“John Wick!” he screamed.
The laughter died instantly.
Every bottle lowered. Every face turned.
The biker leader slowly stood from his chair. Broad shoulders. Gray beard. Eyes that had seen too much.
He stared at the child.
“Why did you say that name?”
The boy’s chest heaved as shouting echoed from outside. Men were running through the yard. Armed men. Closing in fast.
The child grabbed the pendant hanging around his neck with shaking fingers.
He opened it.
Inside was a tiny faded photograph.
The biker leader stepped closer—and all the color left his face.
“No…” he whispered.
The photo showed a woman he had loved long ago. In her arms, a newborn child wrapped in a black cloth marked with the same symbol burned into the shop wall behind him.
Outside, boots pounded closer.
Then came the first hit on the side metal door.
BANG.
The whole wall shook.
A second hit came harder.
BANG.
Smoke began curling through the cracks. Bikers reached for chains, pipes, anything they could grab.
The boy backed toward the leader, eyes wet with fear.
“They killed my mother,” he whispered. “She said to find you.”
The room went still.
Then the side door burst inward.
Bright light flooded through the smoke.
A tall shadow stepped into the doorway. Heavy boots. Slow steps. Calm posture.
The boy’s face changed instantly from terror to relief.
“He came,” he whispered.
The biker leader looked at the silhouette… then dropped to one knee.
