NOVEL NEXT Chapter 5: [5] John Wick
[General POV]:
As the three friends struggled to make sense of their bizarre surroundings, chaos erupted elsewhere. Inside the dimly lit corridors of the afterlife bureaucracy, two agents squared off in a heated debate, their angry voices bouncing off the cold marble hallways, creating an unsettling echo that made even the most seasoned spirits shudder.
"What do you mean, 'Stop the process'?" Agent Marcus snapped, his face flushing with frustration. The mere suggestion of halting the afterlife judgment process made his blood boil, metaphorically speaking. "Do you have any idea how much backlog this will dump on the next shift?" he demanded, his fists clenching so tight his knuckles turned white. The stack of pending cases already threatened to topple from his desk, and this interruption would only make matters worse.
Agent Sarah let out a long, weary sigh, the burden of her message weighing heavily on her shoulders. Dark circles under her eyes hinted at countless sleepless shifts spent managing the delicate balance between life and death. "Look, Marcus, it's not my call," she explained, her voice carrying both resignation and determination. "The Boss issued the order himself. He said this matter is top priority—it simply can't wait."
"The Boss?" Marcus froze mid-rant, his eyes growing wide as saucers. "You're telling me he sent the message? Himself?" His voice cracked, betraying a vulnerability that rarely surfaced through his tough exterior. The last time the enigmatic figure—one of the most powerful cosmic entities in existence—had directly intervened in anything, entire galaxies had shifted. If this wasn't some cruel practical joke, then whatever was unfolding had to be earth-shattering.
"Yes, straight from his cosmic line," Sarah confirmed, lowering her voice to barely above a whisper, as if speaking any louder might summon his attention. The surrounding air seemed to grow heavier with each word.
Marcus slumped against his desk, massaging his temples as the implications of this development crashed over him like a tidal wave. "If it's really him... this can't be good. Not good at all."
~At the 'Afterlife Corps Headquarters'~
"Miss Purrfection, what brings you to these halls?" Agent Reynolds asked, his sharp eyes scrutinizing the feline warden with obvious suspicion. The higher-ups rarely granted someone of her position—even a warden—permission to approach the Boss, the mysterious cosmic entity who ruled their realm with absolute authority.
"They've assigned me some special work," she replied, drawing herself up to her full height as her ears twitched with anticipation. "A soul in my jurisdiction needs escorting here, nyah~. Two other wardens received similar assignments," she explained, her tail swishing back and forth with unmistakable pride at being chosen for such an important task.
"Just complete the assignment quickly—and for heaven's sake, stop snacking on souls," Reynolds barked, his words cutting through the air like a knife as he fixed her with a disapproving glare. "Your personnel file is bursting with complaints about your questionable dietary choices."
Miss Purrfection's ears flattened against her head, and her tail puffed up in indignation. "Grrr... that backstabbing fool promised to keep my record spotless!" she hissed through clenched teeth, her razor-sharp claws extending and retracting rhythmically. Her golden eyes narrowed to dangerous slits as she muttered darkly, "One of these days, I'll make him regret crossing paths with me..."
With an irritated flick of her tail and a defiant "nyah~" that echoed through the hallway, she turned on her heel and stalked away, her graceful movements belying the storm of emotions brewing beneath her composed exterior. The click of her claws against the marble floor faded into the distance, leaving behind a tension that hung in the air like a gathering storm.
~Main Office~
The faint tring... tring... of a bell pierced through the lavishly decorated corridor outside the grand office, its crystal-clear notes bouncing off the marble walls adorned with ancient tapestries and ethereal artwork. Inside, an imposing oak desk dominated the room, its surface deliberately cluttered with papers that created an organized chaos only its owner could decipher. The boss lounged behind it, making his antique chair protest under his weight as he studied a holographic report floating inches from his face, sharp eyes darting across the translucent display. The golden name tag gleaming on his impeccably tailored suit proclaimed "John Wick" in bold letters, though the choice seemed more like a playful rebellion against protocol than a mark of authority.
"You can come in, Ismelda," his deep, commanding voice filled the room as the heavy door swung open with a drawn-out creak.
Ismelda strode in, her movements precise and purposeful, radiating the brisk efficiency that had become her trademark. Her silver hair flowed behind her like liquid moonlight, complementing her razor-sharp, no-nonsense demeanor perfectly. "Do not call me by nicknames you invent, sir," she snapped, her words dripping with familiar exasperation.
"Come on, lighten up, sis," John chuckled, his fingers dancing as he manipulated a golden coin between them with practiced ease. "And really, must you stick to these stuffy formalities? I'm your brother, not some medieval tyrant ruling from a dark tower."
Ismelda's piercing gaze cut through his jovial attitude like a blade through silk. "You're the overseer of the afterlife, John. Show some dignity, especially when we're expecting visitors. And that ridiculous name tag? Take it off right now before someone sees it."
John let out an exaggerated groan but complied, tucking the offending tag into his pocket with theatrical reluctance. "You're such a killjoy," he muttered, his expression mirroring that of a scolded child.
"You brought this on yourself when you showed Mother those medieval period dramas. Now she's determined to mold you into some proper aristocrat while explicitly banning any influence from your preferred entertainment choices."
John's lips curved into a mischievous smirk as he settled deeper into his chair. "Yet here you stand, playing the role of a devoted butler to perfection. Mother would be proud."
Ismelda crossed her arms, her stance rigid with disapproval. "Two agents are approaching with the files you requested," she informed him curtly, steering the conversation away from dangerous waters and back to pressing matters.
The playful atmosphere evaporated instantly, replaced by a heavy silence broken only by approaching footsteps echoing through the corridor. The door creaked open again, revealing two agents who entered with measured steps, their pristine uniforms and tense expressions betraying the gravity of their mission.
"Here are the life records from the three lines you requested, Boss," the agent announced, her voice steady despite the nervous energy radiating from her. She presented the thick dossiers with both hands, maintaining proper protocol.
John's transformation was immediate and striking. The playful glint in his eyes disappeared, replaced by an intensity that seemed to charge the very air around them. His movements became precise and deliberate as he began examining the files, each page turn accompanied by the soft whisper of paper.
"The wardens are finishing their paperwork outside," she added, standing at attention.
John nodded without looking up from the documents, his focus absolute. "Send them in once they're done," he commanded, his voice carrying the weight of his authority. "And make sure they understand this clearly, we have zero tolerance for any breach in discipline. They serve as our representatives, and I expect nothing less than perfection."
The tension in the room thickened as John continued his scrutiny of the files, the fate of countless souls potentially hanging in the balance of whatever decision he would make.
"Sir, there's a complication," the second agent blurted out, his voice cracking with barely concealed anxiety. His hands fidgeted with the hem of his pristine uniform, betraying his nervousness in the presence of such authority.
John's piercing gaze snapped up from the documents, his eyes blazing with an intensity that made the agent take an involuntary step backward. "What complication?" The words sliced through the air like a sharpened blade, each syllable dripping with carefully controlled tension.
"A warden..." the agent swallowed hard, his adam's apple bobbing visibly, "claimed a soul from one of these lines." The admission hung heavy in the air, the weight of its implications pressing down on everyone present. Sweat beaded on the agent's forehead despite the room's comfortable temperature.
"Was it a sinner?" John's question came out as sharp as a whip crack, his fingers gripping the edge of his ornate desk until his knuckles turned white. The temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees.
The other agent straightened his spine, squaring his shoulders as if preparing for a physical blow. "Yes, sir," he confirmed, his voice steadier now, though a slight tremor still lingered beneath the surface.
John released a measured breath, his fingers beginning a rhythmic dance across the polished wood of his desk. The sound echoed in the tense silence like a countdown. "Then the situation isn't beyond repair," he declared, his voice carrying both authority and a hint of calculated patience. "What's your name, Agent?"
The young man before him froze like a deer caught in headlights, genuine surprise flickering across his features. "I... I wasn't given one, sir," he admitted, shifting his weight uncomfortably from one foot to the other.
John leaned forward, his presence filling the space between them like a gathering storm. His unwavering gaze pinned the agent in place. "I'm not asking for a 'title'," he emphasized, each word precise and deliberate. "You don't qualify for one yet. I'm asking for your name."
The agent's confusion was palpable as he struggled with the concept. "I'm not familiar with mortal conventions, sir, but I named myself Marcus" he confessed, his voice barely above a whisper.
A slow, predatory grin spread across John's face, transforming his stern features into something almost playful, yet somehow more dangerous. "Perfect," he purred, satisfaction evident in his tone. "From now on, you're Cain."
"As you wish, Boss," the newly christened Cain responded, bowing slightly at the waist, clearly relieved to have a designation at last.
The tension in the room lingered like smoke after a fire as John leaned back in his chair, the files still clutched in his grip. "Now," he announced, his voice cutting through the atmosphere with surgical precision, "let's deal with this mess before it spirals out of control."