Chapter 1: Alive… Again

John Wick staggered forward, his breath ragged, blood trailing in his wake like the remnants of a life slowly unravelling.

The final gunshot still echoed in his ears, the moment when it all ended; the duel, the blood debts, the unrelenting pursuit that had felt like an eternity.

The Marquis lay dead, his arrogant smirk forever erased.

John had won, he was free.

But at what cost? His body screamed with every step, the wounds deep, the pain numbing. He clutched his side, feeling the warmth of his own blood seeping through his suit. His vision blurred as he descended the stone steps, each movement heavy, deliberate.

The city stretched before him in the soft golden light of dawn, peaceful and indifferent. He reached a low step and sat, his body finally demanding rest. His breaths were slow, laboured.

He looked down at his hands; hands that had taken so many lives, hands that had fought and fought, always clawing forward, never stopping.

Now, they trembled.

Memories drifted through the haze of exhaustion. Helen's smile. The warmth of her touch. The life he had tried so hard to reclaim, only to be dragged deeper into the abyss. The dog; Daisy, she had left him; the small, flickering ember of hope that had started it all.

A faint smile touched his lips. He leaned back against the cold stone, his gaze lifting toward the sky. The pain was fading now, his body growing lighter. He closed his eyes for a moment, listening to the distant sounds of Paris waking up.

"John," the name came as a whisper, his own voice barely audible.

For the first time, there was no chase, no contracts, no blood price hanging over his head. Only silence. Only peace.

John Wick exhaled one last time, and as the sun rose over Paris, ready to be reunited with Helen, wherever that may be…

…

John's eyes opened.

For a moment, there was only white; soft, diffused light filtering through an unfamiliar ceiling. The scent of incense and morning dew filled his lungs.

His body felt… light.

Too light.

The crushing weight of wounds, exhaustion, and years of battle was gone. He sat up quickly, instincts flaring, but the movement was wrong.

He was too small. His limbs were thin, his hands soft, unscarred. No aching joints, no bullet wounds, no blood.

He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the polished surface of a bronze bowl nearby.

A child stared back. Smooth skin. Wide, sharp, grey eyes. And stretching across his scalp, a freshly inked arrow tattoo, the blue lines still vivid against his skin.

John's breath hitched. He raised a trembling hand to touch it, fingers tracing the unfamiliar shape.

His mind raced; where was he? What had happened?

The last thing he remembered was Sacré-Cœur, the weight of his body sinking, the feeling of release.

Death.

And yet, he was here.

The door to the small chamber slid open. A bald, elderly monk in flowing orange robes entered, a serene smile on his face.

"Ah, Kalsang," the man said warmly, "You are awake. How do you feel, young one? Today is a great day… you have earned your tattoos, and with them, your place as an Airbender of the Southern Temple."

John… no, Kalsang? stared at him, words failing, 'Airbender. A temple. A child's body…'

The monk chuckled at his silence, "Ah, I know. It is overwhelming, isn't it? The journey is just beginning, but in time, you will understand."

John said nothing. He lowered his hand from his forehead and clenched it into a fist. This wasn't a dream. It wasn't some afterlife reward. He was here, in this body, in this world.

Reborn. A new life. A new identity. A new path. And for the first time in years, John Wick had no debts to pay, no blood on his hands.

Only air, light, and the quiet promise of something different.

John's fingers twitched.

Helen's face flickered in his mind; soft, radiant, just as he remembered, his light in a dark world, his everything. The last thing he had held onto before everything faded. The last thing he was supposed to see.

He had finally fought his way to her, through blood, through pain, through an endless gauntlet of death.

He had earned it.

And yet, here he was.

Alive.

Again.

His breath came slower, controlled, but deep within him, something simmered. His hands curled into small, unfamiliar fists, the smooth skin of this child's body foreign and infuriating.

The peaceful temple, the calm faces of monks, the open sky beyond the doorway; it all felt like mockery. The elderly monk smiled at him, warmth in his gaze, "You have much ahead of you, young one. A future full of wonder."

John swallowed the bitter fire rising in his throat; a future… He didn't want a future. His future was supposed to be with her.

Not here.

Not like this.

He exhaled slowly, feeling the air shift unnaturally around him. The anger, the betrayal, it twisted inside him, clashing with the lightness of his new existence.

His body was small, weak; nothing like what it once was. But his will remained. The fight inside him was not gone.

He glanced down at his hands again, then back up at the open sky beyond the temple walls. If this world had stolen his rest, if it had denied him his final reunion; then he would find another way. One way or another, John Wick would set things right.