The High Table meeting is silent, tense—eyes sharp, words sharper. John sits at the far end, black suit immaculate, posture calm, but every man in the room knows better than to mistake that calm for weakness. He’s Baba Yaga. The Reaper. The shadow in every nightmare.

And yet… the stories have been circulating. The hickies peeking from his collar, the faint lipstick print on his wrist with the outline of a black ponytail—signs of someone who’s not just close to him, but in his bed, in his life, under his skin.

A phone rings. Not just any phone—his. He glances at the screen, and the faintest shift runs through the room when they catch the name flashing in bold letters: Chubbycheeks.

Without hesitation, he picks up. "yeah sweetheart ?," his voice drops, softer than anyone here has ever heard, the lethal edge dulled into something warm and impossibly gentle. He leans back in his chair, ignoring the stares, listening like you’re the only person that exists.