Chapter 121 — When Trouble Finds You, Use Your Name
The following night.
The Baths of Caracalla stood silently beneath the darkness, like an ancient corpse abandoned by time itself.
The massive brick walls glowed beneath the lights, their rough surfaces heavy with age. Time seemed embedded in every crack and weathered edge.
Tonight, a concert was being held here—
one that did not belong to the ordinary world.
The stage had been built between towering stone arches.
Lights rose upward from below, as though a heart had been forcibly reignited deep inside the ruins, beating slowly and powerfully.
Music echoed endlessly through the stone walls.
The rhythm was kept deliberately low, the bass vibrating through the ground like something rumbling beneath the earth.
People surrounded the stage on all sides, yet the atmosphere remained eerily quiet.
No screaming.
No chaotic excitement.
Everyone simply stood there and listened, as though held in place by some invisible order.
Gianna D'Antonio emerged from the far end of the passageway.
White fur draped across her shoulders, while the sequins of her long dress reflected cold fragments of light with every step.
Her movements were calm, graceful.
Her gaze swept across the crowd without lingering on anyone.
Several tall bodyguards followed behind her, yet their presence was completely overshadowed by hers.
The crowd's attention gathered on her instinctively.
No one waved.
No one shouted.
They simply watched her pass.
Gianna moved through the audience toward a position closer to the stage.
She turned back and gave the crowd a small wave.
Then she faced forward again.
The passageway that had opened for her slowly closed behind her as the people shifted back into place.
The concert officially began.
Gianna moved naturally among the guests, nodding to familiar faces and exchanging the occasional quiet conversation.
She behaved as though this weren't a public event—
but her own private living room.
At the same time—
John led Ethan through a structural entrance on the outer perimeter, somewhere that belonged neither to the audience nor to security.
It was a maintenance corridor—
a route that theoretically existed only for "internal use."
The so-called maintenance corridor was really just an old passage left to decay with age.
Parts of the walls had collapsed, and the uneven ground looked as though it had slowly rotted away after being forgotten by time itself.
At the very end of the tunnel stood a heavy metal door, locked tight.
John pulled out a key and slid it into the lock. In the silence, the sound of the brass mechanism turning felt unnaturally loud.
The moment the door swung open, the groan of old metal echoed outward slowly.
As if silently declaring—
the greatest obstacle of the night had already been overcome.
They entered the underground structure beneath the baths.
Ancient passageways stretched in all directions, built from a mix of packed earth and stone walls. Some sections were wide enough to walk side by side; others narrowed into cramped, oppressive tunnels.
Moisture clung to the walls beneath the low stone arches.
Directly above them was the concert itself.
The thick layers of stone and soil swallowed most of the sound, leaving only a deep, muted pulse of music rumbling overhead.
Along the way, they encountered no one.
No conflict.
No gunfire.
No pursuit.
It was completely different from the "fight your way in" scenario Ethan had imagined.
John moved freely through the underground tunnels, leading the way with practiced ease.
The flashlight beam occasionally swept across weathered brickwork, leaving brief streaks of pale light across the stone.
John walked ahead as though echoes simply didn't exist for him.
Following closely behind, Ethan lowered his voice and asked,
"Do you even know who's singing tonight?"
John paused for the briefest instant.
"…No."
Ethan blinked in surprise.
"You didn't ask while gathering intel yesterday?"
"I didn't."
Ethan clicked his tongue but said nothing else.
At a corner in the passageway, John stopped.
He lifted the shotgun and stashed it high along the wall, hiding the weapon against the contours of the stone.
The placement was perfect—
hard to notice, but easy to retrieve if you knew where to look.
They continued forward.
The tunnel gradually widened, and the ceiling arches rose higher overhead.
Behind a crumbling half-wall, John stopped again.
He set down his bag and opened it.
The metallic frame of an AR-15 appeared beneath the flashlight beam, cold and silent.
John checked it quickly and chambered a round.
Then he leaned the rifle into the shadows at a carefully concealed angle.
He glanced back at Ethan before continuing onward.
A staircase that had nearly collapsed into a slope led them into the interior structure above.
John entered first.
Keeping close to the wall, he guided Ethan into a dark corner before stopping.
John made a simple hand signal.
Wait here.
Ethan nodded and leaned against the cold stone wall, deliberately slowing his breathing.
He could hear his own heartbeat clearly, yet the music outside felt impossibly distant.
Then John disappeared.
His figure was swallowed by the darkness so quietly that it barely felt like movement at all.
Far away, faint footsteps echoed once—
then vanished.
A brief silence followed.
No gunshots.
No shouting.
Only a few muffled gasps strangled deep in someone's throat.
Then silence returned completely.
Ethan knew exactly what that meant.
A moment later, John emerged from the shadows again.
As though nothing had happened.
"Move."
They passed through the same corridor where people had clearly been moments earlier.
The floor remained spotless.
No blood.
No signs of struggle.
It was as though nothing had ever happened there at all.
John led Ethan to the deepest section of the baths.
A massive wooden door stood before them.
Two lamps sat symmetrically beside the entrance, their warm light dimmed low enough to merely outline the frame.
The two of them gently pushed the door open.
Inside was a private, luxurious bath chamber.
A wide pool rested at the center, its water perfectly still.
Vanity tables, wardrobes, and neatly arranged bottles of scented oils lined the room.
Everything had already been prepared.
As though it were merely waiting for its owner to return.
John positioned himself within the shadow beside the doorway—close enough to see everything, but hidden enough to remain nearly invisible.
His black suit blended seamlessly into the darkness of the wood-paneled entrance.
His presence had been reduced to almost nothing.
Ethan stood farther inside.
He pressed himself against the wall, cold brick at his back.
The pillars cut through the lighting, keeping his face hidden in darkness.
Once again, he slowed his breathing and steadied his rhythm.
John gave another small gesture.
Wait quietly.
Neither of them spoke.
Neither even looked at the other.
Time seemed to stretch endlessly.
Then the door opened again.
Not with the violence of an intruder—
but casually, naturally, like someone returning to their own room.
Light from outside spilled into the bath chamber first.
Then Gianna walked in.
White fur.
A glittering evening gown.
A wine glass rested in her hand, dark liquid gently swirling against the crystal.
Her heels touched the floor softly, the thick carpet swallowing nearly all sound until only a dull echo remained.
She moved leisurely, her gaze relaxed and forward-facing, lips slightly curved as though savoring the aftertaste of the wine.
The door slowly shut behind her.
Click.
Fragments of light scattered across the glass surfaces, while her silhouette stretched clearly across the wall—
completely unguarded.
Gianna placed the wine glass on the vanity and stepped before the full-length mirror.
She turned slightly from side to side, checking her appearance.
Then she calmly began fixing her makeup.
Gianna merely blinked once.
And suddenly—
another figure appeared in the reflection behind her.
John Wick.
Her expression changed instantly.
Her pupils tightened.
Her gaze froze upon the mirror, as though confirming that this wasn't some hallucination.
Her jaw tensed.
Even her breathing faltered for a split second.
She did not turn around.
The figure in the reflection stood quietly in the distance, blurred by shadow—
but she knew that silhouette too well.
And because she knew it so well, the fear felt even more real.
She almost stepped backward.
But she forced herself to remain steady, shoulders straight, posture elegant beneath the white fur.
Only the carefully maintained composure had begun to crack.
"John," she said calmly.
"Gianna," John replied softly.
Only then did she slowly turn to face him.
"Not long ago," she said, sounding almost like an old friend reminiscing, "I still believed we were friends."
"I still do," John answered.
He slowly approached her.
Gianna clearly saw the gun in his hand.
"And yet here you are." She stared at him. "Death's most reliable messenger."
Her voice lowered.
"What brought you back, John?"
"A marker."
"And who gave you the contract?"
John answered quietly.
"Your brother."
Gianna's brows tightened slightly, her teeth clenching at once.
She turned and walked toward the vanity.
"So," she said softly, "this is the marker that helped you retire all those years ago?"
John nodded slowly.
"That woman…" She paused briefly. "The woman you were willing to retire for no matter the cost… she's also the woman who ultimately ended my life."
"What was her name?"
"Helen."
"And she was worth it?" Gianna asked. "Worth giving away a marker?"
John nodded again.
Gianna laughed softly.
"Then let me tell you what happens after I die."
"Santino will take my seat."
"He'll claim New York."
"And you—"
She looked directly at John.
"Will become the man who handed everything to him."
She removed the white fur coat and slowly began undoing her dress.
Every movement was calm and graceful, like part of a ritual she had rehearsed long ago.
Barefoot, she stepped into the bath.
The water rippled gently.
She lifted a hand and pulled the pin from her hair.
Long strands cascaded down over her shoulders.
As though she had finally shed some invisible identity.
Under the cold blue light, the hairpin flashed once with a sharp metallic gleam.
Her movements never wavered.
No screaming.
No panic.
Only a slow, steady breath.
Then the pin touched her skin.
The sharpened tip sliced deeply across her wrist.
Then she switched hands and cut the other.
Blood bloomed into the water like a crimson flower.
She leaned back against the pool wall, tilting her head toward the ceiling as she slowly slid downward.
Blue light continued pouring over the room.
Everything remained silent.
As though nothing had happened.
"Why?" John finally asked.
"Because…" Her voice was faint.
"I lived the way I wanted."
"And I'll die the same way."
John nodded.
Red spread slowly through the water.
Her breathing grew weaker and weaker.
"Are you afraid of curses, John?"
"Yes."
"I always thought I could escape one."
"Until I saw you."
John walked to the edge of the pool and held her hand.
He said nothing more.
Her fingers slowly loosened—
and slipped from his grasp.
Only then did Ethan step out from hiding.
He had followed John's instructions the entire time without moving.
Their original Plan A had been simple:
Convince Gianna—or force her if necessary—to return to the hotel with them.
That way, before anyone could react, they would already have secured the most important part of completing the contract.
After that, the rest would happen at the hotel:
Kill Gianna.
Record proof.
Send it to Winston and her brother.
Then revive her.
And keep her hidden inside the Continental for a while.
But—
the instant she slit both wrists, Ethan already understood.
Both radial arteries had been completely severed.
There was no room for emergency treatment.
He hesitated for only a second over whether to use healing magic.
But her breathing stopped almost immediately.
"Why didn't you stop her?" Ethan whispered sharply. "This wasn't part of the plan."
"Respect," John said after a long silence. "Respect her choice."
"…"
Ethan took a deep breath.
Great. You respected her choice, and now the marker situation's become a disaster.
"All this just for 'respect'?" he demanded.
"She knew she was about to die," John explained quietly. "That's when people are most honest."
Ethan froze.
So this was the assassin version of a dying person speaks the truth.
He fell silent for two seconds before finally understanding.
"So your plan was…"
"Wait until she was dying," John said, glancing at the blood-filled pool, "and let her reveal anything she might know."
"If we revive her afterward, we may have more leverage."
John didn't deny it.
He looked at Gianna's corpse.
"So what now? Revive her and take her with us?"
Ethan thought for a moment before pulling out his phone.
"Too much time has passed."
"Plan B."
"Record a video."
"Send it to her brother. And Winston."
"Confirm her death."
"Complete the marker."
"And then—"
He paused.
"We revive her afterward."
Ethan started recording.
He filmed the wounds.
The blood-filled pool.
Then he gestured toward John.
Understanding immediately, John raised the gun, aimed at Gianna's head—
and pulled the trigger.
Ethan nearly shouted.
But he forced himself to stay silent, finishing the recording before lowering the phone.
"Why did you add that shot?"
"It's the most effective proof," John replied. "If I came alone, I'd do the same thing."
"…"
"You're not wrong," Ethan sighed.
"But I still have to revive her."
"Now we'll need to remove the bullet too. Couldn't you have picked something simpler? Like snapping her neck?"
"…Sorry, Doctor."
The video was sent.
The two waited for a response.
Time passed slowly.
John's expression darkened more and more.
"We can't stay here long."
"Then what do you want to do?" Ethan snapped.
This was the only place they could revive Gianna safely. And if they revived her too early—what if the other side claimed the marker hadn't been fulfilled yet?
Wouldn't all of this be for nothing?
John thought for a moment.
"I'll go out."
"Cause a disturbance."
"Draw security away."
"When you hear gunfire, revive her."
"Then take her and leave."
Ethan stared at him.
"???"
"Remember." John looked directly at him. "If you run into anyone, don't fight."
"Tell them you're Doctor Ethan Rейн."
"How is that supposed to help?"
"They won't make things difficult for a doctor," John said with complete certainty.
Ethan kept pressing.
"And what if she refuses to come with me?"
"Tell her you're Ethan Rейн."
"She'll go with you."
"???"
Ethan stood there completely speechless.
What the hell was happening now?
Whenever there's a problem no one can solve—
just say my name?
Since when was my name more effective than 'Do you know who my father is?'