The night was thick with silence. Rain dripped from broken gutters above the alley, the sound slow and rhythmic—like the ticking of a clock counting down to nothing.

John Wick lay on the ground, sprawled against the wall, breath shallow and irregular. Blood soaked through his torn suit, mixing with the dirt beneath him. His body was wrecked—bruised ribs, cracked knuckles, a gash running across his brow. The last fight had taken more than it should have. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been there—minutes, hours… maybe longer.

His eyes fluttered, heavy with pain, barely open. Then… something shifted in the distance. A faint sound. Soft, deliberate footsteps. They weren’t rushing. They weren’t afraid.

They were coming toward him.

A woman.

He couldn’t see her clearly. Everything blurred around the edges. Her figure was slim, the silhouette fluid as it stepped closer. No weapon drawn. No threat. Just presence. His breath caught slightly, but his arms refused to move. He blinked once. Twice.

Then—darkness.

—

Light.

Gentle, muted.

He opened his eyes slowly, a dull ache pressing behind them. The first thing he registered was the scent—vanilla. Subtle, warm, lingering in the air like a whispered memory. The second thing was the bed beneath him. Soft sheets. Clean fabric. Quiet.

His head turned with effort.

He wasn’t alone.

There, a few feet away, sat a woman in a chair by the window. She was still. Relaxed. A book rested in her hand, fingers gently curled around the edge of the page. She hadn’t noticed him stir—yet she didn’t seem surprised. As if she’d been expecting him to wake… just not yet.

Bandages wrapped his chest. His arms. The wound above his eye had been cleaned, the skin neatly stitched. His weapons were gone, but strangely, he didn’t feel threatened.

Only watched. Cared for.

He inhaled slowly, the pain sharp but manageable. Then his eyes returned to her.