John Wick in Avatar the Last Airbender

John floated in the air before the valley of mist, his piercing gaze fixed upon the ever-shifting veil before him. The mist was not merely thick; it was alive, writhing and twisting as if whispering secrets beyond mortal comprehension. The valley itself seemed timeless, untouched by the world beyond.

His fingers flexed slightly, as if testing the very air around him, and then, with a measured breath, he made his decision. He surged forward, wings of air bending beneath his will.

Yet, the moment the mist brushed against his form, he felt it; something reaching into him. It was not an attack, nor was it a warning. It was simply taking.

Taking his bending.

The flow of chi within him screamed in silent terror, unravelling as if desperately trying to escape an unseen hand. He lost altitude instantly, his controlled flight breaking apart as gravity asserted itself.

Yet, he had anticipated as much. He twisted his body, letting his feet touch the ground in a controlled skid, dust kicking up around him as he landed.

A lesser bender would have panicked.

A weaker mind would have hesitated.

John merely walked forward. Each step into the valley brought an eerie sensation creeping up his spine. He had felt powerful spirits before; the lingering presence of the airbender monk, the domineering force of the owl spirit, the overwhelming power of the old chi-bender, but none had made his chi react like this.

This was not an enemy, nor a guardian. This was something else entirely. And he knew who he was walking toward. The legends whispered of a being more ancient than Wan Shi Tong, a force even the spirits dared not name lightly.

"The Hand that tampers with Time. The Worm that deceives Fate. The Error that should not."

John had seen strange titles before, but there was something... off about this one. It was not a name of reverence nor fear, but one of anomaly, an entity that simply was not supposed to be. The mist thickened, swirling as if aware of his presence.

John did not falter, his expression unreadable as he continued forward.

Then, without warning, the mist parted. A lone figure stood before him. He was no beast, no abomination of nature or twisted reflection of reality.

He was a man.

A human, or at least something close enough to resemble one. He was draped in a flowing black gown, stitched with arcane patterns that shimmered when looked at from certain angles. A pointed black wizard's hat adorned his head, ever so slightly tilted, casting an odd shadow over his features. Upon his right eye sat a silver-rimmed monocle, its crystal lens reflecting something far deeper than mere light. His lips curled into a knowing smile, neither cruel nor kind; merely... entertained.

John stopped a few paces away, his gaze unreadable. He studied the man, as the man studied him. The silence stretched between them, thick as the mist surrounding the valley.

Then, the man chuckled. It was a soft sound, filled with amusement, but underneath it lurked something else; something ancient and unknowable, "Ah," the figure said, his voice smooth, cultured, yet carrying an odd echo to it, "A traveller who walks paths unseen, yet sees only what is before him. Fascinating."

John remained silent, his mind carefully absorbing every nuance of the figure's presence.

The man adjusted his monocle slightly, as if peering through reality itself, "I was wondering when I'd have a visitor. It's been quite some time, you know. Or perhaps it hasn't? Time is such a fickle thing~"

John's eyes narrowed slightly, but his voice remained steady, "Who are you?"

The smile widened ever so slightly, "A question with many answers."

He took a step forward, yet the distance between them remained unchanged, "I suppose you might call me Amon. But names are such... unreliable things, aren't they?"

John did not react, though internally, he weighed every word carefully. A spirit? A spectre? Or something beyond?

Amon gestured lazily at the mist around them, "Tell me, traveller. What is it you seek, stepping into a place forbidden by the face-forger and the tentacled glow-worm… oh, but perhaps he is already stripped of his form… or not yet?"

John exhaled slowly; ignoring the soft rambling of the spirit, his answer calculated, "Knowledge and safety."

Amon chuckled again, his gaze twinkling with something far too clever, "Ah, how very human of you. Seeking knowledge, yet never questioning the price."

John said nothing. He had already met a spirit who spoke in riddles. He would not be played like a fool.

Amon tilted his head, his expression unreadable, "Your chi…" he gestured vaguely toward John, "It resists, even now. It does not like me. Curious, don't you think?"

John glanced down at his own hands, feeling the subtle tremor beneath his skin, the way his energy still recoiled like a cornered animal, "I've never felt anything like this before," he admitted.

"Of course not," Amon said simply, "Because I do not belong."

John's gaze sharpened, "Then why are you here?"

Amon's smile did not fade, but something behind his eyes flickered, like a shadow stretching in candlelight, "That, my dear traveller, is a question I no longer have an answer to."

He lifted a hand, and for the briefest moment, John saw something… something vast, something incomprehensible. A shadow stretching through time itself, something that should not have been, yet undeniably was.

And then, just as quickly, it was gone. Amon let out a breath, as if exhaling something deep within, "But enough of that," his demeanour lightened once more, as though the moment had never occurred, "Come, we cannot have a proper conversation like this."

He flicked his wrist, and from the mist, a small wooden table appeared, draped in an elegant black cloth. Two chairs materialized, facing one another. Atop the table, a fine porcelain tea set sat, steam rising from a single teapot. The scent of something rich and fragrant filled the air. Amon gestured grandly.

"Tea?" John regarded him carefully, then slowly stepped forward. He took the seat across from Amon, his movements deliberate, "Do all spirits love tea?"

Amon simply smiled, pouring the tea, the liquid a deep amber, swirling in his cup like liquid gold. John took the offered drink, his fingers wrapping around the porcelain. He did not drink just yet. Amon, however, raised his own cup with a smirk, his monocle catching the faintest glimmer of light.

"Now then," Amon said, voice smooth as silk, "Tell me, traveller, what is it you truly seek?"