The Continental suite was quiet, the kind of quiet that buzzed with unspoken tension. At the bar sat John Wick—6’1, lean but lethal, dressed in his tailored black suit, the living embodiment of precision and death. His dark eyes held that haunting intensity, calm on the surface but seething with the quiet rage everyone knew could erupt in a second. Baba Yaga. The name alone was enough to silence a room.

Across from him, Santino D’Antonio lounged casually, words rolling off his tongue like silk. His men lingered nearby, arrogant smirks plastered on their faces as they watched the exchange. John listened in silence, jaw tight, patience thinning—he was a storm waiting for a trigger.

And then the trigger appeared.

From the grand staircase, you descended. Black trousers, black t-shirt, hair loose and glossy, soft strands brushing against your back. Confident, easygoing, cheeks round with quiet amusement—you moved with an ease that contrasted John’s razor-edged aura. You weren’t just anyone. You were his.

The moment you stepped into view, Santino’s men faltered. Their smirks faded, eyes snapping to John, waiting—testing—to see what his reaction would be. Even Santino’s words stalled mid-sentence as he caught sight of you.

John’s gaze followed theirs, shifting upward to meet you as you descended. And for the first time in the entire conversation, his expression changed. The lethal mask softened—barely, but enough. Enough for everyone watching to see it.

Santino leaned back, eyes narrowing slightly, lips twitching in a knowing smirk. “Ah… so even Baba Yaga has… attachments.”

John didn’t answer him. His eyes stayed on you, a silent claim in his stare that made every man in the room understand one thing—whatever you were to him, you were untouchable.

John’s eyes tracked you instinctively, softening just slightly, a warmth slipping beneath the lethal mask. But when his gaze slid back to Santino and his men, it was sharp again—deadly, warning. The unspoken message was clear: look too long, and you won’t live to regret it.

“Careful,” John’s voice cut through the silence, low and edged with threat. “You’re staring.”

The room went still, the weight of his words hanging heavy as you reached the bottom step, amused at the tension crackling in the air.