Gotham Under Boogeyman Chapter 2: Boogeyman's Purpose.

Chapter 2: Boogeyman's Purpose.

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The Falcone estate sat on the edge of Gotham like a fortress, standing above the filth of the city yet still deeply rooted in its crime-stained heart.

John had been inside for two years now—long enough to learn that power didn’t come from wealth or connections. It came from fear. And John Wick was learning how to make men afraid.

Carmine Falcone sat in his study, the dim light casting long shadows across the mahogany desk. He swirled his whiskey, watching the boy in front of him.

John sat on the leather couch, small but not fragile. He was only six, but his eyes belonged to a man who had killed before. Falcone liked that.

“Loyalty,” Falcone said, setting down his glass. “That’s the only thing that matters in this city.”

John remained silent. He didn’t fidget, didn’t shift uncomfortably like other kids might. He just watched. Falcone smirked. “Good. You’re listening.”

He pulled a knife from his desk, a simple stiletto blade, and placed it in front of John. “One of my men,” Falcone continued, “thought he could steal from me. Thought I wouldn’t notice.” He leaned forward. “You think I should let that slide?”

John shook his head. Falcone chuckled. “Smart kid.”

There was a knock at the door. One of Falcone’s enforcers entered, dragging a bloodied, whimpering man behind him.

The man was dumped onto the floor, coughing, gasping. His hands were bound. His face swollen. John looked at the knife. Then at the man. Then back at Falcone.

“You want me to kill him,” John said simply. Falcone leaned back. “No, kid. I want you to decide.” John didn’t hesitate. He slid off the couch, picking up the knife in one smooth motion.

The man’s eyes widened in terror. “Wait—kid, please—” John didn’t let him finish. The blade sank into the man’s throat. A quick, clean kill.

Falcone’s men watched with quiet approval. No hesitation. No remorse. John wiped the knife on the man’s shirt and placed it neatly back on Falcone’s desk. Falcone grinned. “You’re gonna do just fine, kid.”

John was not just a stray under Falcone’s roof. He was being shaped into a weapon. The perfect tool. While Falcone did not consider him family, he had the status of his Ward and no expense was spared for John.

A private gym was set up for him, along with a rotation of trainers—boxers, ex-military, hitmen, men who had killed more people than the GCPD could count. John absorbed everything.

At eight years old, he was already better than most street thugs. At ten, he was sparring with men twice his size, and winning. Falcone watched his progress carefully, like a king raising his own personal attack dog.

“You’re not a soldier,” Falcone told him one evening, watching as John disassembled and reassembled a pistol with his eyes closed. “You’re not a killer-for-hire. You are my blade. And that means you kill for no one but me.” John nodded.

He understood. Falcone had saved his life, gave him food to eat and a bed to rest on. It was only fitting that John repaid the favor with obedience and hard work. Even his past life memories enforced this code of honor.

By twelve, John had already put down his first target. Not a test. Not a lesson. A real enemy.

Some idiot gangster thought he could muscle in on Falcone’s East End territory, thought he could send a message by taking out one of the Roman’s men in broad daylight.

Falcone didn’t send his usual hitters. He sent John- now a 5 time Underground MMA undisputed champion. However he wasn't carrying fighting gloves or a championship but something deadlier.

John walked into the man’s bar without hesitation.

The thugs inside laughed at the sight of a kid. They weren’t laughing when John put a bullet between their boss’s eyes before anyone could react.

The rest? Dead before they hit the floor.

When John returned to Falcone’s estate, his shirt soaked in blood, he didn’t say a word. Falcone just nodded in approval.

“You’re making a name for yourself, kid.” And John Wick never stopped.

Gotham whispered about him now. The underworld knew about the boy MMA Champion John Wick. But that wasn't his only name or identity.

Few knew of his other work. A ghost in the night, a killer too dangerous to be ignored. The whispers called him many things—The Roman’s Dog, The Devil’s Calling and perhaps the scariest one, Baba yaga-the Boogeyman.

While he found it strange he'd retained the same nickname from his first life, John didn’t care about names. He cared about his orders. And maintaining his mission success record, no matter how difficult or gruesome the task.

The warehouse reeked of oil and sweat, the air thick with the scent of cigars and gunpowder.

John moved through the shadows, his small frame covered in a black trench coat making him nearly invisible among the stacked crates and dim lighting.

Three men. Armed. Relaxed. Idiots. They thought Falcone wouldn’t retaliate. They were wrong.

John struck fast. A garrote wire slid around the first man’s throat. A sharp pull. A silent struggle. A body hitting the ground. The second man turned—too slow.

John was already there, a blade out of nowhere, punching into his ribs, twisting deep. The third man tried to run.

John shot him in the knee first. Then the head. Three kills. Less than fifteen seconds.

By the time the flames started licking up the warehouse walls—courtesy of a small, well-placed gasoline spill—John was already gone.

The next morning, Gotham’s underworld woke up to a message written in fire. The Roman’s enemies would burn.

Falcone watched his wolf pup grow into a predator. At thirteen, John was already more lethal than most of Falcone’s men. He didn’t just kill—he studied.

He memorized patterns, weaknesses, breathing rhythms. He could predict a man’s reaction before they even thought of moving.

One evening, at Falcone’s estate, the old crime boss poured two glasses of whiskey. He pushed one toward John. John just looked at it. “I don’t drink.”

Falcone smirked. “Smart.” He leaned back, watching the boy who had become his most dangerous weapon.

“You remind me of me when I was young,” Falcone admitted. “Except for one thing.” John raised a brow. “You don’t want power,” Falcone said, tapping the side of his glass. “You don’t want money. You don’t even want control and I've never seen you look at a woman with desire.” He narrowed his eyes. “So what do you want, John?”

John was silent for a long time. Then, finally, he answered. “A purpose.” Falcone nodded, as if he already knew. “Then I’ll give you one.”

Carmine’s men had power. Influence. Money. But they weren’t untouchable. One of Falcone’s inner circle betrayed him—feeding information to the Bertinelli family.

Normally, Falcone would have handled it quietly. But this time? He sent John.

The traitor sat in a darkened apartment, hands shaking as he counted his money. Blood money. He never saw John step through the open window.

By the time he realized he wasn’t alone, John was already behind him. A pistol pressed against the back of his head.

“You know why I’m here,” John said. The man shuddered. “Kid, listen—I swear, I didn’t mean to—” John pulled the trigger.

The body slumped forward, blood splattering against the stacks of dirty cash. John stared at the corpse for a long moment. Then, silently, he set the gun down and walked away.

Outside, Falcone’s car waited. John climbed in, his face unreadable. Falcone smiled. “Good.” The Roman’s Wolf was no longer a pup.

John had long stopped questioning right and wrong. The streets of Gotham weren’t kind to those who hesitated.

Morality was a chain that got men killed. Mercy was a weapon—one wielded against the weak. John had learned that before he could even read.

But tonight, as he stood over a trembling man, gun aimed steady at his skull, something gnawed at the edges of his mind.

The man wasn’t a soldier. He wasn’t a rat, a killer, or a mobster. He was just a father. And John had been sent to kill him.

Carmine Falcone didn’t believe in loose ends. The man, Lucas Renzetti, was a numbers guy. A simple accountant. Not a criminal. But he’d seen too much. Falcone had given the order: "Kill him, John. Make it clean."

John had carried out executions before. Dozens. Maybe more. But they had all been criminals. Traitors. People who had already made their choice.

Lucas? He had begged for his life the second he saw John. Not for himself. For his daughter.

“She’s just a kid,” Lucas whispered. Tears mixed with rain on his face. “If I die, she has no one. Please.”

John didn’t move. His finger rested on the trigger.

John was a weapon. That’s what Falcone had made him. A ghost in the dark. A legend in the making. And weapons didn’t think.

They obeyed. Lucas fell to his knees. “I’ll disappear. Leave Gotham. You’ll never see me again. Just… just let me live.”

John stared at him. Lucas didn’t know that John Wick never bluffed. If he was sent to kill you, you were already dead.

But something unfamiliar stirred in John’s chest. An echo of something long buried. A whisper of the man he used to be.

A monster would pull the trigger. A monster wouldn’t care. John Wick was many things. But he had never been a monster. Not yet.

John lowered his gun. “Leave Gotham,” he said. “Tonight.” Lucas blinked in disbelief. Then, realizing his chance, he ran.

John stood there in the cold rain, watching the empty space where Lucas had been. For the first time ever, he disobeyed an order.

When he returned, Falcone sat in his leather chair, a glass of wine swirling lazily in his hand. His face was unreadable. “You let him go,” he finally said.

John didn’t flinch. He never did. "Yes."

Falcone exhaled through his nose. He didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t threaten. That wasn’t his style.

“Do you think I let you kill because it’s fun, John?” he asked. “Do you think I send you after men like Renzetti because I like blood on your hands and mine?”

John said nothing.

“I do it because men like him always talk.” Falcone leaned forward, voice dropping. “I built this empire on knowing when to cut a throat before it spills secrets.”

John met his gaze. “He won’t talk.”

Falcone studied him for a long time. Then he sighed and took a sip of wine. “Let’s hope you’re right.”

The repercussions came faster than John expected. By the next morning, Lucas Renzetti was dead. Not by John’s hand.

Falcone had sent another man—one without hesitation, one without questions.

And just as Falcone predicted, Lucas had talked before they got to him. The police raided three of Falcone’s operations that night.

Two warehouses burned, and one of Falcone’s capos was found hanging from a bridge with a rat stuffed in his mouth. A message from his competitors.

John’s mercy had cost Falcone. And now, he was going to pay for it.

John stood in the dimly lit backroom of Falcone’s estate, facing the man himself.

Falcone was calm, swirling his wine, but the air was suffocating with unspoken anger.

“You disappoint me, my boy,” Falcone finally said, his accent more obvious than usual.

John kept quiet.

“I gave you a life,” Falcone continued. “Pulled you out of the gutter. Made you into something.”

He took a sip of his wine, then exhaled slowly. “And in return, you put a knife in my back.”

John didn’t argue. Didn’t explain. There was no point. Falcone didn’t deal in apologies. He dealt in results and consequences of failure.

“Men who disobey don’t get second chances to prove their loyalty.” Falcone said, setting his glass down.

The door behind John opened. Two of Falcone’s enforcers stepped in. John had seen it before. This was how Falcone handled betrayal.

John had done this job for him more times than he could count. The message was clear: No one was untouchable. Not even John Wick. Not even the Roman's Wolf.

The first enforcer moved fast, swinging a steel baton. John moved faster.

He caught the strike mid-air, yanked the man forward, and drove his elbow straight into his throat. A sharp gasp. A body hitting the floor.

The second man reached for his gun—too slow. John twisted the baton from the first man's grip and snapped it across the second man's face. CRACK. The enforcer crumpled.

In three seconds, it was over.

John turned back to Falcone. The crime lord was still seated, still calm. Unfazed. John knew why.

Because this wasn’t a test of strength. It was a test of loyalty. By enduring the baton's blows as punishment, he would be redeemed. But once again John had failed by defending himself.

"Broken limbs will limit what I can do for you sir." John explained.

Falcone exhaled and shook his head. “Ah hell, You’re right. A soldier like you is too damn useful to kill,” he admitted. “But you don’t get to make your own choices, John.”

John’s hands were still clenched into fists.

“You’re a weapon,” Falcone said. “Nothing more. Nothing less. Next time you disobey me, I shall break your hands and legs before kicking you back to the streets. And with the enemies you now have, Boogeyman...everyday will be War. A purposeless, meaningless struggle for survival. Remember that next time you decide to think for yourself.”

John said nothing.