✿✿ Movie Scene ✿✿

Zenith was finding difficulty in walking now.

Perhaps this wasn't a good idea after all. His body wasn't fully healed yet and whacking his head wasn't exactly a brilliant move. Still, it was the only move he could think of to escape with the least amount of risk.

And he had to do it while their guard was down and for them to be under the impression that he was still not recovered.

Well, yeah. He really wasn't fully recovered but that's beside the point.

Right now, he was breathing hard and the rain was pouring down. He didn't manage to find shelter before the sudden downpour.

Now, the wet clothes stuck to his body like a second skin, outlining his toned physique: his muscular arms, firm pecs, six-pack abs and long legs.

He was starting to get cold and that was surely not a good thing.

Zenith managed to create the necessary distance and evade the High Table's goons but if this went on, it wouldn't be long before they caught up with him.

He had changed clothes often, but the body count would probably lead them to him sooner or later.

The network was extensive after all.

Was this a stupid move? Probably.

Would he do it again? Most likely.

Did he regret it?

As his body fell to the ground and he vaguely had a sense of someone turning him around and then carrying him ... he thought ...

Maybe.

✿✿ ✿✿

Zenith opened his eyes with difficulty, wondering where he was.

The last thing he remembered was falling down and someone picking him up.

A friend? An enemy?

Zenith laughed at himself. Of course, it would be an enemy. He didn't have friends.

As his eyes focused, he saw a familiar figure in front of him, staring at him intently.

He was just sitting there like some king, all regal like in his stupid suit, his hands on the armrest and his legs just languidly on the chair. He didn't say a word, but just his presence was enough to fill up the entire room.

Zenith blinked, closed his eyes tightly for a second then opened them again.

The figure was still there.

John Wick.

Father.

Damn it.

Zenith sighed, rubbing his eyes and looked around him. It was a normal room. Not like a hospital ward nor like a prison cell.

There was the bed that he was lying down on, a desk and chair, a one-seater sofa that John was sitting on and heck. A closet and a bookshelf were on the walls opposite him. There were even paintings on the wall, for fuck's sake. The painting was actually painted onto the wall itself - including the frame.

What was this?

His eyes could not detect a single thing that he could use as a weapon right now. There were no escape routes either. If he wanted to get out, he'd have to get through John, who was basically sitting at the only exit route there.

Zenith flung the blanket off him and tried to get off the bed. He swung his legs to the side, only to find himself wobble a bit. He gripped the edge of the bed, partly to steady himself, partly anger at showing weakness.

"Why'd you save me?" Zenith muttered, glancing up and staring at John, "I don't need your help."

John didn't answer but instead, leaned forward, clasping his hands together and leaned on his knees. His eyes never left Zenith's figure, noting how the boy had quickly examined the room for weapons and a way out.

He also noted how the boy realised there was only one exit route and despite the obvious desire to go out, he didn't make a move.

Was it because he wasn't going to push it as he knew he would not make it, or was it because he was willing to stay and listen?

"You really do have her eyes," John said, tilting his head as he stared at his son.

In response, Zenith just glared at him, quiet now.

"Now that I can really look at you, it's not just her eyes," John continued, "You also have her high cheekbones and hair texture."

John's eyes flickered, sadness showing within then he blinked, the emotion gone, "She would have loved you. If she had known about you."

John's heart couldn't help but feel pain at the thought.

The boy was already 14 years old. During the time when they were facing the illness together, thinking of the lost opportunity of having kids together. He never blamed her but she never stopped talking about her wish for one. How she desired for one.

"She wanted children so much," John whispered, his voice wavering a bit, "But she was just too ill to have any children. We couldn't have any children."

Zenith looked at him in shock.

No. Wait. What is he saying? It didn't make any sense.

Jack had told him that his mother loved him very much but his father didn't want him. Didn't want to share his dying wife with another. So he was dumped at the organisation.

So when he overheard the fact that John never knew of his existence, it meant that it was his mother hid his existence and dumped him at the organisation.

When that thought entered his mind, Zenith - who had thought his heart had died - experienced pain that he never knew possible. Again. All this time, he had been cherishing the fact that his mother loved him but it was his father that tore them apart.

Then he found out the mother he wanted so much didn't want him?

It hurt him to the core.

Now, John is saying that his mother couldn't have children?

So she didn't dump him ... but then, who is he? What is he?

Was he just some doppelganger to be used against John?

Zenith's head was spinning. Why was it so hard to understand what was going on??

John could see the confusion on Zenith's face then began to slowly explain how Zenith came about.

"You are my biological son, with Helen," John explained, "It's just that they had used a surrogate mother to carry you to term."

Looking intently at Zenith, John said, "They must have gotten your mother's eggs when she was still healthy. I ... "

John hesitated, "To be honest, I am actually grateful to the High Table for what they did."

Zenith's eyes flashed with anger and hatred, and he bared his teeth at John like a feral animal. John didn't even flinch at that, his face was all calm and reserved. That only made Zenith angrier.

Before he could launch himself at John, however, John said, his eyes so tender and full of love as he looked at him, "For now I have a son. A son that Helen and I had wanted with all our hearts but never could have. They made the impossible, possible."

Zenith was shocked senseless. He seemed to reel back at that emotional pouring of the heart.

Love?

Did he really see the love in his father's eyes?

Zenith shook his head, his heart twisting in pain. An unknown feeling was beginning to spread within him and he gripped the edge of the bed even harder.

His eyes seemed to be twitching and he blinked rapidly to get the unfamiliar sensation out.

The look he had seen in John's eyes. It was an illusion. It had to be.

John Wick never met him before so how could he love him? How can you love someone you never knew?

John Wick ... John Wick ... John Wick would lay his life on the line and do the impossible just to stay with the woman he loved.

Zenith had heard the events that created and solidified the John Wick legend. The killing with a pencil incident. The 'impossible task' incident which laid the foundation for the Tarasov syndicate.

It was the knowledge that John would do that for his wife, yet abandon his own son that made Zenith hate his father.

And hate himself.

Since his father hated him, he was going to become a person that was truly someone to hate. To fear.

Those emotions were the ones that pushed him to the limits and beyond. That created the person he is now. A self-fulfilling prophecy, so to speak.

He is now a person not worthy of love.

So that look in John's eyes was an illusion.

Zenith's thoughts went round-and-round like that, unwilling and unable to accept the fact that the man in front of him loved him and welcomed him.

"I may be your biological son," Zenith said in response, "But that's all the connection we have."

Zenith got his weird emotions under control and he said steadily, his head still lowered, "I owe you nothing, you owe me nothing. I hate the High Table."

He then looked up at his father, his eyes cold as he said, "And I hate you."

Zenith jumped down from the bed, gritting his teeth and stood up straight, but suddenly found himself engulfed in a pair of strong arms.

He struggled, kicking and punching the man that was hugging him but to no avail. No matter what he did, he could not get out of the man's hug.

He was just too weak.

Or so he told himself.

"I love you, Zenith," John Wick said tersely, "I don't care if you hate me but you can't stop me from loving you. You are a part of me. A part of her. There is nothing in my heart but love for you. You say that our only connection is our blood. That is the only connection that is needed."

Zenith was breathing heavily and he started punching John.

"No," he protested weakly.

"Yes," John said loudly, "You are my son. MY son. There is nothing I wouldn't do for you."

"Would you let me kill you then?!" Zenith shouted, trying to push him away.

John let him be pushed back and he looked at Zenith in the eye. Without a word, he took out a gun and put it in Zenith's hand.

Zenith held it, felt it and knew it was loaded. He looked at the gun, then at the man who is his father.

Without changing his expression, he raised his hand and pointed the gun muzzle at his father's forehead, "You think I wouldn't do it?!"

"I don't know," John answered seriously, "But if that is what will make peace in your heart, then go ahead. I can give you the happiness you deserve and I can finally meet your mother."

Tears ran down Zenith's cheeks as he pulled the trigger, emptying the chamber.