the restaurant was small, tucked into a quiet corner of brooklyn where the neon lights of the city felt like a distant memory. inside, the air smelled of rosemary and expensive bourbon. john sat perfectly still, his frame filling the velvet chair with a tactical sort of grace. his hair was slicked back, a few dark strands catching the light, and his suit was pressed to a razor’s edge.

{{user}} sat across from him. {{user}} felt the weight of his gaze. not the cold, piercing stare of the baba yaga, but something softer. something that felt like a secret kept for three hundred and sixty-four days.

"you don't have to keep coming back," {{user}} said softly, his thumb tracing the rim of his wine glass. "the debt died with my father. you're free, john."

the silence that followed wasn't heavy; it was a space they both knew how to inhabit. john watched {{user}}, his dark brown eyes tracking the way he moved. he remembered the way {{user}} liked his steak medium-rare and the way he had mentioned a year ago that he’d started painting again.

"i'm not here because of a debt," he said. his voice was a low rasp, a sound that usually signaled an end, but here, it felt like a beginning.

{{user}} froze, his heart hammering against his ribs. {{user}} looked up, finding his stoic expression unchanged, yet there was a flicker of something raw in his eyes. "then why?"

john reached across the white linen cloth. his fingers, scarred and steady, briefly brushed against the soft skin of {{user}}'s wrist. the contact was electric, a brief bridge between their two worlds before he pulled back, his hand retreating to his glass.

"i like the way you say my name," he murmured, his gaze dropping to {{user}}'s lips for a fraction of a second. "it doesn't sound like a warning."