New York

December 1971

It's a cold winter night on the city streets of Brooklyn. A tall, dark- haired man clutches his black leather jacket close to his body with one hand as the rain comes down hard. He is limping slightly, his free hand clutching at a freely bleeding knife wound on his stomach. His steps are silent, the only hint that he was there is the random splotches of blood mixing in with the water flooding the sidewalk.

It's been a long couple days for John Wick, as evidenced by his bruised and slightly broken body. In his line of work – wet work – days like these come often. He's spent his whole life learning fighting, shooting, and tactics. It's a hard life, but it's all he knows, and he is damn good at it. How many times has he come close to death only to find a way out of it, either through his physical abilities, his mental prowess, or even the sheer number of friendly contacts he has amassed during his time.

His stories have become legends even at his young age, those who have witnessed his work respect him for the obvious natural and learned skills he possesses. Many have made the mistake of testing John's skills only to find themselves at the other end of a gun. During his earlier days, these dominance battles happened with a steady frequency, but as time goes on, people seem to be learning that they don't stand a chance.

He trudges further down the road towards his car when a streak of lightning cuts across the sky. He stops suddenly when he hears a faint noise that was cut off by the crack of thunder that shortly followed the flash. Probably a cat.

John continues a few more feet before hearing the noise again, this time louder, an obvious high-pitched wail of distress.

A… baby? Outside in this weather?

No.

He picks up his pace, slowly gaining speed until he slides to a stop at the mouth of an alleyway. Inside, the cries grow louder, echoing off the brick walls. The smell of garbage especially thick in the air with the rain, he forces his expression to remain stoic in the face of the stench. There in a mound of garbage is a wiggling deep blue blanket with yellow stars printed on it where the wailing seems to be coming from.

One slow step becomes two and before he knows it, the wet bundle is in his arms. The crying stops momentarily before another loud rumble of thunder obviously scares the infant into crying again.

With gentle, calloused fingers, he peels away some of the blanket to reveal a head of curly black hair and shocking violet eyes framed by thick lashes, its little rosebud lips beginning to turn blue from being wet and cold. Its lower lip juts out and trembles as it holds in what looks to be a powerful cry. He can feel his heart break for the poor child, obviously no more than a couple months old, left in the cold. How could someone abandon their child on the city streets?

With a furrowed brow, he sifts through the baby's blanket for any sign of who they may be. Then, on one of the corners, is the name Andromeda embroidered in white. Well, the blanket is very apt.

What should he do now? At only nineteen, and a hitman for the bratva, he is probably the last person who should be raising a baby. What he should do is take her to a fire station or something. People do that, right?

But something in those unique violet eyes spoke to him. He found her, he feels responsible for her, like he was meant to find her and take care of her. Already he feels the need to protect this precious girl from the dangerous world he lives in.

He vows then and there to raise her himself, to teach her everything he knows so she will never be a victim again. He never imagined becoming a father, especially at nineteen and living the life he leads, but that's exactly who he is now, her father.

"What do you say, little star, ready to go home?"

New Jersey

October 1987

"Are you sure you want to leave, Andy? Really, I'd feel better if you stayed, you will only be sixteen in a few days, not old enough to live on the other side of the country alone."

"Yes, John, I'm sure. This will be good for me and for you! You get to spend time alone with Helen and I get to set off on my own. Besides, with all the contacts you have, will I ever really be alone? I'll always have help one phone call away. I'll even buy myself one of those new cell phones people seem to be getting into. There's no way I am backing out now after finally getting the place I've been wanting in the neighborhood you deemed worthy. I just feel like I need this, you know? And I think you do, too," I tack on that last bit with a smile, hoping to soften the blow. He's been taking care of me since he was a little older than I am now – just a kid himself. He deserves some time alone with his new fiancée without a teenager hanging around.

My hands remain busy packing up what's left of my belongings in my room into my backpack. I drive out tonight, and my stuff will be there Saturday on my birthday, also Halloween. Presents, cake, and candy? Yes, please.

"Don't say that. Helen adores you and we don't need you to leave. I'll pay you back whatever you paid your landlord," he gives one last ditch effort, hoping to appeal to my wallet for some reason.

"John, stop, I'm going. Please, just be happy for me, support me. I'm really excited about this move; I think it will be good for me."

I can see the moment when John gives in, nodding a little with a sigh. I feel triumphant, letting it show on my face via a large grin.

"I know you said this is about your independence and my privacy, but I'm transferring some money to your account to help you get started and stay floating while you get your feet under you. Don't argue, this is my compromise."

I want to point out that I have plenty of my own money and I even have a way to make more once I get there, but he already knows this so it's not worth it. John has always taken care of me from before I can even remember. He's told me the story a thousand times since I was old enough to ask. The two of us have always been a team and I am not unaffected by this change. John is the only family I know. I know Helen cares about me, I know that she even loves me, but it's not the same. John is more than my father; he is my best friend. He taught me almost everything I know.

I lovingly pack away my guitar last, placing it next to my violin by the door. I'll be bringing those in the car with me. No way in hell am I letting any disgruntled movers manhandle my instruments. Those instruments and my song notebook are what help me get through the day sometimes, I'd be devastated if I lost them.

"Are you sure you don't want to stay for your birthday?" His tone makes me pause. He sounds almost sad now, and it breaks my heart a little.

I reach over and give his hand a reassuring squeeze. "I can't, I have that whole thing planned already. I have people to meet and things to gather beforehand. This is my first solo mission, and you know how much that means to me. I hate that I won't be here for my birthday, but we will see each other on Christmas, right?"

He nods and gives me one of his small smiles. "Yeah, of course, Andy. Either you can come here, or we can come to you, see your new place."

"Yeah, I'd really like that," I say honestly before slinging my backpack over my shoulder and grabbing my instruments, leaving my suitcase for John. "Come walk me out?"

We quietly make our way down the stairs to the garage where our cars are parked. We have the same car, a 1969 Ford Mustang Mach 1, his is black with white stripes down the middle while mine is a solid black. I loved his car so much; I wanted one of my own. He bought mine used a year ago and we spent some time fixing it up together. Now she is all fixed up like new and she is beautiful.

I store the cases in the back of the car before tossing my backpack on the passenger seat. John closes my trunk after depositing my suitcase and walks up to me. "I, uh, have something for you," he mutters, obviously slightly uncomfortable. This must mean something to him, he gets like this sometimes when things get emotional.

He holds up his hands, indicating he wants me to stay before disappearing back in the house. After only a minute, John returns with a familiar-looking leather jacket. "I want you to have this." He doesn't have to explain the significance behind the gesture, I can feel it without it needing to be said. I take the jacket from him and shrug it on, noting that it was slightly too big on me, but nothing too obnoxious, I can still move freely.

"Thank you, Dad." I ignore the burning in the back of my eyes and give into my urge to hug him. This feels like a hugging moment. I know this isn't goodbye, but it feels like it. We haven't been apart for more than a few days at a time before. Living life on my own will be an adjustment but I refuse to give up before I even try. I feel like I need to set off on my own, make a name for myself outside of 'John Wick's Daughter.'

"You're welcome, little star."

Before the tears can spill, I pull back from his embrace and fish my keys from my pants pocket. "Well, I have to get on the road if I am going to be there before the furniture gets delivered. I'll call you as soon as I get there, okay?"

He doesn't say anything more, just nods and waves as I get into the car and back out of the garage, off to start my new life in San Francisco.