"Huff, Huff"
John's breath came out in white clouds as he jogged down the empty street. Duke ran beside him, tongue hanging out, clearly enjoying the exercise more than John was. The sun hadn't fully risen yet, just a hint of orange bleeding into the dark sky over the buildings.
His ribs screamed with each footfall. The pain was constant, sharp, like someone driving a knife between his bones with every breath. But John kept running. He'd learned a long time ago that the body would heal faster if you pushed it, forced it to remember how to work properly. Lying around only made things worse.
It was 5:45 AM. The bar wouldn't open for hours, and Frank was still asleep upstairs. This was John's time, the only part of the day that felt like it belonged to him. Even if his body was falling apart, he needed to keep it functional. In his line of work—his old line of work—being out of shape got you killed.
"How come it still hurts this bad?" he muttered, more to himself than to Duke.
The puppy glanced up at him but kept running, unbothered.
John managed a weak smile despite the pain. "I guess I'm getting old, Duke. I can't even take four bullets like I used to."
The truth was, he'd taken more than four bullets over the years. Dozens, probably. He lost count after a while. But this felt different. Maybe it was because he'd actually died this time, or come close enough that it didn't matter. Maybe it was because he was in a different world entirely and his body was still trying to catch up with that fact.
He turned a corner, trying to focus on his breathing, on the rhythm of his feet hitting pavement.
Thud!
John slammed into someone hard. The impact sent both of them stumbling. John caught himself against a wall, his ribs flaring with fresh agony. The other guy wasn't so lucky—he went down hard on the concrete, the sound of his body hitting the ground echoing off the empty storefronts.
"Shit," John muttered, pushing off the wall. "I didn't—"
The man on the ground groaned, rolling onto his side. He looked young, maybe twenty-seven, wearing a stained hoodie and jeans that had seen better days. He struggled to get up, cursing under his breath.
"Who the fuck—" The man's head snapped up, his eyes locking onto John.
Then he stopped. Just froze there, half-sitting, half-kneeling on the pavement. His eyes went wide and his jaw clenched. John could see the exact moment the guy's brain caught up with what he was looking at.
'Who the hell is this fucker? Why the hell is he so scary?'
John didn't need to hear the thought to know what was going through the man's head. He'd seen that look before, hundreds of times. The recognition that you'd just run into someone dangerous, someone who could hurt you without breaking a sweat.
The man swallowed hard. Sweat started beading on his forehead despite the cold morning air.
"Y-you weak fucker!" he stammered, his voice cracking. "Attacking me from behind like that!"
Veins popped on his forehead as he forced the words out, trying to sound tough. Trying to cover up the fear John could see plain as day.
John's expression shifted from concern to something closer to pity. He'd been ready to apologize, help the guy up, make sure he was okay. But now the man was putting on a show, playing at being tough when they both knew better.
"I'm sorry," John said simply.
He turned to walk past. Duke followed, already losing interest in the situation. But before John could take two steps, he felt a hand grab his arm.
The grip was weak, trembling slightly. John stopped and looked down at where the man had grabbed him.
'Nah, forget scary. This fucker must have some good dough on him.'
The man's eyes had changed. The fear was still there, but now it was mixed with something else. Greed. Desperation. The look of someone who'd made a stupid decision and was committed to seeing it through.
"No man," the guy said, forcing a vicious expression onto his face. "You can't just push down a handsome Black guy like that and expect to walk scott free because of a simple apology."
There was a hint of greed in his voice now, barely masked. He thought John was an easy mark, someone he could shake down for cash. Maybe he thought John was just some business guy out for a jog, someone who'd pay to avoid trouble.
"I can't?" John raised an eyebrow, genuinely confused by the logic. "I don't think you're any different from other people."
The man's face flushed red. More veins popped on his forehead, and his grip on John's arm tightened. "This bitch! You racist motherfucker!"
He swung his free hand toward John's face, putting his whole body into it. It was a terrible punch—telegraphed, off-balance, driven more by anger than any real technique.
John caught his fist easily, barely having to move. The man's knuckles stopped inches from John's jaw, held in place like they'd hit a wall.
"At least try to swing a little bit harder," John said quietly.
He let go of the man's fist and released his arm. No force, no throwing him down. Just let go.
The man stumbled backward, lost his balance, and landed on his ass for the second time. His eyes were wide again, all the bravado gone. He scrambled backward on the pavement, his hands slipping on the cold concrete.
"Yo, man, I—" he started, but the words died in his throat.
John just stood there, looking down at him. Not threatening, not angry. Just watching. Duke sat next to him, panting happily, completely oblivious to the tension.
The man finally got his feet under him and took off running, not looking back. His footsteps echoed off the buildings for a few seconds before fading into the distance.
John watched him go, then sighed and started jogging again. Duke immediately fell into step beside him, like nothing had happened.
That was the second time in a week that someone had looked at him with fear. Frank had been different—wary, cautious, but not afraid. These guys on the street, though, they saw something in him that made them nervous. Even when he wasn't trying to be intimidating.
Maybe it was something he couldn't turn off. Years of being John Wick, years of being the man the boogeyman checked his closet for. That reputation didn't exist here, but apparently the presence did. The way he moved, the way he looked at people, something gave him away.
He'd need to be more careful about that.
John rounded another block, pushing through the pain in his ribs. The sun was coming up properly now, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink. A few early risers were starting to appear—someone walking their dog, a woman in scrubs heading home from a night shift, a delivery truck making its rounds.
Normal people living normal lives in a world that was anything but normal.
Duke barked at a pigeon that was pecking at garbage near a dumpster. The bird didn't even bother to fly away, just hopped a few feet to the side and went back to its breakfast.
"Come on," John said, and Duke abandoned the pigeon to follow him.
They ran for another twenty minutes before John's body finally told him it was done. His ribs felt like they were on fire, and his left knee was starting to complain about the uneven pavement. He slowed to a walk, letting his heart rate come down gradually.
By the time they got back to The Departed, the street was starting to wake up properly. A coffee shop across the way had its lights on, and John could smell fresh bread from a bakery somewhere nearby. His stomach growled, reminding him he hadn't eaten yet.
Frank was in the bar when John came through the door, already prepping for the day. He looked up, took in John's sweat-soaked shirt and heavy breathing, and shook his head.
"You're gonna tear those ribs open again if you keep pushing yourself like that," Frank said.
"I'm fine."
"Yeah, you look fine. Real picture of health." Frank went back to stocking bottles behind the bar. "There's coffee in the pot and some eggs in the fridge if you want to make breakfast. Just don't bleed on anything."
"Wasn't planning on it." John headed for the stairs, Duke trotting after him.
He showered quickly, trying not to look at the bruises still covering his torso. They were yellowing at the edges now, healing, but they still looked bad. The cuts on his face were mostly closed, just pink lines that would probably scar.
By the time he came back downstairs, Frank had put on the morning news. John poured himself coffee and scrambled some eggs while half-listening to the broadcast.
"—Stark Industries announced today that repairs to the Metrolife building are ahead of schedule following last week's incident with the rogue Iron Legion drone. Tony Stark released a statement saying—"
"You gonna watch this or help me set up?" Frank called from the bar.
"Coming." John turned off the stove and brought his plate with him.
The news continued in the background while they worked. Stock prices for Oscorp. A traffic jam on the Brooklyn Bridge. Something about a S.H.I.E.L.D. facility upstate. All of it delivered like it was completely normal, like billion-dollar corporations run by geniuses in flying armor and secret government agencies were just part of everyday life.
Because here, they were.
John wiped down tables and arranged chairs, letting his mind process what he'd learned over the past week. This world had heroes, but it also had the same problems his world had. Crime. Poverty. Desperate people making stupid decisions, like that guy this morning trying to shake him down.
Some things didn't change, no matter what universe you were in.
"Hey John," Frank said, pulling him from his thoughts. "You good? You've been staring at that same table for like two minutes."
John realized he'd stopped moving, cloth in hand, just standing there.
"Yeah. Just thinking."
"Well think while you work. We open in three hours and I still need help with the inventory."
John nodded and got back to work. Duke had curled up in his usual spot near the bar, already asleep. The puppy had adapted to this new life faster than John had. Then again, Duke didn't have decades of training and instincts telling him that something was fundamentally wrong about this place.
Outside, a siren wailed past. Then another sound—that strange, oscillating pitch he'd heard a few nights ago. John glanced out the window and caught a glimpse of red and gold streaking across the sky, heading downtown.
Iron Man. Again.
Frank didn't even look up from counting bottles.
Just another Tuesday morning in New York.