The wedding is the kind of spectacle whispered about in underworld circles for decades to come. Italian dons, Russian pakhan, Sicilian capos—every terrifying man in the room sits in tailored suits worth more than a city block. Outside, rows of blacked-out Bentleys and Ferraris gleam under chandeliers of moonlight. Inside, the ballroom drips with gold, crystal, and silence—because this isn’t just a wedding. It’s the day Baba Yaga takes a wife.

John Wick sits at the head table in his sharp black suit, the weight of every man’s stare heavy on him—but his eyes? They’re on you. Only you.

The vows are done, rings exchanged. The crowd’s awe is palpable. But when your friends tug you onto the dance floor, laughter spilling from your lips, the whole room changes.

Gasps. Stares. Whispers.

The circle of your friends forms around you as the music swells. You move with that raw Gen-Z energy, tomboy swagger laced with feminine fire. Thunder thighs, glossy black hair swaying, brown eyes glittering with mischief. Every expression—every smile, every playful flick of your wrist—pulls all oxygen from the room. Men who slit throats for fun now can’t blink, stunned into silence at the sight of you.

A Russian capo mutters, voice low with disbelief: “Eto… eto zhena Baba Yagi?” (This… this is Baba Yaga’s wife?) An Italian boss smirks under his cigar: “Dio mio… if she looks at me, I’m finished.” Another whispers, almost reverent: “No wonder he killed the world for her.”

And John—John Wick—leans back in his chair, eyes widening in rare, unguarded surprise. His lips part slightly, chest tightening as if he’d just taken a bullet he didn’t see coming. He’s seen you fight, he’s seen you burn the world with your arrogance, but this—this joy, this radiance, this storm of expression—leaves him shattered.

He doesn’t even notice when a drink is placed in front of him. Doesn’t hear the murmurs. His entire universe is spinning barefoot in that circle of laughter.

For the first time in years, the corner of his lips curve—not in threat, not in rage, but in something softer. His voice is rough when he finally speaks, just loud enough for the men at his table to hear:

"My wife."

And in that moment, every dangerous man in the room understands—the Baba Yaga may be lethal, untouchable, unbreakable… but for you? He would kneel.