with no more bullets flying through the balcony like she expected, she was fast on her feet–scrambling to pull on shoes of some sort for a chase she knew was coming. no time to grab her staff, no time to grab anything but a jacket LITTERED with bulletholes with a hood to hide her face somewhat. anastasia made sure to tear her own place to shreds—to make it look like a fight happened. flip the couch, shatter more glass—but with time running out, she had to move now.
BUSTING through her door and sprinting across the hallway, she headed straight for the rooftop exit, pulling the FIRE ALARM as she ran—sirens blaring through the complex—she weaseled her way though the door headed to the rooftop–sprinting and striding over a handful of stairs until her shoulder WHACKED against the rooftop exit. throwing herself outside, rain POURING down, she struggled to see which direction to go—didn’t help her temple was throbbing like a motherfucker either; silver was spreading down her jaw now. blonde hairs melting into metallic, anastasia stumbled over the wet surface. skittering to the rooftop edge, calculating just how much of a jump it’d be to the nearest other or leaping several stories down—anastasia could do it, but she’d need a running start. slick metal skin and rain wasn’t the greatest combination; it was a GAMBLE either way.
TICK TICK TICK TOCK.
and so she began to wander backwards, hand grazing the rooftop ledge as she gazed down below, seeing the tenants gradually going outside; a small crowd—likely complaining about the rain. maybe they’d provide the SNIPER with a distraction, but it was unlikely—one could hope; she was in trouble if she didn’t make the jump. so cue the sprint in slender legs, straight towards the edge.
john wick is a hurricane. a torrent of immense rage and ultraviolence, nestled beneath a quiet, cool exterior. sheer will & unsurpassed tenacity ensures that his pursuits never end until either he or his target are dead, & here he is still standing after all these years. tonight isn’t going to be any different, even if what he suspects is true. & once this woman manages to die, wick will be targeting whoever set him on this path to begin with. because he suspects she’s one of them – the ‘gifted’ –which makes the bounty worth triple what he’s being paid. not only that, but the contractor knowingly omitted vital information from the packet; had wick not chosen to take this on from a distance, he could have very well been caught off guard & killed. he isn’t happy with his employer at the moment, to say the least.
he knows all it takes is patience. few people are prepared to have a fight come home to them, so they act irrationally, don’t take all the variables into consideration. alarms start blaring, immediately revealing her prerogative: the rooftop. it’s a classic strategy that’s best when flipped – instead of making for the cleared exit, you should leave among the throng of panicked civilians. john bounds up the staircases, each step efficient, calculated, optimized for speed. by the time he’s hit the rooftop, she’s at a full sprint, running horizontal to him. the shot is enough of a challenge for him to stop, steady his aim & stare down the sights, following her movement. before she can reach the edge, the firearm explodes thrice. each shot lands, one at the base of her spine, another which should have penetrated through the joint of her knee & the last in the same spot at her temple, almost the exact same place he’d thought he landed a shot before. mutant or not, though … she drops.
from where he stands, he can see her beautiful, metallic skin glistening in the pouring rain. city lights refract off her curves, & anastasia’s steady breathing highlights her features as they rise & fall. john recognizes her now, given the flamboyancy of her abilities & rumored beauty proving to be true.
not that it really matters any. because he’s got a job to do, even if it’ll leave a sour taste in his mouth to complete it. wick has never fancied killing people that are out there to do the right thing. but, as they say: c'est la vie.
his dark, domineering silhouette ambles confidently forth, dressed for a funeral. monochromatic & tailored to his exact measurements, the dark grey, lightweight wool three-piece suit never once betrays the sweltering, persistent rage ticking somewhere deep in his soul. john raises the gun to her head as she already begins to rise again, like a resplendent, sterling phoenix.
that he’s covered this much distance in such a short amount of time is nothing short of a testament to the devil’s strength of will. because john wick walks with the inevitability of certain death, if he’s got you in his sights …
