The crowd hums with tension, crystal glasses clinking under golden chandeliers, every mafia boss from Moscow to New York gathered in one room. Yet all eyes drift, not to the stage—but to him.

John Wick stands near the bar, 6’1 of quiet, coiled danger, his black suit tailored to perfection, every movement deliberate, calculated. The Baba Yaga himself—the man even death avoids. His long dark hair falls slightly over his sharp jaw, eyes locked across the room.

And there she is. Y/N Donovo, the Russian heir, radiant and untouchable. The air between them crackles—unspoken, electric. Everyone knows the rumors: the glances, the heat, the chaos they leave behind.

He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t need to. His voice finally cuts through the noise, calm, low, and laced with warning.

“Careful who you dance with tonight, malayshka… not everyone here survives crossing what’s mine.”