Chapter 2
France, 1916. Somewhere near the Somme.
Rain fell sideways. Mud swallowed boots. The smell of rot clung to everything.
James Shelby sat with his back against the trench wall, heart thudding like distant artillery. His fingers trembled, not from fear—his body hadn't caught up yet—but from the shock of being here. Alive. In this skin. With a rifle resting across his lap and the screams of the dying not far off.
John sat beside him, breathing hard, his face caked in dirt and ash.
"Thought I lost you back there," John said, spitting into the mud. "Went quiet. Blank look on your face. Like you saw a ghost."
"I think I did," James murmured.
John squinted at him. "You hit your head?"
"Something like that."
They sat in silence, surrounded by the groans of the wounded and the occasional pop of a rifle. Somewhere, someone sobbed. Somewhere else, someone prayed.
James looked down at his hands. They were shaking. Not from panic—from memory. He remembered this war. Not just from the brief flashes this body gave him—but from documentaries, books, endless nights watching YouTube deep dives in another life. And from Peaky Blinders. He knew the scars it left. On minds. On families. On Tommy.
Tommy.
He'd meet him soon. If they survived this.
A whistle shrieked up the line. Officers barking. Bayonets clattered. The dreaded signal.
"Up!" someone shouted.
John stood instantly, like it was instinct. "Come on, Jamie. Time to earn your fookin' medals."
James stood slower, adjusting the strap on his rifle. His body moved naturally—trained, hardened. But something deeper had awoken. Something cold, calm, and precise.
> John Wick's muscle memory... and every tactic he'd ever studied.
No one else here could have known the exact trajectory of a Lee-Enfield's recoil, or how to scan a battlefield for the hidden muzzle flashes of snipers. But James could.
Over the top they went—into hell.
Gunfire tore across the no man's land. Machine guns raked the field like scythes. Men screamed. Bodies dropped. Mortar blasts sent dirt and blood flying into the sky.
James moved—ducking low, zigzagging, every step calculated. Not just running—weaving. He dove into a crater and pulled a fellow soldier down with him, seconds before bullets chewed through the space they'd just occupied.
"Christ, Shelby!" the man gasped. "You got a bloody sixth sense?"
James didn't answer. He was already peeking over the edge, eyes scanning the horizon.
Two Germans in a nest—rifles, steady, not panicking. Good aim. He marked them in an instant.
"John!" he called. "Cover me!"
Without waiting for a reply, James moved—graceful, fast. A blur across mud and corpses.
He didn't think. He acted.
He slid behind a chunk of twisted metal, raised his rifle, and fired.
One shot.
The German dropped.
He moved. Fired again.
The second man collapsed, screaming.
His fingers worked the bolt with practiced ease. Calm. Mechanical.
By the time he got to the nest, both were dead. He pulled their ammunition, checked their pockets for maps, and tossed a grenade into the dugout behind them—just in case.
Back to the trench, soaked and panting, he dropped in beside John, who stared at him like he'd never seen him before.
"You're not the same," John muttered. "You changed."
James gave a tired smile. "So did you."
They sat in silence as night fell.
No one talked about the dead. They never did. Just cleaned their rifles, counted their ammo, and waited for the next morning—like it wasn't coming.
But James Shelby—who'd once been James Carter—lay awake staring at the stars.
He knew what was coming.
Not just the war. Not just the politics.
The family. The rise. The violence. The betrayals.
He had a chance now. Not to play god. Not to rewrite the story.
But to survive it.
And maybe—just maybe—make it better.