The Hitman's TV Odyssey

The Youngest Shadow

---

The cold silence of the night in Belarus carried the scent of betrayal. Blood seeped into the snow, painting it a dark crimson as John Wick clutched his abdomen. The wound wasn't just physical—it was existential, a culmination of every deal, every favor, every fleeting bond he had forged in his relentless pursuit of vengeance and survival. The betrayal came from a face he had once trusted, a man whose name he had carved into his history of bloody alliances. As Wick's vision dimmed, fragments of his life splintered before him like shards of glass.

He saw Helen, her laugh echoing softly, a warmth that defied the chill encasing his body. Her presence in his mind was a cruel balm, a reminder of the life he had so desperately tried to reclaim. He could almost feel her fingers entwined with his, the faint scent of her perfume cutting through the metallic tang of blood. Then came the flashes of other faces—Santino, Viggo, Marcus. Some friend, some foe, all part of the labyrinthine nightmare that was his life.

The pain was blinding. He thought of his reputation, that mythic specter whispered about in the underworld: Baba Yaga. But what did that legacy mean now? In his final moments, John Wick was no more than a man brought to his knees, his deeds reduced to whispers that would fade as surely as the blood pooling beneath him. Was this the end? A name to be etched into the annals of violence and forgotten as quickly as the next killer rose?

Darkness claimed him, but not entirely.

---

When consciousness returned, it came not with the comforting hum of oblivion but with a violent clarity. John woke gasping, as though surfacing from deep water. His first sensation was disorientation—the weight of his body felt unfamiliar, too light, too alien. He blinked against a harsh light overhead, its sterile glare unfamiliar, almost surgical. The room around him was pristine, walls as white as a blank canvas, save for the faint hum of unseen machinery.

He moved his hand to touch his abdomen, expecting to feel the torn flesh, the sticky warmth of blood. Instead, his skin was unbroken, smooth. Too smooth. His fingers traced the planes of his torso, searching for the scars he had earned through decades of violence. The gash from the knife fight in Rio, the bullet wound from Berlin, even the burn scar from his final encounter with Viggo. All gone. His body felt...wrong. Younger, leaner, unmarked by the life he had lived. Panic surged through him, a primal terror that overrode reason.

A mirrored surface on the far wall caught his eye. Staggering to his feet, he approached, legs trembling with a lack of familiarity. The reflection that greeted him was a stranger's face. The dark hair, the unlined features, the eyes that still carried a shadow of his own, but brighter, more youthful. A face barely past its early twenties. A stranger.

Who was this man?

---

The door slid open with a soft hiss, breaking the silence. A figure entered, "Welcome back, Mr. Wick," a calm voice said. A man in a tailored suit stepped forward. His face was forgettable, the kind that could vanish into any crowd. Beside him, a woman held a tablet, her expression neutral, professional.

"What is this?" My voice sounded alien, unfamiliar. Younger.

"A second chance," he replied.

"John Ryder," the man continued. "Your new identity. California driver's license, social security number, a clean slate. You're welcome."

"Why?" I demanded, my voice sharp. "Who did this?"

The woman spoke this time, her tone clinical. "Consider it a gift. You have talents that are... valuable. Because you are a man of singular focus," came the reply. "Because you understand the value of resolve, and because, despite your protestations, you have always been... adaptable."

It was an answer that offered no comfort.

They refused to answer any further questions. By the time I stepped out of that facility—wherever it was—I had little more than a duffel bag, an LAPD uniform, and a rookie assignment at the Mid-Wilshire Division. Whatever their motives, I was alive. And for now, that had to be enough.

---

Now, I'm staring at the California driver's license: John Ryder, age 24. The plastic card feels surreal in my hand, as though touching it might reveal the lie. A clean slate, they'd said. A fresh start. Yet the storm inside me roared louder than ever. The face in the mirror is a stranger—dark eyes reflecting depths they shouldn't have, framed by smooth skin that hasn't been weathered by time. This body is lean, athletic, but it's wrong. Too clean. Too unscathed. My old body told my story—scars mapping battles fought and lessons learned. This one? A blank canvas, like a book missing its most vital chapters.

The harsh fluorescent lights of the Mid-Wilshire Division roll call room buzzed, casting a sterile glow on the faces of the assembled officers. Ryder, standing rigidly at the back, felt a knot of unease tighten in his gut. The cacophony of chatter, the smell of stale coffee and gun oil, the sheer ordinariness of it all was a stark contrast to the shadowy world he'd left behind. This was the LAPD, and he was a rookie.

Ryder's eyes scanned the room, taking in the faces of his colleagues. There was the grizzled veteran, Officer West, his face etched with years of experience. Then there was Officer Bradford, a man whose posture screamed discipline, his eyes sharp and unwavering. And Angela Lopez, her expression perpetually pragmatic, a hint of weariness in her dark eyes. Finally, Lucy Chen, her bright, almost unnervingly cheerful face a stark contrast to the others.

"Ryder! Get your ass to roll call!" Officer Bradford's voice cuts through my haze, deep and sharp, with the authority of a man who's barked orders for decades.

I blink, tearing my gaze away from the room. The locker room is alive with the sounds of slamming doors and chatter. The air smells of sweat, leather, and cheap coffee. It's a far cry from the sterile, high-tech environments I once operated in. The Mid-Wilshire Division wasn't just a change of pace—it was a whole new universe.

Welcome to the LAPD, where I'm not just a rookie—I'm a wide-eyed infant in a world of hardened professionals. Once, I was a name whispered in hushed tones, a myth, the Baba Yaga. Now, I'm the fresh-faced boot everyone assumes doesn't know a damn thing. The weight of the duty belt feels strange on my hip, the Glock 17 a shadow of the weapons I once carried. Every tool I've been issued is a downgrade—a cruel reminder of how far I've fallen.

Still, there's something… freeing about it. No expectations. No burdens of reputation. I'm no longer John Wick, the legend. I'm John Ryder, the rookie. A clean slate indeed.

---

"Listen up, everyone!" Sergeant Grey's voice booms through the roll call room like a thunderclap. He's an older man, with the gravelly tone of someone who's seen too much and keeps coming back anyway. "We've got a new face joining us today. Officer John Ryder, fresh out of the academy with top marks in tactical and firearms."

A ripple of amusement spreads through the room. A few officers glance at me, their expressions ranging from curious to dismissive.

'Top marks. That's one way to put it,' I think to myself, suppressing a smirk. Try explaining four decades of covert combat experience to a room full of cops who think I'm barely old enough to drink.

"Ryder, you're with Officer Lopez today," Grey continues, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Try to keep up."

Angela Lopez is a veteran training officer, her sharp eyes scanning me with practiced scrutiny. There's a hint of amusement in her gaze, tempered by caution. She's seen rookies come and go, some burning out, some turning into liabilities.

As the room starts to disperse, Lopez approaches me, her hands on her hips. "So, you're the new golden boy, huh? Fresh out of the academy, all shiny and full of promise?"

I give her a polite smile. "Just trying to learn from the best, ma'am."

Her eyebrow arches. "Flattery won't get you anywhere, Boot. Let's see how you handle a day in the real world." She nods toward the door. "Come on. You're with me."

We head for the battered Ford Interceptor that serves as our patrol car. Lopez tosses me the keys.

"You're driving," she says, sliding into the passenger seat.

"Shouldn't the rookie be observing first?" I ask, sliding behind the wheel.

"Nah, I like to get a feel for how my boots handle pressure. Consider this your first test."

The car smells faintly of stale coffee and fast food, a scent I'll come to associate with long shifts and late nights. I adjust the mirrors, start the engine, and pull out of the lot.

We're barely out of the parking lot when the radio crackles to life. "All units, 211 in progress at Spring and 6th. Suspects armed and dangerous, shots fired."

Lopez's demeanor changes instantly. She leans forward, grabbing the mic. "Unit 7A responding. En route."

Her eyes flick to me. "Okay, Boot. First real test. Remember your training. Keep calm, keep focused, and follow my lead."

I nod, gripping the wheel tightly. If only she knew which training I was about to rely on.

---

The scene is chaos when we arrive. Civilians scatter in every direction, their faces masks of terror. The bank's glass doors reveal two armed suspects: one jittery and uncoordinated, the other moving with the calculated precision of someone who's seen combat.

Lopez is all business, barking orders into her radio. "Hostages inside. SWAT's en route. We hold until backup arrives."

But I see the situation differently. The amateur is an accident waiting to happen, his nervous energy threatening to spiral out of control. The professional is the real threat, his cold eyes sweeping the room like a predator sizing up his prey.

"Lopez," I say, my voice steady. "The one on the right—military training. Look at his stance. Left one's just a junkie."

She shoots me a sharp glance. "And you know this how?"

Before I can come up with an excuse, the junkie proves my point by accidentally firing into the ceiling. The hostages scream, their terror echoing through the bank.

Instinct takes over. My body moves before my brain fully processes the situation. I break cover, drawing my weapon in one fluid motion. Two shots, center mass. The amateur goes down, his gun skidding across the floor.

The professional turns on me, his movements precise, his aim deadly. But this body—this miraculous, unscarred body—responds like lightning. I roll, pivot, and fire. One shot, clean through his shooting hand. The weapon clatters to the ground, and it's over.

---

Ryder!" Lopez's voice snaps me back to reality. She's staring at me like I've just grown a second head. Her eyes are wide with disbelief, darting between me and the subdued scene outside the bank. "What the hell was that?" 

"Lucky shot?" I offer, trying to sound as green as I'm supposed to be. My voice is steady, but I can feel her scrutiny digging deeper, her expression hardening with suspicion. 

Lopez doesn't respond immediately, but the look in her eyes says it all. A mix of frustration and curiosity flashes across her face, as if she's trying to solve a puzzle that doesn't quite fit. 

---

Back at the station, Grey summons me to his office. He leans back in his chair, studying me with the intensity of a predator sizing up unfamiliar prey. 

"That was some shooting today, Ryder," Grey says, his tone measured. "Not what I expect from a rookie. Clean. Efficient." 

I shrug, forcing a sheepish grin. "I guess those video games growing up paid off, sir." 

He doesn't laugh. "Whatever your background is, you're a cop now. That means you follow procedure. No lone wolf crap. Understood?" 

"Yes, sir." 

Later, Lopez corners me in the locker room. The air is thick with tension, the hum of fluorescent lights amplifying the silence. Her expression is unreadable, but her sharp eyes bore into me. "Look, Boot," she says, her voice low but firm. "I don't know where you learned to move like that, but don't insult me with 'lucky shot.' Nobody—and I mean nobody—moves like that without some serious training." 

I shrug, feigning innocence. "Just trying to live up to the badge." 

She shakes her head, muttering something under her breath. But there's a flicker of something in her eyes—respect, maybe. 

---

That night, as I drive my beat-up Toyota Corolla through the sprawling streets of Los Angeles, I feel an unfamiliar sensation creeping in. Hope. It's fragile, like a flickering flame in the wind, but it's there. Maybe this fresh start is what I needed—a chance to protect instead of destroy, to rebuild instead of tear down. 

Tomorrow, I'll play the rookie again, hiding the predator within. I'll keep my head down, follow orders, and pretend to be just another boot. But tonight? Tonight, I'll push this young body to its limits. The scars I once carried may be gone, but the skills they taught me remain—and I intend to keep them sharp. 

After all, there's something to be said for being underestimated.