After two days of observation, Anthony processed his own discharge papers.
The stab wound was self-inflicted and clean; he could manage the recovery himself.
He exchanged contact information with Winnie, then took Helen home in a taxi.
On the way, he had the driver stop at a high-end pet boutique. He ordered a custom ID tag for the beagle.
Anthony specifically emphasized that in addition to the name "Helen," the tag should be engraved with a delicate border of daisies.
His home was a small, single-story wooden structure, barely twenty square meters. It sat on a neglected lot where the grass had grown knee-high; since returning, he had only managed to trim half of it.
The houses in this neighborhood were spaced comfortably apart, separated by wooden fences and overgrown greenery.
Anthony latched the gate, set Helen down in the yard, and let her explore.
Leaning against the porch railing, he lit a cigarette and watched Helen frolic in the tall grass as dusk settled over the city.
He pulled the map of John Wick from his memory. Based on the film's architectural cues and landmarks, he deduced that John lived in a detached modern house in a quiet, upscale pocket of Brooklyn.
The formidable Continental Hotel was situated in Manhattan's Financial District, but John's home was in the suburbs—close enough to the city for business, far enough for peace.
As the once-feared "Baba Yaga," his residence had to be low-key enough to blend into suburbia, yet structurally sound enough for rapid evacuation and defense.
John's house had a distinct independent garage and a large courtyard. It was located in a mid-to-high-end residential zone, likely Mill Neck or a quiet corner of Brooklyn.
Calculations suggested it was only about two kilometers from Anthony's own rundown shack.
Anthony decided that tomorrow, he would take Helen to meet Daisy.
After all, communication between dogs was far purer—and far more disarming—than between humans.
At six the next morning, the air in Brooklyn carried a damp, grassy scent.
Anthony pushed open his creaky wooden gate. Helen immediately bolted, her nose skimming the pavement, her tail wagging furiously.
The silver nameplate on her collar jingled rhythmically as she ran. Helen, surrounded by tiny, etched daisies.
"Slow down, Helen," Anthony called out, gripping the leash. "I'm wounded. I can't sprint."
The doctor had explicitly warned against strenuous activity, but once the gears of revenge started grinding, who had time for medical advice?
If he didn't establish a connection with John immediately, once Iosef made his move against the Boogeyman, Anthony might be caught in the crossfire rather than holding the reins.
After thirty minutes of jogging, with Anthony subtly guiding her direction, they reached the target neighborhood.
The area was impeccably quiet.
Detached houses were arranged in orderly rows, with lawns manicured like green velvet carpets stretching to the street corners.
Occasionally, elderly residents walking their own dogs passed by. Helen would rush up to sniff them, her puppy enthusiasm earning hearty laughs from the retirees.
"It's up to you now, Helen."
Anthony's gaze swept over the rows of pristine white fences.
In his memory, John Wick lived in a house exactly like the one on the corner.
He recalled the movie details: the slope of the driveway, the old oak tree in the yard...
As a transmigrator, he remembered every frame of John Wick.
Suddenly, Helen stopped. Her nostrils flared rapidly, and her hazel eyes locked onto the third house from the corner.
A gray-blue modern wooden house. The garage door was half-open, revealing the aggressive grille of a pristine 1969 Ford Mustang Boss 429.
A century-old oak tree cast dappled shadows across the lawn. Lying in the shade was a brown-and-white spotted beagle puppy.
Daisy.
Anthony had just taken a step when Helen lunged. She broke free from his grip and shot toward the yard like a black-and-white arrow, her claws scrabbling on the asphalt.
"Hey! Helen, come back!"
Anthony broke into a run, a sharp twinge of pain radiating from his chest wound.
But sharper than the physical pain was the silent alarm of his Compensatory Perceptionwarning him of extreme danger.
When Helen nosed open the unlatched gate and charged in, Daisy abruptly raised her head, a low, uncertain growl in her throat.
The next second, the tension evaporated. The two beagles collided as if they were long-lost sisters.
Helen excitedly licked Daisy's face, while Daisy eagerly nudged Helen's belly with her wet nose, her tail a blur of motion.
They began to chase each other in tight circles around the oak tree, kicking up divots of grass.
"Damn it."
Panting, Anthony skidded to a halt outside the fence. He deliberately placed his empty hands on the railing, adopting a non-threatening, submissive posture.
"Sorry to disturb! Uh... your little one seems friendly."
The second-floor curtains swished open.
John Wick appeared at the French window.
He was wearing loose, dark pajamas, the sleeves casually rolled up.
He wore his signature shoulder-length black hair, slightly disheveled from sleep, paired with a neatly trimmed beard.
John's features were sharp: high cheekbones, thin lips pressed into a tight line.
Beneath his deep brows were a pair of intense, melancholic gray-blue eyes.
At this moment, those eyes held only wariness and cold scrutiny.
Anthony swallowed hard.
Even when this man was massacring the entire Tarasov syndicate in the movie, his eyes hadn't been this cold. This was the gaze of a man who had nothing left to lose.
He raised the leash in his hand, moving with deliberate slowness.
"Her name is Helen!" he shouted to ensure John could hear him through the glass, pitching his voice to a standard New York accent. "Six months old. Don't worry, she's fully vaccinated."
"It's her first time out today. I didn't expect..." He gave a wry, apologetic smile and spread his hands. "She saw a friend. I couldn't stop her."
John didn't move. His gaze swept the perimeter, checking for threats.
"Helen?" He murmured, looking down at the black-and-white beagle on his lawn. A flicker of raw pain passed through his eyes.
Her coat pattern was startlingly similar to Daisy's.
His eyes darted back and forth between Anthony and Helen, the ice in his gaze thawing a fraction.
Daisy suddenly ran to the window beneath John, a dry stick in her mouth. She looked up and let out a series of happy "Awoo-awoo" barks.
Helen stood right beside her, wagging her tail and joining in the barking chorus at the man in the window.
John's Adam's apple bobbed. He turned abruptly and vanished from the window.
A few seconds later, the front door opened.
He stepped onto the porch in cotton slippers, holding a mug of coffee.
"Come in," John said, his voice gravelly and low. "Coffee or beer?"
Anthony paused, looked at the two playing beagles, hesitated briefly, then nodded. "Sorry for the intrusion. Coffee, thank you."
As they entered the living room, the two beagles trotted in behind them, occasionally nipping at each other's ears.
The interior was minimalist but comfortable, lacking the sterility one might expect from the world's deadliest assassin.
Above the fireplace hung a framed photo of John and his wife, Helen, on their wedding day. Next to it was a framed note with a hand-drawn daisy and the words "Never Forget."
John handed Anthony a mug, his gaze drifting back to Helen's collar. "May I?"
"Be my guest," Anthony said softly.
John crouched down and gently picked up the puppy.
Helen looked at him docilely, licking his thumb.
John stroked her head, his fingers trembling as they brushed against the steel nameplate on her collar.
Helen. And below the name, the delicate engraving of a daisy chain.
John's breath hitched. He reached into his pocket and pulled out an old leather wallet. He opened it to reveal a photo of his wife.
On her wrist was a silver bracelet with the exact same daisy pattern.
"This can't be..." John whispered. "Helen's bracelet... it had daisies just like this. It was an heirloom from her mother. She always said daisies represented hope. New beginnings."
"Her nameplate... it has the same flowers." John's voice was so hoarse it was almost inaudible.
He looked up sharply, a turmoil in his eyes that Anthony couldn't fully fathom.
"Daisy was the last gift she left me before she passed. She was afraid I'd be lonely."
John's voice cracked. "She said... she said if I could learn to love Daisy, I could learn to live without her."
Anthony feigned total ignorance, letting a look of sympathetic confusion wash over his face. "Sir, I... I don't know what to say."
"My mother loved daisies when she was alive," Anthony lied smoothly. "After adopting Helen yesterday, I had the engraver add them. I had no idea..."
John rested his forehead against the puppy's fur for a long moment. When he finally placed her back on the floor, a long-absent softness lingered in his eyes.
"Forgive my wariness. After losing my wife, I learned not to trust coincidences."
"John. John Wick." He extended his hand. "Thank you for bringing her by. Call me John."
Anthony shook his hand firmly. "Anthony Tarasov. Former Marine. Just back from Afghanistan."
The moment their palms touched, John knew. The calluses, the grip strength—this hand had held a rifle for years.
He didn't flinch at the surname. He simply asked, "Tarasov? Any relation to Viggo?"
Hearing the name, a muscle in Anthony's jaw jumped. "Unfortunately. He's... my biological father."
John heard the suppressed loathing in the younger man's voice.
He didn't press.
Anthony didn't elaborate. He didn't mention the brewing war with Iosef. Revealing too much too soon would trigger John's bullshit detector.
"They like each other," John finally said after a long silence, watching the dogs curl up together on the rug.
He looked at Anthony, the sharpness in his gray eyes receding further. "You said you were in the Corps?"
"First three years stateside," Anthony replied, meeting his gaze. "Then three years in the sandbox."
He knew John was also a former Marine. The tattoo across John's back—Fortis Fortuna Adiuvat—was a dead giveaway.
John didn't share his own history. He stared blankly at the wedding photo on the mantle, looking suddenly vulnerable.
Anthony looked down at the two sleeping puppies and spoke softly.
"It seems they haven't just found a friend. Maybe they found a new beginning for us, too. Right, girls?"
Daisy's ear twitched in her sleep. Helen rested her head on Daisy's flank and let out a contented sigh.