought, bleeding and with gritted teeth, ignited something Ada hadn't felt in years. The rhythm of his movements, even injured, was a dance of brutal efficiency, and the adrenaline it generated, seen up close, was contagious.
A strange pang ran through her stomach, and she felt her heart accelerate, not from fear, but from the forced admiration of witnessing a predator in action.
A part of her wanted to let Nemesis do the work and claim the 20 million.
But the other part, the one that admired brutal efficiency, the one that felt an unexpected urgency upon seeing John's vulnerability, acted.
Without thinking, Ada stepped out from the shadow of the column. She drew her grapple gun, a weapon designed for movement and penetration. She aimed with determination.
Nemesis was completely engrossed in John, raising its fist for a final blow.
Ada fired.
The grapple gun launched, not as a means of ascent, but as a kinetic projectile. The penetrating head, spinning at high speed and fired from just a few meters away, impacted directly into the nape of Nemesis's neck.
The kinetic damage was enormous. The grapple gun liquefied part of the tissue in the nape. The monster stopped cold, a whimpering, choked cry escaping its mouth. It fell to its knees, staggering, its gigantic mass hitting the platform.
Jill, Carlos, and the remaining mercenaries stopped firing. John got up, panting, looking at Ada's impact.
Nemesis was on its knees, but still breathing. The sound of its deep, rhythmic breathing was a silent thunder that announced it wasn't over yet. Its left arm moved, beginning to probe the wound in its nape.
The silence was broken only by the panting of the survivors. John and Jill looked at each other, knowing the respite was temporary.
Nicholai had sealed the station. Nemesis was wounded, but alive. And Ada Wong, the silent player, had just saved John Wick, exposing herself in the process.