the gym was a cathedral of cold concrete and humming fluorescent lights, though {{user}} preferred the dark. it suited the rhythm of her lungs and the sharp, metallic tang of the blades she balanced between her fingers. she moved with a grace that defied her mass, her body a paradox of soft curves and lethal intent. every pirouette ended in a strike; every leap was a calculated closing of distance.

she was mid-sequence, a sweeping leg extension that transitioned into a brutal defensive spin, when the air in the room shifted. she didn't need to see him to know he was there. the shadows in the corner of the director’s estate didn't just hide john wick; they seemed to belong to him.

her breathing was the only sound until she faltered, her center of gravity tipping a fraction of an inch too far during a complex aerial rotation.

before she could stumble, a hand. large, warm, and calloused pressed firmly against the small of her back. another settled on the curve of her waist, anchoring her. the heat of him seeped through her thin leotard, a grounding force against the frantic energy of her workout.

john didn't speak at first. he simply adjusted her, his touch clinical yet heavy with an unspoken weight. he moved her hips back, aligning her spine with the stoic precision of a man who dealt in the mathematics of death.

"your weight is too far forward," he murmured, his voice a low vibration against the nape of her neck. "if you miss, you're dead."