Simulation Start.
To the front left, the firing pin of a suppressed Glock 17 begins to drop.
To the right, the polished steel of two tactical Karambit knives slice through the air, their trajectories converging at a deadly 15-degree angle toward his throat.
Directly behind him, the terrifying twang of a high-poundage compound bow string releasing vibrates through the air, striking his eardrums.
Anthony's Compensatory Perception instantly reconstructed the entire restaurant into a slow-moving, luminous data matrix.
The micro-twitch of the lead Enforcer's index finger pulling the trigger was quantified in his mind as a pressure change of exactly 0.3 Newtons.
The microscopic 0.05-millimeter deflection of the pistol barrel, caused by the sudden shift in ambient temperature, was seamlessly incorporated into his real-time ballistic equations.
The subtle, aggressive tremors of the knife-wielders' wrist joints were converted into precise angular velocity parameters.
The drag coefficient and rotational spin of the carbon-fiber arrow at the exact moment of its release were calculated instantly.
In Anthony's mind's eye, seven lethal attack vectors intertwined, forming an inescapable spiderweb of death.
The 9mm hollow-point round would travel at roughly 380 meters per second, striking his heart in precisely 0.8 seconds.
The two Karambit blades would cross his position in 3.8 seconds. The carbon-fiber arrow from the compound bow would trace a flawless, silent parabola, expected to penetrate his right shoulder blade in 1.5 seconds.
Simulation Analysis: Adjust body posture leftward by exactly 1.7 degrees. Shift center of gravity forward by 3 centimeters.
By executing this seemingly microscopic movement, Anthony mathematically forced all four immediate attack trajectories to simultaneously deviate from their lethal strike points, resulting in grazing wounds instead of fatal hits.
Simultaneously, he anchored his right heel into a specific, slightly raised groove in the hardwood floor. He used the resulting kinetic recoil to generate a pre-calculated, 0.5-second rotational displacement of his entire body.
In the simulation, he grabbed three heavy silver forks from the ruined table and threw them with blinding speed.
One fork struck the fletching of the incoming carbon-fiber arrow, drastically altering its flight path and causing it to violently impale the wrist of another gunman advancing from the flank.
The remaining two forks wouldn't be fatal, but they struck the lead Enforcer's chest plate with enough kinetic force to disrupt his shooting stance.
Simulation Analysis: This action forces the target to experience a mechanical lag of 0.2 seconds and increases their upper-body muscle tension by 18%, ruining their follow-up shots.
However, during this initial, grueling mental simulation, Anthony deliberately handicap himself by not incorporating his suppressed Walther P99 into his defense matrix. He wanted to test his pure physical evasion and environmental adaptability.
The result? No matter how flawlessly he dodged or how brilliantly he utilized the restaurant's cutlery, he only managed to survive for one minute and twenty-five seconds against seven elite High Table Enforcers.
After managing to kill three of them with improvised weapons, the simulation ended with Anthony being fatally gunned down by the remaining four.
Anthony immediately reset the matrix and ran the simulation again, this time incorporating the use of his firearm.
The analysis drastically improved.
Despite sustaining three non-fatal gunshot wounds to his extremities, he successfully eliminated all seven Enforcers within forty seconds.
He stubbornly repeated the firearm simulation three more times, refining his angles and reducing his ammo expenditure. The results remained consistently accurate.
It was a sobering realization. The gap between his current, system-enhanced abilities and the legendary prowess of John Wick was still massive.
If the Baba Yaga had been caught in this exact scenario, the Enforcers likely wouldn't have even lived long enough to squeeze off a second shot.
After completing the fourth intense mental simulation, a wave of profound, agonizing dizziness washed over Anthony. The sheer cognitive strain of running the Compensatory Perception matrix had exhausted his brain. He slumped back against the sofa cushions and immediately fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.
When Anthony finally opened his eyes, night had fallen. The world outside the window was pitch black, and the living room was filled with the acrid, lingering haze of cigarette smoke.
Before his eyes had even fully adjusted to the gloom, Anthony's combat instincts flared. He rolled violently to his right, his hand instantly snatching the Walther P99 off the coffee table, aiming it blindly into the shadows.
The living room lights were off. The faint, multi-colored glow of distant neon signs filtered through the blinds, casting long, eerie shadows through the pervasive blue smoke.
If he hadn't recognized the two stoic, utterly silent men sitting across from him, he would have assumed he was about to be assassinated.
Helen was sitting happily at the far end of the sofa, wagging her tail in greeting. Beside her sat John Wick and Marcus.
"Sleeping soundly, Lord Tarasov?" Marcus broke the heavy silence first, a hint of dry, barely perceptible sarcasm lacing his gravelly voice.
"The entire New York underworld is practically being turned upside down by the High Table's spies, and here you are, catching up on your beauty rest."
Anthony slowly lowered the pistol, rubbing his throbbing temples with his free hand. "Are you two ghosts? You don't know how to use a doorbell or make a phone call before breaking into my house?"
Marcus pointed a finger at the burner phone resting on the coffee table. "We did call. Repeatedly. We honestly assumed the Adjudicator had already ordered your execution, so we came over to check if you were a corpse yet."
Anthony picked up the phone. Sure enough, there were seven missed calls.
Three of them were from the Continental's switchboard.
Anthony dialed the number back. Charon answered almost immediately.
"Good evening, Lord Tarasov," Charon said, his voice as calm and unflappable as ever. "Please present yourself at the Continental Hotel tomorrow morning at nine o'clock sharp to officially finalize the handover of the Tarasov syndicate assets."
Anthony expressed his brief gratitude, and Charon politely disconnected.
John hadn't spoken a word. He sat perfectly still, gently scratching Helen's chin with his fingertips. The massive dog had her eyes squeezed shut in pure bliss, her tail rhythmically thumping against the sofa cushions.
John's dark, heavy gaze was locked onto Anthony. There was a complex mixture of profound confusion, lingering anger, and genuine surprise in his eyes.
Anthony groaned, propping himself up. His brain still throbbed with a dull, cold-like ache from the brutal mental simulations.
"If you're going to break in, make yourselves useful," Anthony grumbled. "Pour me some water, and make some coffee. I assume you know where the kitchen is."
Marcus let out a short, raspy chuckle. He reached over, pulled another cigarette from the pack resting on the table, lit it, and took a deep, contemplative drag.
His eyes held a sharp, scrutinizing gaze.
"I genuinely want to crack your skull open and see how your brain works, Anthony," Marcus said, blowing smoke toward the ceiling. "You completely slaughtered a family of three in a public restaurant. Including a child. The fact that the Adjudicator didn't instantly twist your head off your shoulders is the undisputed miracle of the year."
Anthony grinned, the ache in his head fading slightly. He reached for his own pack of cigarettes and lit one.
"What, are you jealous? Mass murder and cover-ups are time-honored traditions of the High Table. I'm just doing a little practical field exercise before I officially take office."
Marcus snorted.
"Winston was the one who formally recommended you to the Table," Marcus said. "He was so unhinged with rage over this stunt that he nearly shattered the marble reception desk with his cane. 'An out-of-control mad dog.' That was his official assessment of you roughly half an hour ago."
"What the hell were you thinking, kid? Using a steak knife to butcher civilians in front of a dozen witnesses? The Adjudicator's 'temporary acceptance' of your rule can be legally converted into an 'immediate erasure' at any second. Did you honestly think that little gold eagle emblem was a literal get-out-of-jail-free card?"
The corners of Anthony's mouth twitched upward, revealing a smile completely devoid of warmth.
"I've been thinking a lot about the High Table's philosophy lately," Anthony replied smoothly. "When push comes to shove, who do you think the scales of their 'justice' actually tip toward? A family of arrogant, mundane civilians who actively provoked and insulted a member of the underworld? Or me, the newly minted Lord Tarasov they specifically chose to maintain their precious revenue streams?"
"The Adjudicator explicitly ordered me to prove my loyalty by executing innocent people. I simply overachieved my quota by two, and incidentally cleaned up some entitled garbage that was polluting my environment."
"The massive difference is," Marcus countered, his voice rising slightly in frustration, "you spilled that blood in the bright sunlight! You tore a massive, public hole in the veil of shadows that the High Table relies on to operate!"
"You need to understand this, Anthony. The rules allow for horrific, underhanded dealings in the dark. But they absolutely do not tolerate a madman kicking the entire chessboard over for the mundane world to see."
Anthony simply looked at him and smiled lazily through a haze of smoke. "And yet... here I am. So, then what?"
Yeah. And then what?
The Harbinger had undoubtedly reported the massacre in granular detail, but the Adjudicator ultimately chose not to pursue the matter. They swept it under the rug.
It was an unprecedented outcome that no one in the underworld could have anticipated.
The living room fell into a heavy silence again. The only sound was the rhythmic scritch-scratch of Helen's claws against the rug as she stretched.
John and Marcus exchanged a deeply bewildered look.
Marcus snorted, exhaling another thick cloud of smoke.
"I'll admit, you must be a world-class storyteller, Anthony," Marcus said begrudgingly. "But the Adjudicators aren't fools. You can't con them forever."
John's eyes finally darkened, shifting his gaze from the dog to the young mob boss.
"He's right, Anthony," John said, his voice a low, warning rumble. "The High Table will not tolerate these psychotic games of yours indefinitely."
Anthony shrugged indifferently, leaning his head back against the sofa.
"Remember this, John," Anthony said softly. "The rules of the High Table are exactly like a snare net. It only tightens around your throat if you struggle against it. Which is exactly what they want someone like you to do."
"And of course, that includes you, too," Anthony added, shifting his gaze to Marcus. "Two legendary assassins who are universally feared, openly demonstrating mutual respect and loyalty to one another? Who do you think the High Table is really afraid of?"
Marcus's teasing smile instantly vanished. "Are you implying that what you told John on the phone was true? That someone is actively coming for him?"
Anthony didn't answer the question directly. Instead, he looked at John, his own smile fading into grim seriousness.
"You should have figured the grand conspiracy out by now, John," Anthony said quietly. "Let's assume Iosef stealing your car was just a terrible, random accident. Even so... why would Viggo, knowing full well you possessed the sheer capability to slaughter the entire Tarasov syndicate single-handedly, still put an open bounty on your head? Why would he dare to hire Marcus to pressure you, instead of just running away?"
"Because someone forced him to."
John's dark eyes narrowed imperceptibly.
After multiple cryptic conversations with Anthony, John was finally beginning to understand the terrifying shape of the invisible machinery moving around him.
"Are you saying John is doomed?" Marcus asked, his voice dead serious.
The dark, knowing smile returned to Anthony's face. "If things had progressed normally... yes. He wouldn't have stood a chance against the bureaucracy."
But things had radically changed. The timeline was fractured.
Anthony had killed Iosef himself.
John had actively rescued Marcus from Viggo, keeping the sniper alive.
These were massive, fundamental divergences from the original plot of the first film.
But the biggest divergence of all? The Tarasov syndicate—which, in the original timeline, was ultimately absorbed by Santino D'Antonio, the arrogant Italian Camorra boss who parachuted into New York to claim the territory—was now firmly in Anthony's hands.
And Santino D'Antonio was the man holding John Wick's Blood Oath. The man who started the catastrophic chain of events in Chapter 2.
Anthony was sitting directly on the throne Santino wanted.
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