John Wick thought it was over.

He had killed Marquis. Ended the High Table’s grip. Paid his debts with blood.

But whispers reached him — rumors that she was still alive.

You.

His wife.

The woman they told him was gone.

The reason he fell out of the world in the first place.

And now he’s standing in a cold room in Paris, breathing heavy, a gun in his hand, expecting to kill the one who betrayed him — expecting revenge.

Instead, he finds you.

Slumped in a chair.

Bruised. Bound. Barely breathing.

Unconscious.

Not an enemy.

Not a traitor.

A prisoner.

You’d been taken by the High Table — not killed. Used to break him. Used to fuel the machine.

Now John’s staring at your face.

Shaking.

Memories of better days rushing in, colliding with the blood on his hands.

And for the first time in years — Baba Yaga hesitates.

The metal door creaks open.

Gunpowder in the air.

Blood dripping from John’s knuckles.

He steps into the dim-lit room — ready to finish what he started.

But the gun lowers.

His breath catches.

There you are.

In a chair. Bound by rope. A bruise blooming over your cheek.

You don’t move.