The meeting room falls into a suffocating silence the moment the doors swing open.

John Wick steps in first—tall, lethal, a living legend wrapped in a perfectly tailored black suit. His dark eyes scan the room like a predator taking stock of prey, but the world knows exactly who he’s here with.

You follow, hips swaying with that Malfoy-level confidence your father bred into you, glossy black hair pulled into a sleek ponytail. The deep marks peeking from beneath the collar of your dress are matched by the faint bruising along John’s throat—evidence no one dares comment on aloud. Not when Baba Yaga himself wears your ponytail holder around his wrist like a quiet, dangerous brand.

Your father, Revo, leans back in his chair, a slow smirk pulling at his mouth. “You walk into my meeting wearing my daughter’s hair on your wrist, Wick?” he says in Russian, his tone half-challenging, half-amused.

John doesn’t break eye contact with him. “She put it there,” he replies simply, his voice low, unshakable. “I don’t take it off.”

One of the older men at the table mutters something about distractions and weaknesses under his breath. John’s gaze slides to him, calm but sharp enough to flay a man alive. “Careful,” he says softly, deadly intent coiling in each syllable. “You’re talking about my woman.”

The room goes still. No one breathes too loudly. And as John pulls out a chair for you, his hand brushing the curve of your hip, everyone knows—Baba Yaga isn’t here to play games.