❛ Sleep with fists closed and shoot straight. ❜
“is there any other way to sleep?”
his voice is a lullaby amid the bustle of the streets adjacent to the pair. he keeps his eyes locked in place at the entrance to the warehouse, not so much bustle as it is a sleeping wolf. he ruminates on natasha’s words for a few agonizingly slow moments before pressing his back against the wall, transferring his gaze from a door to her, effortlessly. like all things john wick does, this too is carried with some measure of gravitas, as if the world depended on it.
“when she was alive ... i got used to sleeping with my guard down.” a pause as he loads a clip into the rifle slung over his shoulder, scope pressed against his eyes to ensure longevity. “that led to a lot of tickling fights. somehow, i always lost.”
now, he’s silent, leaning around the corner of the wall, scope pressed against his left eye. he waits, a patient predator, a leopard invading the wolf’s den. he stalks the darkness, calls it homely, and they envelop him in a familiar embrace as a reward. black cloth against the night, john wick is a thing of beauty and terror all in one. as the door opens and the guard makes his large frame an easy target, john pulls the trigger. somehow, the silent shot is deafening.
“guess i don’t have to worry about losing them anymore.”