American variety show: Sniper Elite

Chapter 118 Past Events (Part 1) - 6,000 words (Midnight)
When Beta pushed open the door to the safe house, the television in the living room was broadcasting the morning news.

The news anchor's voice echoed in the room: "The victim of yesterday's shooting at Charles's Restaurant has been identified as Simon Black, CEO of Alpha Construction. In another fatal incident, the company's project manager, Fabio Brook, was also killed."

Kataria lounged lazily on the sofa, gesturing with her chin to the screen without turning her head: "All done?"

Beta pulled off his gunpowder-smelling gloves and nodded wearily: "Yeah. I still need to check if the construction site on the 87th floor has stopped."

The sound of running water came from the bathroom.

Catalia stared at the live footage on the television and said, "Let me go take a look for you."

She twirled the remote control in her hand: "It's just reconnaissance, not actual combat, so it doesn't matter who goes. You should rest for a while."

The sound of water stopped.

Beta pushed open the door and stepped out, her mask only half-removed, revealing half of her truly haggard face: "Are you free? Don't you need to be with your boyfriend?"

Katalia scoffed and tossed the remote onto the coffee table: "He has his business, and I have my life. We're not conjoined twins."

She got up, put on her coat, and deftly tied her long hair into a ponytail.

Beta leaned against the doorframe, the bloodshot in his eyes clearly visible: "Thanks."

Katalia walked to the entrance, turning back with a faint smile on her lips: "Who told us our relationship is 'special'?" She deliberately emphasized the word "special," then closed the door so softly it was almost inaudible.

Beta stared at the empty entryway, the lingering scent of oranges from Katalia still clinging to the air. He stood there silently for a few seconds, then let out a soft chuckle: "Heh."

That soft laugh held so much unspoken meaning.

Sunlight streamed in through the gaps in the curtains, casting a long, thin line of light across the floor, right beside his feet, like a dividing line.

He turned and went back to the bathroom. The television news was still broadcasting the latest developments in the two murder cases. In the bathroom mirror, his half-disfigured, indistinguishable face was reflected.
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Beta leaned back on the sofa, forcing her heavy eyelids open, staring at the television screen. The news anchor's voice gradually faded, and the image in front of her began to distort.

In a daze, memories from 23 years ago came flooding back.

Back then, John was a young and handsome assassin who took down three fully armed bodyguards with just a sharpened pencil.

As for Beta himself, well, he was nothing but an arrogant brat. Although he was incredibly bold, he was at most a bystander at a murder scene and had never even actually held a gun.

The scenes from his memory gradually became clearer before Beta's eyes.

The cold wind of a Moscow winter night swirled snowflakes, and the neon sign of the "Tarkovsky Ballet Theatre" shimmered with a hazy, purplish-red light in the darkness. Before the tightly closed, gilded doors, John held little Beta's hand, their footprints crunching in the snow.

"The show's over, come back tomorrow." The woman behind the ticket window didn't even look up.

John's knuckles tapped on the glass again.

The woman looked up impatiently, her gaze first drawn to John's face, then to the silver cross on his finger. Finally, she saw little Beta, who was tiptoeing and clinging to the windowsill, his icy blue eyes sparkling with curiosity under the neon lights.

“John Wick?” The woman raised an eyebrow in surprise, her gaze shifting back and forth between the two men, one large and one small.

"So the rumors are true? You really have a little one." The smoke rings she exhaled bounced off the cold glass.

John looked down at the boy beside him: "It seems so."

The woman clicked her tongue meaningfully and picked up the walkie-talkie: "Report to the female director, John Wick is back."

She glanced at the boy, who was staring wide-eyed. "And he's with his little John Wick." "My name is Saron Wick!" the boy retorted, wrinkling his nose.

The woman grinned, her silver braces gleaming under the neon lights. "Well, John Wick is back with his Saron Wick." She deliberately drew out the last syllable with a hint of sarcasm.

John ruffled his son's fluffy hair, a warm smile appearing in his eyes.

Behind the stained glass windows on the top floor of the theater, the melody of "Swan Lake" could be faintly heard, weaving together with the Moscow night breeze to create a wonderful duet.

The theater was so spacious that you could hear the echo of your footsteps.

The rows of red velvet seats were empty; the only audience member was a Russian woman sitting in the front row.

She held a slender cigarette between her fingers, its jeweled tip gleaming under the stage lights. Whenever a girl practicing ballet on stage deviated slightly from her movements, she would reprimand her sharply in heavily accented Russian, her voice echoing under the dome.

Beta, hand in hand with John, led them through what seemed to him a maze of chairs. Their steps on the carpet were almost silent, but the woman turned as they approached, the smoke from her cigarette swirling before her like a veil.

John knelt on one knee as if performing some kind of ritual, his right hand on his chest, the silver cross hanging from between his fingers.

“Mom.” His deep, clear voice instantly broke the coldness that the woman maintained on her face.

The woman's fingers holding the cigarette trembled slightly as she took a deep drag.

“You don’t need to call me that.” She flicked her cigarette ash hastily. “You’ve long since left this place, and you’re no longer my son. You’re just…”

The smoke blurred her wavering expression: "Just a member of the organization."

But when she caught a glimpse of John's upturned face, her defenses crumbled. The woman abruptly turned her face away, the pearl necklace around her neck trembling slightly with her rapid breathing.

After a few seconds.

"Get up," she finally relented, her voice trembling.

The ballet girls on stage continued to spin.

John slowly straightened up and gently pushed little Beta in front of the woman: "This is Saron Wick, my son."

The woman's gaze swept across the boy's face, lingering for a moment on his icy blue eyes.

She looked up at John: "Don't tell me this child is related to the Antonio family. Of all the gangs in Europe, only the Antonio family in Italy has this damn blue eye that is passed down from generation to generation."

John did not answer immediately; instead, he took off the silver cross from his neck and placed it around Beta's neck.

“I think so.” His voice was low.

The woman took a deep breath and leaned closer to Beta: "So, Jonathan, are you trying to dump trouble on me?"

A ballerina on stage accidentally stepped out of rhythm, but no one noticed the mistake at that moment.

John put his hand on his son's shoulder: "No, this child has severed ties with the Antonio family. Now, only the Wick family blood flows in his veins."

The woman gazed at the cross, which swayed against the boy's chest.

(End of this chapter)