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When the three boys returned home, May immediately sensed something was off.
Her eyes widened. "Did you get into a fight?" she asked, her voice laced with concern.
None of them dared to meet her gaze. Shang-Chi lowered his head—he had been the one throwing most of the punches.
As the strongest fighter personally trained by Wenwu, facing a few high school students was like Mike Tyson walking into a kindergarten. Peter and Ned, to their credit, hadn't let their friend go it alone. Together, they'd held down the bully, Jim, and—ignoring any thoughts of fairness—hadn't stopped until he was crying. It was only then they realized that Jim, the so-called tough guy, was just another kid. He wasn't actually stronger than them; he just acted like it.
None of the three dared to look directly at May. She had never expected that the children under her care would actually go out and get into a physical fight.
Just then, there was a knock at the door.
May sighed, having no choice but to open it.
"John." When she saw it was him, her tense expression softened just a fraction.
"Is Sean here?" John asked.
Not long after his call with Wenwu, John had decided to drop by. He glanced inside and saw the three boys standing in the living room, heads bowed, looking like they'd been caught red-handed.
Seeing the lineup—Ned looking the most sheepish, Peter somewhere in the middle, and Shang-Chi, despite his downcast eyes, radiating a certain stoicism—John couldn't help but think of a signal strength meter.
John quickly got the full story from Shang-Chi. May stood beside him, her expression clearly asking, What do you think we should do?
John didn't get angry, much to the boys' surprise. Instead, a smile touched his lips. "You three did very well."
Shang-Chi looked up, startled. He hadn't expected that reaction at all.
"Sean," John said, addressing Shang-Chi by the name he used, "standing up for your friends is never wrong. I've encountered bullies before, so I understand your desire to protect your friends."
He briefly thought of the time he'd thoroughly thrashed Malfoy back at Hogwarts.
"You need to show enough strength so your friends won't be bullied again," John continued, his gaze warm. "You did a great job, Sean."
A flicker of pride ignited in Shang-Chi's chest at the recognition.
John then turned to Peter and Ned. "Knowing your opponent is strong and not backing down—your bravery would earn you ten points at my school. If your name was Harry, you might even get fifty."
"This is a good thing," John said, his smile widening. "You have courage and friendship. You have people to protect, and you have people who will stand with you even when they know the odds are against them. You swung your fists to protect, and no one can blame you for that."
He patted each of them on the shoulder. "You should be glad this fight earned you new best friends. Force can't solve every problem, but it can make those troublemakers think twice before messing with you again."
He didn't blame them, and May, listening, realized John was right. Compared to the alternative—not even knowing Peter was being bullied—how could she truly blame the children for fighting for their friends?
May turned to Peter, her voice thick with guilt. "Peter, I had no idea you were so unhappy at school."
Peter whispered, his voice small, "You already work hard enough, May."
What a thoughtful child, May thought, her heart aching. She pulled Peter into a tight hug.
Shang-Chi looked down at his own fist, pondering John's words. His father had taught him to use his fists to kill, to dominate. But John… John had taught him to use them to protect. A new understanding began to dawn.
He clenched his fist. John, watching from the side, nodded in understanding and said to May, "Give this warrior a hug too. I think he needs it."
Shang-Chi felt a wave of embarrassment and instinctively tried to shy away, but May just smiled and wrapped her arms around him anyway. His face immediately turned bright red.
John looked at him and grinned. "Why the blush, Sean? Was May's hug that powerful?"
Shang-Chi rubbed the back of his neck, flustered. "I just—feel a little energized, that's all."
John leaned in, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "Energized enough to stop blushing, then?"
Shang-Chi tried to sound serious, squaring his shoulders. "Must be my special breathing technique."
John laughed, a warm, genuine sound, and gave him a playful nudge. "Sure, Sean. Whatever you say."
John thought the matter was settled. Unexpectedly, the next day, he received a call summoning him to the school.
He looked at May, puzzled. "Peter's parents are being called—so why am I needed?"
May explained, her voice tight with frustration, "That Jim's father is a real jerk. I can't let him intimidate Peter or look down on us."
So, John found himself in the unfamiliar role of acting parent.
The fight, it turned out, had consequences. Ned and Peter hadn't hit too hard, but Jim and his older brother had apparently been beaten until they cried—and their overly protective mother had immediately started making a scene.
When John sat in the teacher's office, Jim's parents arrived. The father sported a receding hairline and a face that looked like it had seen too many bar fights. His wife looked just as arrogant and entitled. Jim's father plunked himself down across from John, a table separating them. He pointed a thick finger at John and threatened, "You better make your little brat apologize to my son—or I'll break your legs and make you crawl home from this school!"
May immediately shot back, "It was your son who bullied Peter! Many people can testify to that!"
"Shut up, you witch!" Jim's mother shrieked. "I'll make that little brat lick my son's shoes clean!"
The atmosphere in the small office was tense enough to cut with a knife. Even the school's dean of students was visibly struggling to maintain order.
"Peter Parker and Ned Leeds, along with a senior student from another school, assaulted Jim," the dean said, his voice strained. "We suggest that Peter Parker and Ned Leeds publicly apologize to Jim."
"Just an apology?" Jim's father scoffed arrogantly. "I want them to pay compensation—and take responsibility for their actions!"
"Yes, yes," the dean said quickly, clearly trying to appease Jim's father and putting pressure on Peter's side. "Jim's injuries are not minor."
May was furious. Peter had been bullied and had fought back—yet no one seemed to care about that crucial detail.
John, meanwhile, was still processing. Peter Parker? He realized he'd been calling the boy just "Peter" all this time.
Faced with the other side's unreasonable demands and the dean's blatant bias, May looked utterly at a loss.
John finally interrupted, his voice calm but carrying an edge. "Excuse me—who are you?"
The dean was stunned. He'd been in the room for half an hour, mediating—or trying to—and was only now being asked for his identity.
"Ahem—sir, I am the school's dean of students."
"Oh, I almost thought you were their dog," John said, nodding slowly as if a great mystery had just been solved. "You're so loyal to them—not even bothering to ask why. I should praise your dedication to their cause."
The dean couldn't maintain his professional composure any longer. He knew he was being biased, but he felt he had no choice. Jim's father was a known thug, a lumberjack with a crew of rough brothers. If things escalated, the entire school could face chaos.
Even though he was clearly in the wrong, the dean's face flushed at John's blatant humiliation.
Jim's father, however, had no such composure. He yelled, "Shut your mouth, pretty boy!"
"Make your little brat apologize and pay thirty thousand in medical expenses—or I swear, I'll make sure you leave this school lying down!"
Little brat?
May's eyes blazed with protective anger.
John gently pressed the back of her hand, a silent signal for her to stay calm.
He sighed and looked at Jim's father. "With a mouth that filthy," John said, his voice deceptively mild, "has anyone ever suggested you take a long, cleansing drink from the nearest toilet?"
"What did you say?" Jim's father slammed his meaty fists on the table and surged to his feet.
Before he could take another step, John moved. He grabbed the man's head with one hand and slammed it—hard—onto the wooden table.
Crack!
The bridge of his nose broke instantly. Blood gushed, a crimson tide against the polished wood.
The change happened so fast—so brutally—that no one in the room could react.
John, acting as if nothing extraordinary had just occurred, calmly took out a tissue from his pocket and meticulously wiped his hand.
"First," John said, his voice a low, dangerous purr, "I do not like people pointing fingers at me. Second," he continued, his eyes like chips of ice, "I do not like people saying bad things about Peter in front of me."
He paused, his gaze shifting to Jim's mother, who was now frozen in shocked silence. "Third—have your wife apologize to May. Or I will personally pull out her tongue."
Jim's father was stunned, pain and disbelief warring on his bloodied face. His wife finally found her voice, screaming hysterically that John should be arrested—that he was a monster.
John saw the worry in May's eyes and gave her a subtle, reassuring nod.
After tossing the bloodied tissue into the trash can, Jim's father, fueled by a surge of adrenaline and primal rage, finally recovered. He lunged at John like a wounded bear.
"You're so dead! I swear—I'll kill you!" he bellowed, his voice thick with pain and desperation.
But then there was another sickening crack.
Jim's father stopped moving, his bellow turning into a choked gasp. His arm now hung at an unnatural, twisted angle from his shoulder.
The pain was so intense, so overwhelming, that he forgot all about fighting back.
John patted his uninjured shoulder, a chillingly serene smile on his face. "What was that you were saying?"
Screaming. Rolling on the floor. Agonized struggling.
The dean looked at John as if he were staring at the devil himself.
John straightened his immaculate clothes. "I do not mind letting certain people learn a hard lesson in this rather arrogant society."
He pulled out his phone and dialed a number. "Investigate someone for me named..."
He paused and looked down at Jim's father, who was now a blubbering, sniffling mess on the office floor. "What's your name?"
"Wha—?"
Crack. Another finger was broken. Jim's father screamed like a pig being slaughtered.
John glanced at the dean, who quickly, desperately, supplied the name, "Jason Jim! His name is Jason Jim!"
John nodded and spoke into the phone, "Jason Jim."
He hung up.
John then said flatly, his voice devoid of emotion, "From now on, if anything—anything at all—happens to Peter Parker or his friends, I will hold the Jim family entirely responsible."
"If he stumbles, if he falls, if he chokes while eating—every single time, I will come for you." John smiled, a slow, predatory curving of his lips. "A human body has two hundred and six bones. How many times do you think you can endure that count being systematically reduced?"
Jim's mother screamed, her voice shrill with terror, "I'm calling the police! I'm calling the police!"
"In the face of civilization, you choose barbarism," John said, a hint of regret in his tone. He then added, his voice dropping to a near whisper, "And in the face of barbarism—you choose civilization. How quaint."
"Do your best. Find the most powerful person you can," John invited, his smile now openly demonic. "Tell them you messed with John Wick's people."
"You look for the police," John said slowly, enunciating each word with precision. "They will likely tell you that you filed a false report—and then proceed to investigate every illegal thing you've ever done."
"You look for gangs," he continued, his smile turning colder still. "They will beat you, tie you up, fill your pockets with cement, and sink you in the deep, dark waters of the Atlantic."
He rubbed the ring on his finger, his voice a chilling caress that filled the room. "I truly look forward to your revenge."
Despair—absolute and suffocating—filled the air.
People like Jim's parents, so used to being the bullies, felt true, unadulterated powerlessness for the very first time.
John gently helped May to her feet. "Sorry for the interruption. My time is precious. As compensation for the… disturbance, I will replace all the chairs in this office. And perhaps the table. Maybe five million will be enough to cover the damages and any lingering trauma."
The dean, pale and trembling, could only nod.
As John passed by Jim's father, who was still whimpering on the floor, he leaned down and whispered, his voice a silken threat, "It is more than enough to make you disappear."
After that day, Jim's parents hastily arranged for Jim to transfer to another school. The entire family moved out of the city. They had used every connection they possessed and had finally, chillingly, learned exactly who John Wick was.
He was someone they could never, ever hope to challenge.
Later, outside the school gate, May was smiling, a genuine, relieved smile. John noticed and asked, "What is it?"
"Your people?" May asked, her own smile soft and knowing. "What kind of people are 'yours,' John?"
John shrugged, a rare hint of something almost like affection in his eyes. "Maybe godson," he mused. Then, with a knowing glance, he added, "I can tell Peter—with great power comes great responsibility."
May's smile widened. "He will really like you as his godfather."
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