Agent 47 vs John Wick

The Arena

The contract on John Wick had grown so large that an agency in Europe finally sent its best: a bald man with a barcode on his neck who had never failed a contract. Agent 47 planned for a week, studying a masked gala at a grand hotel in Rome where Wick was meeting a contact.

47 arrived disguised as a waiter, a tray of champagne in one hand and fibre wire in his pocket. He was a ghost in a room full of masks. John Wick noticed him in under ten minutes.

Round One

47 struck first, perfectly: a poisoned glass of champagne placed in John’s hand by a disguised hostess. John smelled almonds and set the glass down untouched. He knew the old tricks.

47 adapted without a flicker of expression. In a quiet service corridor, he came out of a doorway with the fibre wire, looping it around John’s neck from behind. It should have ended there. John drove his heel into 47’s foot, his elbow into his ribs, and threw him over his shoulder into a service cart, the wire falling away.

Neither man said a word. 47 rolled out of the cart and came up in a fighting stance, perfectly calm. John straightened his tie. Somewhere beyond the service doors an orchestra was playing a waltz, and the two most feared killers in Europe began to circle each other in a corridor lined with linen trolleys.

The Turn

Now it was a straight fight, and 47 is a superb close-combat fighter. He disarmed John’s first pistol, struck his throat, and drove him back through the kitchen with precise, economical blows. Plates shattered. Cooks fled.

But 47’s greatest weapon is never being seen, and that weapon was gone. John Wick fights loud, fast and relentless, in kitchens, hallways and crowded ballrooms, and he never stops moving. He grabbed a knife from a cutting board, a pistol from a guard’s holster, and the fight became the kind of chaos where Baba Yaga is at home.

The Finish

They crashed through the kitchen doors into the gala ballroom, masked guests screaming. 47 drew his silenced pistols, two shots perfectly placed. John took one on his tailored, armoured suit, slipped the other, and closed the distance.

Judo throw, joint lock, a pistol pressed to 47’s chest. The two assassins froze in the middle of the ballroom, surrounded by masked faces. John’s finger rested on the trigger.

He did not pull it. “Who sent you?” 47 told him, calmly and precisely. John lowered the gun and stood. “Then we have the same enemy.” 47 straightened his ruined waiter’s jacket and disappeared into the crowd. Three days later, the client who had put out the contract died of a very quiet accident.