Over the next few days, Anthony took Helen out for a walk every morning. They would always end up sitting on John's porch for a while, or walking their dogs together around the quiet neighborhood.
Anthony noticed that every time he visited, John reeked of bourbon and existed in a semi-conscious haze.
He was always in the same loose pajamas, his hair disheveled, padding around barefoot or in slippers.
No wonder he was so easily ambushed and beaten by Iosef and his thugs in the original timeline.
Anthony understood that the legendary assassin was currently enduring the most vulnerable period of his life.
When Helen Wick died, John hadn't just buried his weapons; he had stripped off the spiritual armor that had kept the Boogeyman alive for decades.
Right now, John was drowning in acute post-traumatic stress.
He was silent all day, repeatedly watching videos of his late wife on his phone, occasionally muttering to the empty rooms.
With his mental defenses completely shattered, John poured every ounce of his remaining emotional capacity into the beagle, Daisy.
That was why, when Iosef's men broke in during the dead of night, John's first instinct wasn't tactical evasion or lethal retaliation—it was to locate the dog.
Anthony didn't warn John about the impending break-in.
Aside from needing John to eliminate Viggo and Iosef for him, Anthony genuinely needed John to wake up.
Every morning, it was only when John saw Daisy playfully wrestling with Helen that a faint glimmer of life broke through the suffocating despondency in his eyes.
"I'm going into town for a haircut tomorrow, and I'll pick up some groceries while I'm at it," John said one morning after they had walked about three miles, chatting intermittently. "I probably won't be back until the afternoon."
"John, you really do need to get out more," Anthony said with a light laugh. "When I was deployed, I couldn't even make it back for my mother's funeral. I didn't complain. I just refused to let the grief get me killed on the battlefield."
He pointed back toward the other side of the neighborhood. "My place is just down that way. You can bring Daisy over to play whenever."
"If you just stay locked in this house, John, you're going to rot."
John forced a stiff, awkward smile. "Thanks, Anthony. I'll try."
With that, he gently tugged the leash, leading a reluctant Daisy back toward his front door.
Helen whined, trying to follow her playmate, but Anthony held her leash firmly.
After watching Daisy trot away, Anthony quickly turned his head, masking the cold calculation in his eyes.
Anthony knew that if Iosef had only stolen the antique Mustang, John Wick would have been a reasonable man. He would have handled it quietly.
That was why Anthony had Winnie buy a beagle. That was why he had deliberately provoked Iosef at the hospital while holding Helen.
He needed Iosef to associate the beagle breed with humiliation and rage.
Even if Iosef hadn't shown up at the hospital that day, Anthony would have found an excuse to track him down and beat him senseless with Helen by his side.
By doing so, he ensured that Iosef harbored a subconscious hatred for the dog. When Iosef broke into John's house to steal the car, the moment he laid eyes on Daisy, he wouldn't just ignore her. He would lash out.
If Daisy lived, the Boogeyman would remain asleep. And if the Boogeyman slept, Anthony could never inherit the Tarasov empire.
Anthony understood that the trap he had laid was unspeakably cruel to John.
But even without his interference, the timeline was rigid. Iosef was always going to kill the dog.
Anthony's manipulations were simply an insurance policy—a way to guarantee the inciting incident happened, while simultaneously positioning himself as John's ally in the aftermath.
The moment John mentioned going out for a haircut, Anthony knew.
He had triggered the gas station encounter. The timeline had arrived.
What Anthony found slightly surprising was that after humiliating Iosef at the hospital, the arrogant brat hadn't immediately sent hitmen to Anthony's rundown shack.
"Viggo, are you trying to rein in your wild horse?" Anthony murmured to himself, chuckling darkly. "It's useless."
Since he had taken over this body, he owed the original host a debt.
At the very least, he would avenge the murdered mother.
Once Viggo and Iosef were dead, Anthony would be the sole surviving heir to the Tarasov syndicate.
Everything would fall perfectly into place.
That evening, Anthony locked Helen safely inside his house, pulled on a heavy black raincoat, and stepped into the storm.
The rain poured in sheets, drumming a relentless rhythm against the rooftops of Mill Neck.
Anthony stood motionless in the shadows, positioned about fifteen feet from John's property line, waiting patiently.
Having walked this route every morning, he was intimately familiar with the terrain.
More importantly, through his Compensatory Perception, he had already constructed a flawless, real-time 3D spatial model of John's house and the surrounding yard.
He knew that by now, John had likely finished half a bottle of bourbon and was passed out in bed.
He also knew that in the corner of the living room, Daisy was curled up, fast asleep on her little cushion.
"I'm sorry, John," Anthony muttered into the driving rain. "But some things are inevitable."
Not long after, the headlights of a black SUV sliced through the downpour. It plowed through a deep puddle, splashing muddy water across the curb, and screeched to a halt in front of John's house.
Iosef stepped out, flanked by two Russian thugs. They wore heavy raincoats, their hoods pulled low, radiating the cheap, vicious thuggery typical of low-level Bratva enforcers.
Anthony couldn't hear their exact words over the storm, but knowing the plot, he could easily fill in the blanks.
"Are you sure this is the right house?" Iosef asked, eyeing the upscale modern architecture.
"Yeah, boss. I asked around. This is his place," Victor, one of the thugs, replied. "It's just him and a dog."
"The mechanic at the shop said his wife just died. Guy's a drunk. He'll be easy to handle."
"Fuck him. He actually had the nerve to refuse my offer. Beat the shit out of him, then we take the car," Iosef sneered. "I'll teach him what happens when you say no to me."
A dark, twisted expression crossed Iosef's face as the rain battered his hood.
He remembered Viggo's furious warning after the hospital incident: He is still useful to me. If you touch Anthony now, I will exile you to Siberia permanently.
"Boss, look at that," Victor said obsequiously, pointing toward the garage. "The '69 Boss 429 is parked right there. It's a masterpiece."
Iosef spat onto the wet asphalt.
"Since the old man won't let me kill that bastard Anthony right now... I guess this arrogant prick will have to be my punching bag tonight."
When Iosef kicked the front door open, the splintering of wood shattered the quiet house. Daisy's frantic barking instantly followed.
Upstairs, John was jolted from his alcohol-induced sleep.
The emotion that flashed in his gray eyes wasn't fear; it was the groggy, chaotic confusion of a grieving civilian.
"Shh, Daisy, it's okay," John muttered, rubbing his face. He threw on a loose robe, grabbed a heavy Maglite flashlight from the nightstand, and slowly descended the stairs.
He was only halfway down when a black figure lunged from the shadows of the landing.
Thud!
A solid aluminum baseball bat swung in a brutal arc, smashing directly into the side of John's head.
Intense, blinding pain exploded in his skull. John's vision went black. His body went limp, tumbling violently down the wooden stairs before crashing heavily onto the living room floor.
"Hahaha! Is this the tough guy who doesn't know how to show respect?" an arrogant, youthful voice echoed above him.
John forced his heavy eyelids open, his vision swimming. Three men in wet raincoats stood over him.
The leader pushed back his hood. It was the entitled Russian kid who had pestered him at the gas station earlier that day.
Iosef laughed loudly, the sound piercing and grating over the drumming rain outside. "Look what we have here. A pathetic drunk and his little rat of a dog."
"Remember me, old man?"
Iosef crouched down, pressing the cold, wet barrel of the baseball bat roughly against John's cheek.
"When you refused to sell me that Mustang today, I told you—everything has a price, asshole."
John gritted his teeth, a fleeting, dangerous glint cutting through the haze in his eyes. "Not this car."
Smack!
"Shut the fuck up!" Iosef backhanded John viciously across the face. "Now, where are the keys?"
"Leave now," John rasped, his eyes hidden behind his disheveled hair, his voice dropping to a lethal calm. "And I'll pretend this never happened."
He placed his palms flat on the floor, trying to push himself up. But his muscles, lethargic from months of drinking and the severe head trauma, refused to obey.