John Wick in Avatar the Last Airbender

Aang sat atop Appa, the steady rise and fall of the sky bison's breathing the only thing grounding him in reality. His fingers absentmindedly traced the arrow tattoo on his wrist as his mind drifted back to his conversation with Bumi.

It had been a miracle finding him in Omashu. Amidst all the chaos of war, seeing his old friend; still as wild and unpredictable as ever, had been a brief flicker of warmth in an otherwise endless storm of despair. But even that warmth had been short-lived.

Bumi had looked at him with those sharp, knowing eyes, far too intelligent for a boy their age. His usual playfulness had dimmed, replaced by something heavier. Something sad.

"I heard something, Aang," Bumi had said, his voice unusually solemn, "Something about the Air Nomads."

Aang had felt his heart tighten. He already knew. He had felt it while he was escaping, the deep pain on a spiritual level.

But still, he had asked, "What?"

Bumi hesitated. That alone had made Aang's stomach churn. Bumi never hesitated. Not when jumping off Omashu's mail chutes. Not when challenging full-grown warriors to ridiculous dares. Not when doing something utterly reckless and dangerous.

But now, he had hesitated.

"There was… a firebender," Bumi finally said, "One who wasn't part of the attack. He didn't fight, didn't join the others. He just watched. And then he saw something."

Aang swallowed hard, "What did he see?"

Bumi's lips pressed into a thin line before he answered, "He saw an airbender massacre all the 200 firebenders."

The words had hit Aang like a stone to the chest. He had blinked, unsure if he had heard correctly.

"What?"

"The firebenders were winning," Bumi continued, "They had already killed so many airbenders. An older Monk had put up some resistance, but only in defending and redirecting the airbending attacks, only to fall not long after. And then; this airbender, this one airbender, slaughtered them."

Aang shook his head. It didn't make sense. Airbenders didn't kill. That was not their way. And yet…

"The firebender said the survivors called him Kalsang…"

That name. Aang felt his breath catch in his throat. He knew that name. He had always known that name. Kalsang. The strongest airbender of their generation. The monk who, despite his youth, had been revered for his skills, but also disliked by the older monks for his style of airbending. He had been wise, calculating, always watching; always learning.

But he had also been kind. Stern, but kind. Aang had trained with him. Looked up to him. And now, Kalsang was a killer.

Aang's hands trembled.

"Where is he?" Aang had asked.

Bumi had shrugged. "I don't know. The firebender only overheard the survivors calling him that before they fled. No one knows where they went. Some say the Fire Nation is still hunting them."

Aang's stomach churned, 'So, there were survivors.'

The smallest flicker of hope had ignited in his heart.

And yet… Kalsang had killed.

Aang could hardly fathom it. He could hardly accept it. Was it true? Had Kalsang truly broken the sacred principles of the Air Nomads? Or was it just a twisted story, shaped by the horrors of war?

Aang had wanted to ask more. To press Bumi for details. But the conversation had ended there, and Bumi had changed the subject, forced a laugh and dragging Aang off for some ridiculous stunt through Omashu's streets.

Now, alone in the skies, that conversation played over and over in Aang's mind, clawing at his heart, twisting like a knife in his chest.

There were survivors. But at what cost?

The sky above was endless, stretching infinitely in every direction, but for the first time in his life, it felt suffocating. Vast, empty, meaningless.

Aang clutched at his chest, his fingers digging into the fabric of his robes as though trying to physically hold himself together. The wind howled past him, tugging at his clothes, whispering in his ears, but all he could hear were the screams.

His people's screams. The gentle laughter of the monks, the quiet rustling of robes in the temple halls, the low hum of morning chants; gone.

Replaced by fire.

By death.

By silence.

Appa let out a low, concerned rumble beneath him, but Aang barely noticed. His breathing was coming fast, shallow. His mind was unravelling, torn between memory and reality.

He had run. He had abandoned them.

His hands trembled as he gripped Appa's fur tighter, as if holding on for dear life. He should have been there. He should have done something. Maybe if he had stayed. Maybe if he had fought.

Maybe… maybe…

But no. He had fled.

He had fled and left them to die. He squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head violently as if trying to rid himself of the truth.

"Kalsang survived," he whispered to himself. "There are others. There are survivors."

But the words were empty. A desperate grasp at something… anything… to keep from drowning.

The world tilted. His mind blurred.

He saw flashes of fire. Bodies littering the temple grounds. The air, thick with smoke.

"Monk Gyatso…" his voice cracked, the name barely leaving his lips.

Monk Gyatso, who had guided him. Who had loved him like a grandson. Who had always smiled at him, even when he caused trouble.

Aang suddenly saw his skeleton. A skeleton. A dry, lifeless husk burned away by relentless fire where a man had once stood. Where life had once been.

And it was his fault. He should have been there. He should have fought. He should have…

A sob tore itself from his throat, raw and broken. His entire body shook as he buried his face into Appa's fur, his breath coming in sharp gasps.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, over and over again.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry…"

But there was no one left to hear it…