john doesn’t care what she thinks. in fact, he agrees. but there’s a certain grace to the barbarism, isn’t there? his grip on the bodyguard tightens to a stranglehold, keeping his unyielding gaze fixed on her eyes as the suffocating man struggles to breathe. the guard’s tan, muscled arms reach back to try & claw at john’s face, or his arms, anything to keep from fading away into the dark, frigid embrace of death. but …
… JOHN WICK ?
he is death incarnate. so it is far too late for that. his answer comes out dry, short, unabashed.
“yeah …“
a calloused finger squeezes the trigger, bloody knuckles dusted in gunpowder as the silenced shot releases that unmistakable pressure throughout the air. the shot is a through & through – down through the skull, & out the eye socket. “feeling any BETTER now?”
