Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Hope and Redemption

Chapter 1

Rei Lee

Rei didn’t know why Winston kept her around. It had been one year since she arrived, with nothing but the blood-stained clothes on her back, and a name. But apparently that had been good enough for the silver-haired proprietor of the New York Continental. She knew she didn’t have the luxury to question his goodwill. She was more grateful than curious.

She tried to make herself useful in the hotel. She had been a doctor, a surgeon in training. But her knowledge of general surgery had no use here. A place where internal injuries meant certain death for her “clients”. She was little else than a stitch doctor and a druggist of dubious medicine. She did not complain, and traded shifts with the elderly Chinese man, referred to only as “The Doctor.” He was a kind mentor, even if he was gruff, and never revealed his real name. He taught her how to deal with the assassins they serviced. Which ones were friendly, which were good tippers. Which had tempers. One could never be too careful, even under the protection of Continental rules.

It wasn’t easy in the beginning. There was a time when she drank two fingers of brandy before every shift to stop her hands from trembling. She still felt disconcerted under the scrutiny of those who dealt so casually with death and violence, but routine won over fear. She welcomed that routine. Working late nights on clients at the hotel, helping The Doctor sort and count his shipment of drugs, dispensing and counting their stock. Work kept her mind off of things.

It was the days when she had nothing to do but sit in darkness with her thoughts that were the hardest. She had a room on the staff floor, above the laundry service. It was where the more permanent staff lodged so they could be on-call, 24/7 if necessary. She used it only for sleep, preferring distraction to solitude, though she couldn’t say she socialized much.

It was on days like this, when she had little to do, that she haunted the hotel grounds like a pale ghost. It was an apt description. She hadn’t been outside the hotel much, besides the rooftop terrace to get fresh air. She was an introvert naturally, but more so in this place. During the day she sat in a corner of the lounge, face hidden behind the antique books from Winston’s impressive library. At night, she made her way to the bar to sit in companionable silence with Addy, the club’s bartender, to enjoy the raucous jazz music, and take note of the newcomers and regulars.

Addy was one of the few she genuinely liked here, besides Winston and The Doctor. The tattooed beauty was vibrant, open, and friendly. She told her stories about the regulars, and she had an encyclopedic knowledge of alcohol that belied her carefree attitude.

“Doc, you have to try this.” 

It was early evening, and the club was just opening. Rei looked up from a leatherbound edition of “The Canterbury Tales,” as Addy slid her a shot glass of clear liquid. She took the glass automatically, smiling as the auburn haired bartender leaned expectantly on her delicate elbows. The glass was slightly warm. 

“ Kanzake .” The warm, velvety feel of the savory rice wine brought back a flood of memories, not all of them welcome. Rei downed the rest of the glass hurriedly, ignoring Addy’s slight frown.

“You’ve heard of it! You know you’re supposed to sip on it.. Like tea..”

Rei shrugged, back to scanning the pages of her book. Undeterred, Addy continued.

“A friend of mine brought it from Kyoto. That’s real premium sake.”

Rei nodded, her eyes still scanning her book, hoping Addy would drop it. She knew Addy was curious about her past. But even after a year she wasn’t ready to talk about Japan. Even Winston didn’t ask.

“Heated to a perfect 100 degrees. Want another one?” Those green eyes sparkled, warm and open. Rei hesitated, guilty at ignoring possibly her only female friend.

“It’s lovely. I would love one.”

Addy smiled, reaching under the bar to pour her another glass of warm sake. But she wasn’t going to drop it. “You know.. I’m here if you ever need to talk about anything, Doc.”

Rei shut her book and turned her full attention to her friend. “I know Addy.” She took a sip of the sake, for Addy’s sake. 

“It’s been a year since I met you, and you still don’t look well.” Addy’s quiet, serious tone startled her. Her green eyes were earnest, her hands slowly reaching out to touch the tip of Rei’s fingers. “Sometimes it helps to talk..”

Rei couldn’t help it. She didn’t like that she looked and felt vulnerable, even to a friend. She pulled her hand away slowly, hoping she wasn’t offending. “Thank you Addy.” She meant it. But talking about the past made it all too real. Perhaps she was in a suspended state of denial, but it was all her mind could handle, even now. She gave the defeated looking bartender a tender smile, and thumbed back to her place in the book.

***

Winston arrived hours later, reading glasses askew on his nose, dressed immaculately in a pin-striped, three-piece, grey suit. As busy as the man was, running his underworld, he always made time to lounge in the club, a martini in his hand. 

Rei enjoyed his company, and she had to admit it was more than a kinship. She felt safe near him. He was a shrewd, strong man, and she owed him, though he never asked her for anything. She made her way to his corner booth, book in hand, a snifter of brandy in the other. He greeted her with one of his rare smiles, his steel-blue eyes twinkling as he raised his martini to her in jest.

“Good evening my dear. Not getting in any trouble are we?”

“I hope not.” Rei replied, smiling back and settling next to him. “How’s hades?”

“Operational.” Winston chuckled. It was a shared love of theirs, Greek and Roman mythology. And it wasn’t exactly a stretch to equate the Continental with hell. Winston gave her one of his mysterious looks, his eyes twinkling with some kind of secret. “Some interesting news.”

Rei took a sip of her brandy, enjoying the subtle sweetness on her tongue. She knew better than to pry into his business. The jazz singer was belting out a particularly catchy number, and the steady mixture of alcohol in her belly was warming her pleasantly. 

“What interesting news?” She asked, still distracted by the singer’s husky tune.

“I’m almost certain to have a visit from an old friend.”

Rei raised an eyebrow at him, wondering at his cryptic “news.” A man like Winston did not speak in half-certainties. Nor was a visitor all that unexpected, he had dozens of them every week.

“A visit from a friend— doesn’t sound all that interesting.” She replied, giving him her full attention.

“Oh, that depends entirely on the friend.” Winston’s smile was strangely fond, as he took a sip of his martini. 

Rei watched her companion, his eyes now faraway, seeing something in his memory. A flicker of a smile passed his lips, but there was no warmth in his cold grey eyes. 

“There won’t be trouble?”She didn’t like the look in his eyes, like he was weighing something meticulously.

Winston laughed, noticing the look on her face. “There’s always trouble in hades, my dear.” His face softened, and his hand reached out to cover her hand with his. Rei wondered vaguely what about her expression inspired so much pity. “But nothing to trouble you.”

She slid back her hand for the second time that evening, and offered her practiced smile. “Thanks, Win.”

Winston waved his hand dismissively, as he always did. “Nonsense. Your mother was a cherished friend of mine.. and so are you.” His eyes were gentle, almost fatherly. Rei couldn’t help the flush coming to her cheeks. She was achingly lonely and unused to endearments. Somehow, Winston made her feel like a child, not the 32 year old woman she was.

“You never told me how you knew each other..”

“That’s a very long story, for another night.”

Rei smiled ruefully, knowing the man was full of secrets. “About your visitor.. What makes them so special?”

Winston looked at her thoughtfully, as if digesting the question. “He is a man of contradiction, and a man with an iron will.” He looked at her carefully. “Not unlike you.”

“Like me?” She blinked, wondering if he was teasing her.

“Yes.” Those blue eyes pierced her, not a trace of mirth on his face. He did not offer further explanation.

As fond as she was of him, she didn’t like that he had a gaze that seemed to see right through her, as if the taint of blood that stained her from Tokyo to New York was clearly visible in her every step. She swirled her brandy, trying to ignore the nerves in her belly. “You speak in riddles.”

Winston offered her an apologetic smile, his expression instantly relaxing. “It was meant as a compliment, my dear.”

Rei was about to question him further, when a tall figure approached the table. He was a man she had never seen before, clad in a smart black suit. It was a handsome face, noticeable even when marred by fresh bruises and cuts, and covered by a short beard. It was his eyes she noticed immediately. Black, like his slicked back hair, vengeful, full of grief. She averted her eyes quickly when she noticed those eyes boring back into hers.

“Speak of the devil, Jonathon.”

There was a palpable pause in the hubbub of the club, as Winston said those words. Nobody stared, but even she noticed the slight pause in the murmur of conversation. She could feel discreet eyes on them.

“Winston.” His voice was surprisingly deep. She held his gaze this time when he turned to her. Something about the raw emotion in his eyes was intriguing, a rarity in a place like this.

“Ah, this is Rei, one of our Doctors.”

She nodded at him in greeting, still inspecting him, wondering what Winston could possibly think the two of them had in common. 

“I heard you were old friends sir.” She glanced at Winston, “I expect you have some catching up to do.”

Winston gave her a fond smile, taking her hand and brushing it against his lips. Rei resisted the urge to roll her eyes,  but she felt him slip a scrap of paper in her hand. Without saying anything further, she stood from her seat and made her way to the bar.

Addy greeted her immediately, busy mixing drinks from behind the counter. “Need a refill, Doc?”

“No, Addy.. But who is that man with Winston?”

Addy peered in the direction briefly, her eyes widening. “Holy shit, that’s John Wick.”

Rei frowned. The name was familiar—like a whispered threat. Something about that name held a lot of weight in this world, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on which story he belonged to..

“Wait. You mean the Russian Boogeyman?”

Addy nodded, still peering at the table. “That’s the one. I wonder why he’s here..” She sighed sadly. “I heard his wife just died.”

Rei nodded, understanding now the look of deep grief etched on the man’s face. “How terrible. No wonder he looks.. rough.”

Addy gave her a pointed look, her eyebrows raised as if to say “look who’s talking.” Rei ignored that look, and opened the scrap of folded paper in her hand. The top simply read, “Give this to Addy.”

“Here Addy, from Winston.”

Addy took the note without hesitation. It wasn’t the first time Winston pulled one of these stunts. The man lived for secrecy.

“Is this the guy who killed nearly a hundred...”

Addy nodded, topping off her drink. “Yes.”

“And he did it because..”

“To live in peace with the same wife who just died. Cancer I think.”

“I guess even the Baba Yaga can’t escape tragedy.”

Addy laughed, shaking her head. “He’s a good man, despite his reputation.”

Rei raised her eyebrow at Addy, wondering how the deadliest assassin in New York, at least by reputation, could be considered a “good man.” 

“Don’t give me that look, Doc. You know what I mean..” Addy expertly slid three drinks down the bar for a waiting server, before turning back to her. “He’s a man who loved his wife, wanted to find peace. He deserved more than the years he got.”

Rei nodded sadly, taking a drink of her brandy. She knew the hefty price of love. She clenched her hand on the glass, forcing herself not to go back to those thoughts.

“Doc, are you alright?”

Before she could answer, the named legend approached the bar, glancing at Rei before turning to an elated Addy.

“Holy Shit, Jonathon!” Rei watched as Addy half embraced him, pressing a kiss to his cheek. The man looked uncomfortable at the gesture, standing stiff in his suit. In this light, Rei noted a cut on his cheek, still red and healing.

“Hey Addy.”

“My god, how long has it been, four years?” Addy was smiling, vibrant, beautiful. Rei tried to look away, but the exchange was fascinating, like watching a goddess mingle with a demon.

“Five and change.”

“So tell me, how was life on the other side?”

The man’s face softened, the grief etched in every line of his rugged face.“It was good, Addy. Far better than I deserved.”

Addy looked mildly uncomfortable, as if she realized she’d touched a nerve. “Hey I’m sorry to hear about your..”

“Thanks.” He cut her off politely, the impassive look sliding back on his face. He turned to look at Rei, clearly uncomfortableat at being overheard. Taking a hint, Rei nodded at Addy and slipped away, back towards Winston.

Winston said nothing as she settled back in the booth, trying her hardest not to spy on the couple at the bar. But suddenly, John Wick was facing them, and Winston raising his glass towards him. The Baba Yaga stalked out of the club, leaving behind his drink.

“What was on that paper?” Rei asked, unable to contain her curiosity.

Winston peered at her through his reading glasses. “Wouldn’t  you like to know.” He smiled at the look she gave him. “The name of a club.”

“That man looks hell bent on vengeance.”

Winston chuckled darkly. “You’re not wrong.”

“I heard his wife just died of illness.. What is he avenging?”

Winston thought about this, peering in his martini for inspiration. “Her memory.”

Rei smiled bitterly. “Of course. Anger is the second step of grief?” She ignored Winston’s pointed stare and finished her brandy.

“That smacks of jealousy my dear..” Winston’s voice was a soft murmur, full of concern. 

Rei noticed the buzzing in her head, warning her she had inadvertently had too much to drink, caught up in the excitement of the newcomers arrival. She knew she was saying too much, but it felt strangely refreshing. “Perhaps I am. It’s been over a year, and I’m still stuck in denial..”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Winston was looking at her quietly, not a hint of curiosity or pity on his face. Just a look of cautious concern. She loved him for it, the closet softie.

“Someday.. But I think I’ll head in for the night.”

Winston nodded. “Goodnight, Rei.”

***

It was 1:00 AM when her pager woke her from a deep sleep, vibrating raucously on her glass end table. She’d been dreaming vividly, but she suddenly couldn’t remember what about. She grabbed her pager, peering at it. It was from Charon at the Concierge desk, and it simply read “818.”

The Doctor lived in his own apartment in Chinatown—whatever it was must have been a great emergency, since it couldn’t wait for his arrival. Rei stood up, smoothing her rumpled grey trousers and white blouse. She glanced in the mirror, tying back her shoulder length black hair into a bun, and wiping away the smudged mascara from her eyes.

She grabbed her medical kit sitting in its black satchel by the door and made her way to the elevators. 

She didn’t even have to knock, a service cart was already on its way to the door as she made her way down the hall. “Room Service,” the young  server announced, pushing a cart with a bottle of bourbon, a bucket of ice, and some glasses.

The door opened slowly, and it was Jonathon Wick. He leaned on the door, letting them in. Rei noticed blood pooling on his abdomen, and the way he favored his left arm. He looked at her in mild surprise, before replacing the look with one of practiced blankness.

She nodded at him, setting down her bag on his coffee table as she fetched antiseptic, gauze, her suture kit, and a bottle of local anesthesia and a hypodermic needle from  her satchel.

He stood there watching her silently, until she motioned expectantly at the chair next to the table. He sat down heavily, and she could tell he was tired.

“Can you remove your shirt, Mr. Wick?”

He nodded, unbuttoning the bloody garment, and removing it from one arm. Wordlessly, she helped him with the other side, noticing the soreness in the left arm. With her freshly washed hands and sterile gloves, she pushed him forward, checking his back for injuries. He had a lot of tattoos, but two in particular caught her full attention. One with the Latin phrase, “Fortis Fortuna Aduivat.” The other a large cross, with hands praying above it.

It was strange to consider this assassin a religious man. He winced as she wiped away blood from a jagged stab wound to his belly with a cloth soaked in antiseptic. “Sorry,”  she murmured, reaching for the hypodermic needle and anesthetic.

His large hand reached out to encircle her wrist, stopping her. “Just bourbon, please.”

She raised her eyebrow at him, but knew it was best not to argue with an assassin. She reached for the bottle of bourbon, adding a few ice cubes to his glass before pouring the drink and handing it to him. She watched as he took a long sip, another fresh cut gracing his brow, welling with blood.

She dabbed that cut with antiseptic too, ignoring his magnetic dark eyes, studying her silently. Rei hated to admit it, but being in the presence of this ruggedly handsome, half-dressed man was getting through her professionalism. 

“Fortuna Fortis Aduivat, not a common way to say Fortune favors the bold.”

He was looking at her curiously from behind his tumbler of brandy, but she focused quietly on the stab wound, beginning to suture. He didn’t even flinch as the needle went in. His pain tolerance was impressive.

“You read Latin?”

Rei smiled to herself, keeping her hands as steady as possible, and her stitches small and tight. It was a habit—she didn’t think this man would care much about leaving a scar. His entire torso looked like a minefield.

“Medical school.”

He nodded, then almost politely contradicted her. “It actually means fortune will save the bold.”

Rei looked up at him briefly, perusing the subtle difference in meaning. “Still seems wrong.”

John looked at her expectantly as she continued working, tying off the wound and placing a light piece of gauze and securing it with tape.

“Why is that?” The bourbon glass clinked as he took another drink, and she switched to cleaning the cuts that didn’t need stitching.

“I’m no assassin, but it seems to me the bold ones make their own fortune.”

He snorted, and she felt startled by the sharp sound, as brief as it was. “Perhaps.” He offered, as she reached for his left arm. She pressed on the shoulder and arm and the surrounding muscles, watching his face for any minute reaction. When she straightened his arm he winced.

She took out a sling, and helped him wrap it around his head. She caught the scent of sweat and woody cologne wafting from his neck as she wrapped the sling securely around his shoulder.

She reached for a plastic bag and filled it with ice, and carefully slipped it inside his sling. He was still watching her with those dark unreadable eyes. 

“What kind of movement am I looking at, Doc?”

She turned and reached for the bottles of medicine. “Minimal, or your cuts won’t heal, and you’ll worsen your arm.” She placed two bottles on the table. “Take this if you have.. more business. You’ll rip the stitches, but it will take care of the pain so you can move.”

She placed the second bottle on the table. “These are antibiotics. Take them for four days, just in case.”

He nodded. Then to her surprise added, “You’re a good stitch doctor. Barely felt those.” 

She inclined her head at his praise, unused to compliments in her line of work. “You’re a good patient. You hardly moved.” She returned his small twitch of a smile. “Winston and Addy spoke highly of you. If you ever need anything..” She wasn’t sure why she was doing it, but she slipped him her pager number. “Send me a page.”

He took the paper, and slipped her a gold coin with a terse nod. Their transaction over, Rei headed back downstairs. 

***

She barely sat down, kicked off her shoes, and was gathering her thoughts, when her pager rang again. She frowned, looking at the number--818. She checked her watch--it had been less than 30 minutes since she had left John’s room. She wondered if a stitch had popped, or if she had left the wrong medicine.

Rei headed back to the elevators, shoving her feet into her black oxfords. When she reached the door to room 818, she noticed a trail of glass from the room to the hallway. Startled, she knocked on the door, only for it to swing open instantaneously.

John stood leaning against the doorframe, a pool of blood on his abdomen bleeding through a white t-shirt, wearing only boxers. His sling was nowhere to be found, and his slicked back hair was no longer tame, falling all over his face. The room was a mess. Glass from a broken divider, scattered furniture, bedsheets fallen on the floor, suspicious blood stains on them.

She hurried inside, motioning for him to sit, removing her toolkit from the satchel. She removed his shirt with scissors, unwilling to have her patient move after whatever struggle had just ensued. As she expected, the stitches had popped and the wound was weeping blood.

“Winston won’t be happy about this,” She muttered, wondering who had the audacity to attack a man on Continental grounds.

Jonathon shrugged, already reaching for more bourbon, wincing as she hit the wound with more antiseptic.

“Who did this?” She asked, frowning at the weeping wound, that looked worse than it originally did, it was inflamed. Most likely it had been struck.

He looked at her curiously, as if it was an inane question. “Perkins.”

Rei remembered the beautiful dark haired assassin. It made sense. She seemed brazen, and money hungry judging from her prior work. But she was also a high-end assassin, not one likely to take a small contract. “How much?” She asked absentmindedly, focusing on re-stitching the tender skin around the wound.

John raised an eyebrow at her in suspicion. “Why, are you tempted?” She was sure he was joking, but it sounded almost like a threat.

“I’m a doctor. Not in that line of business.” She pulled the stitch closed a little too tight, and he winced.

“For four million you might consider it,” he muttered in response, nursing his bourbon.

She swore. Four million was the largest contract she had heard of in her entire time here, by far, for a single man. “No amount of money is worth excommunicado,” She replied, shuddering inwardly. If she wasn’t already dead, Perkins was not long for this world.

“No,” John agreed quietly. “Not money anyway.”

She glanced at him, curiosity piqued by his response. “Something else is?”

He was silent for a moment, the ice cubes clinking in his glass as he set it down on the broken end table, wobbling precariously on three legs. “Yes.”

She waited, but he didn’t elaborate. She finished the stitches on his abdomen, covering the wound with more gauze. She started working on disinfecting the shallow cuts on his body, then putting the sling back on his shoulder. He stiffened when she moved his arm. She dug into her bag to give him a prescription strength acetaminophen.

“Here, this should help with reducing inflammation and the pain. Are you expecting any other visitors tonight?”

John shook his head, taking the bottle from her hand. “I hope not.”

She hesitated, glancing once more around the room, and peering into the bathroom. There was no sign of a body. “Do you need a dinner reservation?”

John shook his head once. “She’s with Harry in the next room.”

She nodded, making a note to have housekeeping collect her in the morning. “Is there anything else you need, Mr. Wick?”

“No, not tonight anyway.” She noticed immediately his grimace, a dark promise of more violence.

She nodded, reaching for the gold coin extended in his palm. “Until then.” She gathered her belongings, packing them back into her satchel. She heard him stand from his chair and stumble wearily to his bed. Before she closed the door, she felt a compulsion to look back at him. He was laying down, head leaned against a ruined feather pillow, his injured arm clutched against his chest. He didn’t look like the legend she had heard so much about. He looked world-weary, vulnerable.

“Good luck, Mr. Wick.” She said quietly, unsure if he even heard her. But he raised his good arm in reply, as she slipped outside the door.

***

By the next morning, the tale of John Wick’s return was whispered in all corners of the Continental. Rei didn’t even have to ask--she heard the tale over and over again at the lounge during morning coffee, her clients whispering as she attended to their wounds. Tales of a man who slaughtered 60 men in a heavily guarded night club, to avenge his puppy and his stolen car--or was it his dignity? The tale changed perpetually with the teller.

Viggo Tarasov was a well known name, though Rei had never met the man himself. But he was a legend--the Russian mobster who clawed his way up the ranks to hold New York City in the palm of his hand. Ironically, the very man who handed him the throne was the Baba Yaga, the man who now hunted his son. It was an epic tragedy, titans at war over a rude twist of fate.

It was a compelling tale that occupied her mind more than she liked, now that she had met one of the players in the tragedy. It was a welcome distraction. For the next few days the hotel held its breath in anticipation. On the second day, they learned that Viggo had been cornered, nearly killed in his own car, and coerced into giving up the location of his son. The next day, to no one’s surprise, the brash fool known as Iosef Tarasov was dead.

When she spotted the tall, dark-haired figure checking out at the Concierge desk, she felt a pang of regret that the tale was over. Her life would resume as it had, a series of faces and tasks in a colorless world. Rei envied them. Viggo Tarasov, John Wick.. Men with the power to challenge their fate. Avenge the fallen.

She was staring. John Wick turned, as if he felt her eyes on him. Rei noted the fresh cuts on his nose and temple. His eyes were focused, but no longer full of anger. He looked almost peaceful,  resigned.

When she remained standing, he slowly held out his arm, his hand outstretched. She stepped towards him and took it, noting the strength in his calloused hands, surprisingly warm.

“I heard you’re finished here, Mr. Wick.” She said, returning the firm grip.

“I am.” He replied. “Call me John.”

“I hope you’ve said goodbye to Winston.”

He shook his head. “He’s out. Another time.”

Rei realized she was still holding his hand. She slowly released it, wondering why she felt compelled to speak with him, this titan who had escaped hell twice over. He was kind enough to indulge her. Kind, a word she never thought to attribute to him.

“What comes next?” She blurted out, realizing too late the question was a bit personal.

He was silent for a moment, as if he wasn’t sure of himself. “Retirement.”

She laughed, half from nerves, and half at herself for expecting a more detailed reply. He raised a dark eyebrow at her, more curious than offended.

“Of course, Mr--John. It was a stupid question.” She composed herself, surprised at her own reaction. She hadn’t laughed like that since…

“Thanks for your help.” His words were quiet and sincere. She wasn’t expecting that, and felt a strange sense of loss, knowing he was going, probably forever.

“No thanks needed. We were all rooting for you.”

“We?” He asked curiously.

“Winston.. Addy.. All the doctors.”

“Quite the fanclub.” He replied dryly.

Rei suppressed another laugh, out of her element. He looked at her, quietly dignified, before nodding at her and turning back to the Concierge desk. 

She walked away feeling a mixture of loneliness, envy, and grief. She could see the greener pastures he was headed towards, a place beyond her strength and skill. A place where he could grieve and come to terms with life and all it’s tragedies. She closed that door firmly in her mind, knowing it was foolish to yearn. She was alive, and she was infinitely patient. If it took her an entire lifetime, she had to find a way.

***

It rained most that day and into the evening. It was one of those freezing nights in late Autumn. Rei was sitting by the fireplace in the lounge, sipping her usual brandy. Canterbury Tales lay unopened on the table. She felt restless. The events of the week had awakened a thirst in her, one she had kept buried to stay sane. Old thoughts invaded her brain, and the slow burn of brandy on her tongue and throat did little to stop it.

She wished Winston were here, but her friend had not returned. His presence always calmed her. He was the physical embodiment of the rational and sane. She watched the drizzle of rain in the night sky, letting old wounds fester and the embers stir in her heart. She thought about going to Addy, and getting blind drunk. The thought was tempting, but too dangerous. A loose tongue and addled mind tended to get you killed in this world.

She was staring into the fire, so lost in thought, that she didn’t notice the drip of water on the armchair, nor the looming shadow of a large presence. What really brought her out of her reverie was noise of panting, and the sour smell of foul breath. It was a large brown dog, a pitbull. He was sitting by her stuffed armchair, soulful brown eyes staring at her. She reached out to scratch its head, smiling as he closed his eyes in pleasure.

“Doc.”  

Rei nearly jumped out of her chair in her hurry to turn in her seat. It was John Wick, standing silently behind her. He was soaking wet, his eyes obscured by the strands of hair stuck to his forehead.

“Mr. Wi--John.” He was hunched over, and ghostly pale. Her eyes took in his disheveled appearance, from his tattered suit to the tell-tale stain of red on his abdomen, probably the same wound she had sutured two times already. He wasn’t shivering, but she didn’t like his color. Her “doctor” brain took over, and she motioned him towards the lobby elevators, reaching for the keycard in her pocket.

“This way. Hurry.”

She shoved the comforters and sheets off her bed, motioning for him to take a seat. She carefully removed his suit jacket, and cut away his shirt, not bothering with the buttons. She ignored the part of her that felt uncomfortable with the idea of a half-naked assassin sitting in her bedroom, and readied her toolkit on a clean towel. The wound on his belly had been jaggedly stapled. She swore, prodding the shoddy work as she tried to gauge how deep the wound was.

“What idiot did this?”

John raised his hand wearily. “Had to stop the bleeding..”

Rei grasped a staple in her fingers, and tugged sharply. John groaned. “I’m going to have to take them out, disinfect it, and stitch it back up.” She reached for a hypodermic needle and a bottle of anesthesia. He looked at her as if he wanted to protest, but she frowned at him. “This is going to hurt, a lot.” 

He nodded his assent, as she filled the needle and injected it into the surrounding muscle, and got to work on the staples. She focused solely on her work, using tweezers to grasp each one and tug them out. Too much pressure, and she would rip the tissue further. Too little, and the staple wouldn’t come out. She worked as quickly as possible, the wound was oozing and bleeding. With her fingers, she parted the wound slightly, trying to get a sense of the depth. Luckily, it hadn’t hit any vital organs.

She ripped open a bottle of antiseptic and poured it directly on the open wound. The anesthesia was working--he didn’t make a sound. She stitched it closed as quickly as possible. She was worried about his temperature. His color hadn’t improved much, and his skin felt ice cold. When she was satisfied she had closed and disinfected everything that was bleeding, she retrieved her blankets from the floor and motioned for him to lay back.

“I’m fine Doc, I’ve got to get home.”

He moved as if to stand, but she pushed him back down, hands on his broad shoulders. He fell back easily. She had a suspicion he was suffering from hypothermia.

“Not until your body temperature is normal.” She stuck a thermometer in his face expectantly, and after a moment, he took it. She filled a hot water bottle with warm water from her tap, and tucked it by his chest, wrapping him tightly with blankets.

“Did you finish your antibiotics by any chance?” He shook his head. Rei removed another hypodermic needle. She motioned for him to roll over on his side. Without thinking too deeply about it, she gently pulled down the waistband of his pants, and injected him slowly in the left buttock with antibiotic. He clenched, whether from embarrassment or the burning sensation, Rei didn’t know. Without skipping a beat, she took the thermometer out of his mouth.

“95.. You’re looking better but we have to keep you warm."

Now that he was out of immediate danger, Rei noticed how small her room felt. It barely fit a double bed and an end table, and the large presence huddled in blankets on top of it was taking up most of the space. She sat at the corner, processing finally the absurdity of the situation. The Baba Yaga was wrapped up in blankets on her bed, trying his best not to die of cold and blood loss. 

The Pitbull was there too, sitting in the narrow space between the wall and the bed frame. As if noticing an opening, he crawled his way towards her, and put his large head in her lap. She laughed, letting the nerves and adrenaline spill out of her. She rubbed his large head, as he licked her hands.

“Where did you find this guy?”

“An animal testing facility.”

She scratched the dog’s ears, and watched fascinated as he closed his eyes and sighed. She had never had a dog before, or a pet of any kind. Her childhood had been bereft of many ordinary comforts. She had grown up mostly alone, with a kind of benign neglect from her well meaning single mother. 

“What’s his name?”

“I haven’t thought of one yet..”

“Good boy,” she murmured, watching as the animal scratched a place on the floor, circled three times, and laid down. She glanced at her patient,  laying still on the bed.

“May I ask what happened?”

For a moment, she thought he had fallen asleep. But when she leaned forward, she noticed his eyes were open, an intensity in his gaze so different from the man she had seen hours earlier in the lobby.

“Viggo.” His voice was rough and edged with anger.

From that one word, she knew the titan had fallen. “Did he come after you?”

“No. He killed someone. Someone important to me.” 

That surprised her. She didn’t think someone like John could be so emotionally attached to someone else. But the grief in his voice spoke volumes. Then she remembered he had also just lost a wife, theone who had given him the strength to leave this life. She wondered if the tragedy of John Wick was not his talent for hunting men, but his propensity for losing those he loved. In that, they shared common ground.

“I’m sorry, John.”

He was silent. But she felt compelled to continue. Something about this thread of commonality between them was strangely comforting. His palpable grief did not make her feel uncomfortable. It was then she realized why she felt drawn to him. Those eyes, that sadness, mirrored her own. Her grief was accepted by him, not questioned or pitied.

“I ask myself every day, why I’m still here and those who I love are gone.  It never gets easier.” She reached for a glass from her end table, and poured herself a glass of brandy. She took a long sip, remembering the faces that she tried not to think of every waking moment. “At least you avenged your friend. I hope you take comfort in that.”

“I do.” He replied quietly.

She drank in silence at the edge of the bed, until sleep found her. When she woke in the morning, curled at the foot of the bed, she was covered in her own comforter. The room smelled musky, like old sweat, cologne, and wet dog.

But John and the Dog were gone. Rei ignored the emptiness she felt, wondering if she’d ever see them again. Then she realized what that would mean, and hoped the two of them would not return to the Continental. That he would find a measure of peace, and a chance to grieve, a chance she might never have.

Chapter Text

Winston

He didn’t enjoy enforcing the rules, even if it was part of the job, and even if it was necessary.  But when Ms. Perkins broke the first rule of the Continental, Winston was honor bound, no, determined to rid the earth of her.

If only he had been able to track her sooner—then Marcus might still be alive. Marcus was one of the old guard, like him. One of the few left from the glory days. 

Technically, it wasn’t his place to take sides. But he couldn’t stay silent with the death of an old friend. So he called John, and now Viggo was dead. Consequences. And more consequences yet unseen. A risk he took and relished, just to know Marcus was avenged.

He knew his fondness for certain company was a true weakness. He thought he had killed that part of him in his decades of climbing the ranks, sometimes over the bodies of his predecessors and would-be usurpers. His survival, his stewardship of this very kingdom depended on it. And yet, it was like trying to cut out his beating heart, the very organ that kept him alive.

He sat in the lounge, the fireplace lit, the room empty. It was barely dawn, the first rays of light just coming in through the windows, bathing the room in a pale glow. He sipped his coffee, waiting for John Wick.

No small detail escaped Winston when it came to his hotel. He made sure of it. When he returned late in the evening, Charon had been eager to tell him of the Baba Yaga’s successful return, as well as his overnight accommodations in a certain young woman’s room.

He was surprised by that. John was a private man, and not one to rest easy in the company of strangers. And Rei.. Thoughts of that young, grief-wrecked doctor inevitably turned to thoughts of her mother, Lee Sun. 

Another weakness. It didn’t help that the girl looked so much like her mother. The same dark almond shaped eyes, high cheekbones, and delicate frame. She was beautiful, but so quiet, so reserved, people hardly noticed her. She lacked the confidence he remembered in his beloved Sun. She was so haunted, so guarded.

A primitive part of him wanted to protect her. But he knew it wasn’t possible. Innocence could not be preserved in this world.

“Winston.”

He motioned for the disheveled man to sit. John was wearing a tattered and stained white shirt, under a dirty, rumpled suit. But his voice sounded strong, and his wounds were neatly stitched under the holes in his clothes.

“Jonathon.”

He waited as the man sat slowly across from him, a cautiously neutral look on his face. 

“Coffee?”

“No thanks.”

Winston took his time, taking a long sip from his own cup. John didn’t quite squirm, but he didn’t look comfortable either, his feet shifting under the table.

“You asked to see me?” 

“I did. I trust your business has been.. satisfactorily concluded?”

“It has.”

“I’m sorry about Marcus.” 

“Yes.” John’s face was almost impassive, but Winston noticed the subtle darkening of his expression. There was still raw anger there. The rage behind that still veneer ran deep.

“He deserved better. But there are always consequences, John. Always.”

The younger man turned to him, his black eyes brimming with anger and sadness. “It’s over. I’m done.”

Winston scoffed. He wasn’t sure if he was stubborn, or just plain naive. “Do you really believe that? After the carnage you’ve inflicted on this city.. You think it’s that easy, to plunge into the depths of this cesspool, and come out clean on the other side.”

“It doesn’t matter, Winston. I’m retired.” His look was iron, more Baba Yaga than John.

Winston chuckled, setting down his cup to scrutinize the war-battered man before him. “If you say so John..” He leaned in, his face growing serious. “About your accommodations last night..”

John bristled ever so slightly. Winston smiled with the satisfaction of seeing him looking guilty, like a cat caught in the cream. 

“It’s frowned upon for hotel employees to entertain overnight guests..”

“It wasn’t like that. She was treating me.”

“Of course she was.” He ignored the glower aimed at his direction. “And you know the location of all of our Doctors in this city. Yet you went out of your way to come back here.”

“She’s a good doctor.”

“Yes, she is.” Winston agreed softly. “And I would appreciate it if you followed the rules, so she can remain in my employ, and under my protection.” He gave John a stern look. “You know better.”

He received a stiff nod in response. But a look of hesitation flickered over his face. Hesitation. Winston couldn’t hide his surprise. It was not a look often found on John Wick.

“Why does she need your protection?”

Winston measured the man quietly, from his earnest black eyes, to the large hands resting on torn pant legs, the knuckles on his fingers bloody and scabbed. Retired, indeed.

“I suppose you haven’t heard of the Marunouchi massacre, with you being away for so long.”

“No.. But that would be Yakuza territory.”

Winston nodded, uneasy with the idea of John taking an interest in this. He rarely took interest in the affairs of strangers. And as much as he respected and cared for his friend, tragedy walked in his very shadow.

“To be brief.. 47 Yakuza were all but executed by Ayumu Yamada’s successor. Only Rei escaped.”

John frowned at him. “She’s Yakuza?”

“Of course not.” The very idea seemed preposterous, and he watched as John nodded in agreement. They had an instinct for who belonged in this underbelly, and Rei was not one of them. “She’s Ayumu’s illegitimate daughter.”

“Loose ends then.”

Winston nodded. “It’s usually the way of things, when a seat at the High Table hangs in the balance.”

John nodded in grim agreement. But to Winston’s surprise, he wasn’t finished. “Why are you protecting her?”

He felt caught off-guard, vulnerable under that piercing, suspicious gaze. Then it dawned on him why John was so keen on these questions. He chuckled to himself, the irony of the situation sinking in. “You have a soft-spot for the innocent that’s likely to get you killed, John.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“But I did.” He smiled as the man’s quizzical expression. “I suffer the same affliction.” Ever gloomy and contemplative, John sunk back in his seat. 

“It’s probably why I like you.”

The younger man returned a sardonic smile. “I’m still retired.”

“Of course you are, John.” He offered his hand, and John took it as he stood from his seat. “Until our next meeting.”

“Goodbye, Winston.”

He watched him walk towards the hotel lobby. But he knew he would return, and New York would burn again.

***

He made good on his promise for exactly one week. Winston had heard the rumors, that John had stolen back his muscle car and forged a kind of peace with Abram Tarasov, the Russian mob’s new leader.  

It seemed like New York would settle down, rebuild from the hurricane that had blown through named John Wick. Then there were whispers of the Camorra arriving in New York, and Winston knew it couldn’t be good.

Santino D’Antonio was an ambitious second son of the Camorra. He was the spare, not the heir, and it was known widely how much he resented it.  He also held a very specific marker. Winston knew there was only one reason why he had flown in from Italy, exactly one week after John had come out of retirement.

What he didn’t expect was John’s outright refusal to honor the marker. He knew the second rule under the table—all markers must be honored. 

So when he sat at his terrace, inspecting a new shipment of coins with the Mint Master, he was not phased by the battered figure standing at his doorway, demanding answers of him without a proper greeting.

“Where is he.”

Winston sighed, wondering what the consequences would be this time, and who else would be steamrolled in the path of John Wick’s revenge.

Chapter Text

John

“Where is he.”

His ears were still ringing, and he felt the sting of raw cuts on his back on the windy roof-top terrace. This was Winston’s favorite spot in the hotel, and it was easy to see why. It was an airy garden, filled with greek bronze statues, marble fountains, and a giant fireplace facing the magnificent cityscape. This was his throne room.

His entire body was sore, reasonable, considering he had been blasted through his back window hours earlier. He ignored it. It was easy to, with the blood pounding his ears, the adrenaline pumping through his body. He wasn’t as young as he used to be, but he was used to pain. Rage kept him focused, untired. Rage kept him alive.

“Thank you my friend, beautiful work.” Winston ignored him, shaking hands with his companion, and ushering him towards the doors. When the doors to the terrace closed, he turned his icy blue eyes on him. The look on his face was exasperated, incredulous. 

“What are you doing Jonathon?

“He burned my house down.” He reminded himself that Winston was his friend, one of the few allies he had left.

“You rejected his marker, you’re lucky he stopped there. What the hell were you thinking, giving a marker to a man like Santino D’Antonio?” John didn’t like his tone. Like he was lecturing a child.

“It was the only way I could get out.” His thoughts immediately flickered to Helen, and his rage subsided, softening as he remembered her warm eyes, her soft smile. Winston could judge him all he wanted, with that withering look he wore so well. But he would have given Santino a hundred markers if that was what it took to be with her.   

“Oh, you call this out. What did you think was going to happen? What did you expect? Did you really think this day was never going to come, hm?” Winston gestured to the table, and John felt himself automatically moving towards it, still coming to grips with what had happened that night. His only thoughts on the long walk to the Continental were of finding Santino and killing him with his bare hands. But Winston’s cool authority was like a splash of ice water hitting his face, waking him up to the reality of things. 

Winston seemed to sense a change in him, because the disapproving look on his face disappeared. In its place was concern. 

“What does he want you to do?” He asked calmly. 

“I didn’t ask. I just said no.” John sat, feeling more than a little sheepish. He had almost forgotten about that part.

Winston sighed, shaking his head. John bristled, sensing another lecture. “Two rules that cannot be broken, Jonathon. No blood on Continental grounds, and every marker must be honored. Now while my judgement comes in the form of excommunicado, the high table demand a more severe outcome if their traditions are refused.”

He knew all this, but he was grasping at straws. All he ever wanted was a chance to come to terms with Helen’s death, if that was even possible. It still stunned him to realize she was gone. His heart clenched in pain, a pain that no amount of anger seemed to dull. He looked at Winston, already knowing the answer. But he had to ask. “I have no choice?”

“You dishonor the marker, you die. You kill the holder of the marker, you die. You run, you die. This is what you agreed to Jonathon. Do what the man asks. Be free.” 

Freedom. He considered his options. It wasn’t the process of dying he feared, nor the pain and the labor of violence. He feared what came after death. Of being unable to meet Helen in the afterlife, and knowing, if there was such a place as heaven and hell, he would be torn from her again. And if there was no afterlife, he feared non-existence, the idea of being unable to remember her, cherish the memory of their happiness, and the feeling of being utterly loved. He felt his insides wrench with a twisting pain. He turned away from Winston, embarrassed by his sudden show of weakness. 

Winston continued, as if he didn’t notice his discomfort. “...Then if you want to go after him, burn his house down, be my guest. But until then…”

He looked at Winston, feeling a surge of purpose again. He was not interested in burning down Santino’s house. He did not believe in an eye for an eye, because he did not bother with exacting equal vengeance. He did exactly what his feelings compelled him to do. It was in his nature, whether that emotion was love or hatred. “Rules.”

“Exactly rules. Without them we live with the animals.” He watched with silent understanding, as Winston picked up his bone china teacup, and took a dainty sip. 

He took the piece of paper Winston slid towards him. It simply read, “The New Modern NYC.” He took it and left, not bothering to say goodbye.

***

The Dog was not in the lobby. He frowned, looking up at the Concierge desk, where Charon was busy on the phone. The animal was impressively obedient from the moment he found him, it was unusual for him not to be waiting. He watched as the Concierge  nodded in his direction, and as if sensing his confusion, pointed towards the lounge. With a sense of unease, he made his way towards the room, and spotted the Dog immediately.

He was lying on a stuffed loveseat by the fireplace, sprawled over the lap of the Doctor, tongue lolling in pure bliss as the woman scratched his ears. He froze by the doorway, remembering Winston’s last warning, the icy protectiveness he exhibited when talking about her. 

He couldn’t deny he had sought her out. There was something about her that was comforting to him, those soulful black eyes, the non-judgment in her serious face, too grave for someone her age. It disturbed him to think these thoughts so soon after his beloved’s death, but he couldn’t deny his aching loneliness was grasping for comfort.

She looked beautiful in the firelight. She was smiling, a rare look of happiness on her face, usually so reserved, guarded. He remembered her gentle hands, the look of worry as she tended to his wounds, and her earnest conversations with him. He swallowed, angry at himself for letting his loneliness get the better of him, his childish need to ease the pain of his loss with anything beautiful and innocent, anyone remotely resembling his Helen. 

He found his feet, and strode to the fireplace. She looked up at him, startled, but not afraid. She returned her gaze to fire, her hands never leaving the Dog’s head. The sheepish animal thumped his tail, as if sensing his master was displeased.

“I hoped to never see you two again.” She sounded sad, and it confused him.

“Not my choice.” He stooped towards the chair, and patted the animal, letting him know he wasn’t angry. The pitbull crawled towards him, licking his hands happily.

“There are whispers of the Camorra.” He watched as her eyes met his, a glint of fear in those dark orbs. He resisted the primitive urge to touch her hand, to comfort her. 

“News travels fast.” He offered her a sardonic smile, wanting to see her smile again. She didn’t.

“You’re bleeding.” Her eyes were on his back, and he looked down to where she was looking. A few spots of blood stained his white shirt. He stiffened, as her small hands lifted his shirt at the back. “Glass?”

“It’s nothing.” He pulled his shirt down firmly, removing her hands gently from his back. Her fingers were ice, even sitting so close to the fire.

She frowned at him, but seemed to give up. “I suppose you’ll be headed to Rome soon.”

He shrugged, realizing he still didn’t know what it was Santino even wanted. He didn’t want to know, but he had to complete the marker. It was only then he could exact his revenge on the bastard. His fists clenched involuntarily, relishing the thought. He felt her eyes on him, studying him in silence.

“May I borrow your Dog, until you return?” She was looking down at the brown mound, scratching at his belly, the animal’s legs kicking involuntarily in the air. He couldn’t fully see her face, but he could sense her sadness. He didn’t like it. He felt a need to stop it, an almost chivalrous need he didn’t understand.

“I would like that.”

 She turned up her face, and he noted a suspicious glimmer in her eyes, and a small smile. “Good luck, John. We’ll see you soon.”

He felt himself returning the smile, but it felt strange as he walked away. He was not used to exercising those muscles in his face. As he walked towards the Museum, his confused thoughts faded away, and his mind bent towards a singular purpose--finding Santino and figuring out what he wanted.

Chapter Text

Rei

She was smitten, there was no denying that. The Dog woke her up almost every morning at 6:00 AM with a slobbery kiss to her face, and a gentle nudge of urgency. And unlike most mornings, she woke with a smile on her face, trying to push the 50 pound dog off of her chest.

She seldom went outside. It wasn’t just paranoia, there just wasn’t a reason for her to be outside. But as she walked the Dog around the block every morning, she noticed how beautiful New York in the late Autumn was, even in its starkness, all concrete jungle and bare trees. There was beauty in the sharp lines of the skyscrapers, the muted colors of the sky. It reminded her of John.

It had been a few days, but there was no news of his whereabouts. She imagined him in Rome, the sun on his shoulders, walking through the ancient ruins like a mythical gladiator. The thought was ridiculous, of course. He was a creature of the night, sent to silence those whose luck had run out.

Fortis Fortuna Adiuvat. The phrase was often in her mind, randomly as she went through the motions of her day. She found herself repeating it, like a mantra or a prayer. She wasn’t even sure for whose benefit, herself, or John? 

She was drawn to him. That was for certain, and she found herself hoping fervently for his return, though the thought of being parted from the Dog was almost unbearable. She wondered if Winston would allow her to adopt. Winston was a fastidious man. She remembered the sharp arch of his brow when he saw her smuggling the Dog into the elevator after a nighttime walk. It was probably wishful thinking. 

She watched the animal fondly, as he balanced on three legs, peeing acrobatically on a crumpled paper bag by an alleyway. She had forgotten the pleasure of being treated with unbridled affection, to be touched by another creature with love. It surprised her that after everything that had happened, she still had these needs . As if she hadn’t learned her lesson. The Dog tugged at his lead, done with the bag. She welcomed the interruption, and walked on.

They finished their loop, and Rei recognized the familiar triangular entrance of the Continental from a few blocks down. The wind picked up and she shivered, feeling the chill under her wool coat and gray scarf. With coffee on her mind, she walked briskly towards the hotel, but suddenly felt a prickle on the back of her neck. An instinct that warned of danger—one she never ignored now.

She turned her head slowly, watching from her peripheral vision as a figure paused a few feet behind her. Feigning nonchalance, she bent down to pat the Dog on the head. She glanced quickly at the man behind her. A pair of brilliant green eyes stared right into hers, a crooked smile on the handsome man’s face. 

She stood, turning to face him, unsure if she should make a break for the hotel. But the man was still smiling, nor was there any advertent threat in his posture. It was something in his smile, and those vibrant eyes, that she didn’t like. He was handsome, a mop of curly dark hair framing his sculpted face, and he was rich—dressed in a beautiful navy suit and matching overcoat.

“I was admiring your lovely dog, Signora. ”

His accent was a silky Italian, though she didn’t know enough about the country to place what region. 

“Thank you, but he’s not mine.” She took a few steps towards the hotel, but he stepped closer, closing the gap between them. He bent down, putting his hand on the Dog’s head, patting it and whispering some kind of endearment in Italian. 

“What a pity. A man would pay a small fortune for an animal as magnificent as this one.” He straightened, looking at her meaningfully. “It’s not impossible for a dog to escape from his leash.. happens everyday in this city, a common tragedy.” His hand closed around the leash, and Rei froze.

She jerked it out of his hands, more angry than afraid. She watched as those eyes turned cold, and she felt an icy shiver down her spine. The coincidence was not lost on her, that John was entangled with the Camorra, and suddenly an Italian mafioso was very interested in his dog.

“That would be a great tragedy, considering the owner of this dog.” She smiled at the man’s slight sneer. “Excuse me, sir. ” She brushed past him and ran the last few yards towards the hotel, not looking back.

She knew there would be trouble today, but she had no idea how much. The Dog was locked  safely in her bedroom, but a lingering feeling of unease followed her throughout the day.

***

It was late afternoon, and the sun was already setting. The fading light cast a surreal orange glow on the first floor of the hotel as she walked towards the lounge, in search of Winston. She had just finished taking the Dog for a walk, he was pulling eagerly on the leash, ready for dinner. 

Her mind had been in a fog all day, troubled by the strange events of the morning. Then there were the rumors--the hotel was buzzing with gossip. There were whispers that the head of the Camorra, Gianna D’Antonio was dead. She couldn’t shake the feeling this had something to do with John.

Lately, Winston was nowhere to be found. He seemed unusually busy, no longer present in the lounge, or at his table at the club. And the hotel itself seemed busier, full of strange faces. She glanced down the stairs into the lounge, surprised to find it almost empty. But she spotted Winston at the bar, his brow furrowed in concentration over a glass of red wine. The Dog following closely behind, she made her way quickly downstairs.

The look he gave her as her footsteps fell on the last step froze her in her tracks. His icy blue eyes held warning, a mute plea for her to retreat. She took a step backwards, but a vaguely familiar silky voice broke the silence.

“Ah, Dr. Lee.”

In her haste to find Winston, she didn’t notice the lone figure standing there. Even the way he stood looked aristocratic. His statuesque face was marred by a long cut on his temple, and another on his cheek. He smiled at her, that same smugness on his face that made her blood boil irrationally, and the pit of her stomach roil with nerves.

“I mistook you for a common dog walker. I apologize, signora. ”

The Dog whined at her feet, protesting his rumbling belly. She gave the Italian a nod, turning to go back to her room. A firm hand closed over her wrist and pulled her down the stairs. She heard Winston’s steady voice call out.

“Mr. D’Antonio, just what do you think you’re doing?”

D’Antonio. The name of the ruling family of the Camorra. She took in his expression, the arrogance, the air of imperviousness. She felt the expensive fabric of his sleeve touching her wrist as his fingers gripped her, almost bruising. And she knew. This was the younger brother, the new heir to the High Table. He seemed to recognize the understanding coming over her face, because he smiled wider, slowly releasing her.

“I’m in need of a Doctor’s services.” He gave Winston a baiting look, daring him to deny him. 

Winston looked conflicted, but he nodded at her sharply. She motioned for a waiter, and instructed him to bring her a first aid kit from the lobby. Taking a calm breath, she walked the Dog to the fireplace, and settled him by the armchairs. The air was charged, and even though there weren’t many people there, she could sense the heavy feeling of expectation.

The first aid kit arrived almost simultaneously with a plate of duck confit, the oily, savory smell wafting through the air. The Dog whined, and she patted his head, hoping he would calm down. He settled, like the good boy he was. She walked towards his table, as D’Antonio picked up a small forkful of duck lardon, and placed it delicately in his mouth. She reached for the kit, opening it before him, removing antiseptic and sterile cloth.

He chewed delicately, savoring the flavor of the duck fat and taking a sip of his wine. When he was finished, she patted the cut on his forehead with antiseptic, trying not to look pleased as he winced.

“You’re a long way from Tokyo, aren’t you Doctor?”

She didn’t dignify his question with a response, verbal or otherwise. She focused on disinfecting the cuts with a cotton bud, and applying salve carefully on his face. He seemed undeterred, studying her with those cold green eyes.

“How’s your brother doing lately?”

She was fuming inside, but she forced herself not to show it. She moved her attention to the second cut on his cheek, cleaning it with a fresh cotton bud.

“No.. I should have given my condolences for the fiancé, first.”

She froze, unable to hide her anger and shock. Her dark eyes found his pale green ones, and she could not contain herself. The cotton bud in her finger snapped over her clenched hand. He smiled, pleased with her reaction.

The massacre was common knowledge, but that private detail was not. She couldn’t stop her hands from trembling. She sat, feeling the weakness in her legs, never taking her eyes away from D’Antonio. 

He chuckled darkly, cutting a large piece of duck, spearing it with fat, and popping the sumptuous morsel in his mouth. The sound his mouth made as he chewed made her want to strike him. 

She reminded herself who he was. He was the head of the Camorra, a man with a seat at the High Table. She forced herself to look at him, and remember he was a Titan, and she was nothing. She cast her eyes down, forcing down tears of helpless anger.

“Rei, you can go now.” Winston's gentle voice snapped her out of the near breakdown. He was standing by the table, his hand closing over her shoulder. Thankful for his intervention, she stood up only to be forced back down.

D’Antonio was standing, his fork holding hand over her shoulder. “I’m not done with her, Winston.” His voice was a soft whisper by her ear, and she smelled the strong scent of red wine and duck. She knew he was drunk, from the way he swayed slightly, his hand steadying himself on her shoulder.

Under that veneer or cold anger she recognized his irrational fear. The heir to the High Table was afraid, and it didn’t take very long for her to realize what he feared.

The Dog whined sharply, and she heard the scramble of his legs on the wood floors as he took off towards the stairs. The thump of heavy footsteps alerted her to the presence of a tall dark figure, limping slowly down the steps.

There was a gun held loosely in John’s hand. They all noticed it, and from the horrified expression on Winston’s face, she knew the casual way it dangled by his thigh did not make him any less dangerous. She felt D’Antonio’s hand tighten on her shoulder as he approached. 

He walked slowly, his steps labored, his face downcast. There were cuts and bruises underneath the sweat slicked black hair cascading down his face. His eyes were terrifyingly cold. She almost did not recognize them. He didn’t even seem to see her, or Winston. His black eyes were focused on the man behind her.

“Jonathon.. Just walk away.” Winston’s voice was soft, but there was a clear note of unease. John did not look at him.

“Yes, Jonathan, walk away.” D’Antonio mocked, but he did not move away from her. 

John raised the gun, the black barrel pointed straight at D’Antonio, and consequently, at her.

D’Antonio’s confidence melted away. His arm was now at her throat, dragging her backwards towards his chest, choking her. She tugged vainly on the arm at her neck, gasping for breath. Then there was a soft click, and the sharp press of metal against her temple.

“Stop moving, or I’ll blow your brains out all over this ugly carpet.” His voice was a shaky whisper by her ear, the stench of wine gagging her.

Winston was looking at her, and in his eyes was a look she’d never seen before. A mixture of regret, panic, and fear. John had not lowered his gun, and she wondered who would be the first to shoot.

“Gentleman, please.” He was begging. Winston was begging. “Honor the first rule.”

“Tell him to put down the gun.” D’Antonio’s voice was almost shrill. Rei felt him tremble behind her, and she knew he was losing control. A small voice inside her whispered. True Titans do not know fear.

“John, put down the gun.” Winston was now facing John, his voice still pleading. The sound was so unnatural to her, that she would have gasped in surprise if not for the tightness of the arm pressing on her throat. “John.. Please. She can’t breathe..”

John suddenly looked at her, as if recognizing her presence in the room for the first time. To her shock, his arm faltered, the barrel of the gun falling slightly. “Tell him to pull the contract.” His voice was a low growl.

“Santi… He’s fulfilled your marker. Just pull the contract.” Winston sounded like a parrot, the desperation in his voice filling the room too loudly. She felt lightheaded, the lack of oxygen to her brain starting to get to her. Her legs buckled, she was struggling to stand. 

D’Antonio’s arms loosened, as he felt her collapse against him. She gulped in air gratefully, gasping and coughing as she felt air rush into her lungs. Winston’s arm reached out to her, but that was a mistake.

A sharp blow from the pistol struck her temple, and the arm was back against her neck. He dragged her back into the corner of the room, snarling. “Get back, Winston.”

Something trickled down her forehead, to the corner of her lips. She tasted blood, and she was no longer afraid. Only angry. Angry at her helplessness. Angry as she put together the pieces. A marker. A contract. Gianna D’Antonio, dead.  

John lowered his weapon. She would have been shocked, but she was too much in her own head, an idea forming in her mind. A dangerous idea, born of equal parts desperation and rage. Born of a desire to avenge herself, to unmask these men for what they were. Not Titans, not Gods, but mortal men. Cowards, who did not deserve to live.

She thought of her brother, as she bit down ruthlessly on the silk-suited arm by her face. She saw Ichiro’s cold eyes as he fired relentlessly at her retreating car, tires squealing on the rain-soaked highway. Her trembling blood soaked hands, none of of the blood hers.

D’Antonio howled, as her teeth sunk into the soft flesh of his inner arm, and blood poured in her mouth. The hand on his gun faltered, slipping from her head. She gripped it with both hands, pressed the firearm firmly against her collarbone, and jerked his fingers down on the trigger with her own.

The first shot barely missed her neck, the barrel burning the skin around her shoulder. The second shot was surer, and she ignored the blinding pain in her ear, as her left eardrum ruptured from the sound. 

Both shots went straight up into D’Antonio’s neck. She wasn’t a doctor for nothing. She knew precisely where his carotid was. As the man gurgled and fell away from her, she sat on the floor, her legs finally giving out.

“Rei.. What have you done.”

She looked up at Winston’s stunned expression, opening her mouth to speak, then choking on blood. D’Antonio’s blood. She spit it out, disgusted, and shivered, suddenly overwhelmed by cold. A large, warm hand was on her neck. She flinched backwards, blinking slowly as her eyes focused on the dark figure knelt in front of her. She recognized those warm dark eyes, but not the conflicting emotions shining within.

John brushed her hair away from her neck, inspecting something, then brushing blood away from her temple. She flinched in pain. 

“Why did you do that?” His voice was quiet, but full of a dark emotion she couldn’t place.

She looked at him blankly, before the words spilled out of her, the same words that had been on her mind all day. “ Fortis Fortuna Adiuvat. The bold make their own fortune, John. ”

The Dog whined at her feet, and she absently stroked his head. She might be dead tomorrow, but strangely she felt no regret.

Chapter Text

Winston

He was thankful for Charon, who had come running when the first shot rang out. The Concierge had the mind to lock down the lounge and take down the names of the witnesses. Santino’s body, growing colder by the minute, had been covered hastily in a sheet and dragged down to the furnace room. But not before attracting the attention of everyone on the first floor, staring silently as room service wheeled his body to service elevators, crumpled over a silver service cart, the only vessel available on short notice. There would be hell to pay, not that the two fools sitting at his bar realized it.

He glared at them, the pair of them, sitting quietly, looking for all the world like two world-weary strangers commiserating. The bloodied idiot to his left, too brash, too confident to care or fully realize what was about to happen. And the pale simpleton, nursing a full glass of brandy, grave and accepting, as if what had transpired was an unavoidable accident. 

Rei was looking at him with a sad kind of embarrassment. The blood from the cut on her temple had crusted, but a pool of blood spotted her white blouse. Her little hands grasped the snifter of brandy before her, but she didn’t drink. The front of her neck was bruised, and he bit down on his urge to call the Doctor. She did not deserve his concern, not after this . She seemed to sense something in him, because her small white hand reached out to touch his clenched ones.

“Winston.. I’m sorry.” Her voice crackled in a raspy whisper. 

“I should have left you to your fate, when you came here begging for help.” 

He felt his heart weaken, as he watched her face turn down and stare sadly into her glass. “You are beyond my protection now.” He reached for his own glass and emptied it in one quick motion, barely registering the contents.

“I know. I’ll always be grateful to you.” The small hand squeezed, her fingers icy on his knuckles. She leaned in, her dark eyes brimming with unshed tears. “I was on borrowed time anyway, Win.”

He scoffed, snatching his hand away, still angry, but no longer sure if he was solely angry at the pathetic creature before him, or the anguish in his own weak heart. “Do you even know what’s coming, Rei?” He was not ashamed to be afraid. There had never been an incident like this before, not even in his long history with the hotel. “Death is the easiest outcome. No.. They will want to make an example out of you. They’re going to punish you.”

The young woman was still. Not even a shiver. He secretly admired her for it, even if it was incredibly naive of her. “I was only defending myself.” Her voice was quiet, but he sensed the steeliness behind it. He scoffed.

“A man has died on these hallowed grounds. I’ve counted not one, but two exit wounds on the back of his neck. And not just any man. A man at the High Table.” Winston reached behind him, grabbing a bottle of scotch, and sloshing it into his tumbler with little care.

“What choice did she have?” 

Winston glared at John, furious that he even dared to speak. John returned his gaze, a glint of challenge in his dark eyes.

“You don’t speak.” Winston swallowed, trying to calm himself as he choked on his own anger. “You started this entire mess--what were you thinking storming in here, looking for all the world like you were going to shoot Santino in my hotel?”

“I was going to shoot him.” John didn’t flinch, even as Winston slammed his glass down on the bar, sloshing scotch everywhere.

“I warned you Jonathon. I warned you many times, about the consequences of your vengeance.” He was shouting, but he didn’t care. “I advised you, begged you to follow the rules. And now..”

He faltered, unsure if he wanted to continue. He grabbed what was left of the scotch, and took a sip, trying to calm himself. “You’ve made it impossible for me to keep a promise, to the only woman I’ve ever loved.”

He ignored the stunned look Rei gave him, choosing instead to focus intensely on John. The man sat quietly digesting his words, the glass of bourbon in his hands halfway to his mouth.

“You think you’re the only one who’s suffered. You’re a selfish, pompous, imbecile, John.” He fixed his icy blue eyes on him, watching the slow anger rising in the younger man’s face. “If she suffers, I place the blame solely on you.”

“Winston.. That’s unfair.”

He ignored Rei’s raspy voice, never taking his eyes off of John, who’s twisted face was staring relentlessly at him. “Don’t even think about running, Baba Yaga . You leave her in this mess, and I will personally hunt you.” He smiled, relishing bitterly the effect he was having on the normally taciturn man. 

“Winston..”

He ignored the girl as she reached out to him. He left the bar and climbed the stairs leading out of the lounge. There was little time to prepare for the Adjudicator’s visit. The High Table was coming, and he had his work cut out for him. 

Chapter Text

John

He hadn’t thought about Gianna since he left Rome. But now that the fog of his rage had lifted, and Santino lay dead several floors below him, he couldn’t stop seeing her face. Her soft brown curls, sweeping across her delicate shoulders. The way her eyes glittered as she looked back at him, moments before slitting her own wrists.

He remembered how small her hand felt in his, as he felt her life slipping away, her head nodding into the water. He was cursed. Viggo had been right, when he said he was lying to himself, pretending that the past held no sway over his future. Everywhere he turned, John saw death. Forced by cruel fate, many times by his own hand,  but ever present. Ever waiting. 

He loved Helen, and he had held almost nothing back from her.  She probably knew him better than anyone. But he never told her about this part of him. Deep down he knew she could never love the Baba Yaga. He hated that name. She was too pure, too good. He wouldn’t have been able to go on living, knowing she despised him. 

He lied to her for five years, and to himself. Pretending that as he closed the door on this life, he was no longer that guy. So far, every attempt to return to that lie had failed. But he never expected to fail at killing the man who stood in his way. Perhaps he had seen too many women die around him lately, but when he realized he couldn’t get his man without harming Rei, he had lost his resolve. And now he couldn’t get Gianna’s words out of his head. 

What would your Helen think about you, hm?

She was sitting silently next to him. Her glass of brandy was half full, her hands resting on the bar. Her pale face was still spattered with Santino’s blood. They had been sitting like this in silence, for the better part of an hour.

He never saw it coming, what had happened. One moment, she was terrified and choking. Then he saw the look in her eye, an intention he recognized instantly. In that moment, he knew even before she pulled the trigger that Santi was likely a dead man. What he didn’t understand was why.

“I’m sorry for all this.”

He nearly choked on his next sip of bourbon, as her raspy voice broke the long silence. He swallowed hastily, turning his eyes back on her. She was looking down at her feet, her hands resting in her lap.

“This wasn’t your doing.” He paused, thinking over his poor choice of words. “You killed him, but it’s my fault you did.”

She was looking at him now, her expressive eyes fixed on him. There was a defiant tilt in her chin, a shadow of the look she had on her face as she bit down on Santino’s arm.

“I didn’t do it for you.” Her voice cracked, and he reached for a pitcher of water across the bar. He poured her a glass, and watched as she took a long drink.

Her vocal chords were inflamed, and he suspected her left eardrum had ruptured. She had taken a harsh blow to the head, there was an ugly bruise forming there. If she was in any pain, she didn’t give any indication. The woman was proud. He hadn’t noticed that before, shadowed as she was by grief and fear.

“This is your first time, isn’t it?”

She gave him a questioning glance, and he continued, pausing to refill his bourbon. “Killing someone.” He took her silence as an affirmative. 

He couldn’t remember his first time. It has been so long ago, an act of necessity, in those days when he was not much more than a boy, struggling to survive to the next day. It got easier the more he did it, until it eventually became a reflex, then an instinct. Was it an addiction now, as Santi had claimed?

“Why?”

Her eyes darted around his face, as if trying to ascertain the true meaning of his question. 

“Why him?” He watched her dark eyes widen with understanding.

She took a deep breath, clearing a rattle in her throat. He noticed the way her chest expanded, and the color rose in her cheeks. He couldn’t help feeling a little mesmerized, as he watched her back straighten and her voice carry with conviction.

“Sic semper tyrannis. Thus always to tyrants.” Her eyes glittered, and he was reminded again of Gianna. “I once let a man like him live, because I was too afraid to dirty my hands.” She lifted her glass of brandy and took a healthy drink. “I’ve regretted that moment to my bones, ever since.”

He watched her eyes fill with tears, and felt the traitorous ache of a twinge in his heart. He ignored it, focusing on the glass in his hand as she continued.

“I know the rules and the consequences, John. But I couldn’t let him get away with it. Not if I died a thousand deaths.”

He hated how much he agreed with her. How his brain told him to walk away, but his heart had already turned away from reason. 

“You don’t owe me anything. Winston’s just not himself.” Her cold little hands were on his arm. “I won’t hold anything against you, if you walk away.”

He turned to look at her, trying to hide the conflict within him. Something in his face must have startled her, because she took her hands off of him, like he had burned her. He leaned closer, watching as her eyes darted around his face in confusion, but she didn’t flinch away.

“I have to go home. But I promise, I’ll come back.”

He held her gaze, until she nodded slowly. Something in her expression compelled him to touch her, reassure her. His hand reached out to tuck a stray hair, stuck to the blood crusted on her cheek, behind her ear.

He could tell she wanted to say something. But he was too overwhelmed, too tired to hear it. He slapped a hand to his thigh, and the Dog stood from his place on the ground by their feet. He hobbled up the steps of the lounge, wondering what he had gotten himself into. Both halves of him had come to the same decision, there was no turning back.

Chapter Text

Rei

She didn’t sleep well. It wasn’t just the physical pain. Her mind raced even as she felt nothing—numbness in her emotions, as her brain processed what had actually happened.

She had killed a man. Most of her entire adult life, she had devoted to the study and practice of saving lives. She wanted to become a doctor since she was a child. Every life she saved, every person she treated had given her a sense of purpose and hope. That part of her had long since died, and she only now realized it.

She didn’t regret killing Santino. The thought chilled her, as she tossed in her bed, in her too small room. She wondered if it was in her blood, this lack of remorse for such a terrible act. But men like Santino D’Antonio did not deserve sympathy. She had seen those cruel eyes before, and what followed when men like that took power. She had done the world a favor.

It wasn’t fear for her life that was keeping her awake. There were worse things than death. Like crawling down 15 floors under a hail of bullets, watching your friends die before you. Seeing the man you love walking back in the line of fire, so you could escape.

When Santino fell, she felt powerful. For a brief moment, she was no longer the helpless runaway, afraid of her own shadow. That split second she tasted the satisfaction of dispensing justice, absolution, a brief respite from the guilt and the horror of her daily life. She hungered to feel that kind of peace again.

It was a cruel hope. The slaying of this man on Continental grounds had dire consequences, and she was lucky Winston hadn’t dragged her out of the hotel and had her killed. He couldn’t protect her for long, and she knew death, or something worse, was coming. 

As she lay awake, waiting for dawn, she couldn’t help clinging to that frail hope, that she would survive what was coming. That she would live another day, and right another wrong. 

Somehow, that hope was tied to a pair of dark, resolute eyes, she kept seeing them in her mind. He had promised that he would come back, and from what she knew of John Wick, she had no doubt he would return. But to what end, and why? He owed her nothing.

She remembered the way his fingers had lingered on her cheek, and the strange intensity in his expression that had sent her heart racing. It wasn’t from fear. It was something else, a long dormant feeling that she didn’t dare give a name to.

***

She was ready by dawn, and though she hadn’t slept she didn’t feel tired. She wasn’t sure of what to do, sitting on her made bed, her nerves pooling in her belly. What did one do when they broke the number one rule of the house? She wasn’t exactly a prisoner, but it didn’t mean she was welcome to meander around the hotel like a favored guest. 

Thankfully, she didn’t have to wait long. Charon was at the door. He smiled at her brilliantly, already dressed impeccably in a black suit and tie, his usual uniform. He was an enigma to her, aloof but always kind, never changing. He led her upstairs through Winston’s massive three story penthouse, then up a flight of marble steps leading to his private terrace. Before the doors , he offered a gentle smile.

“It’s been a privilege working with you, Dr. Lee.” He stuck out his hand, and she took it, a foreboding feeling coming over her.

Winston was sitting at his table. The massive marble fireplace was lit behind him, and a tea service of fine blue and gold bone china was laid out. She reached to take the oolong tea he offered as she sat across the table. 

She remembered the flurry of emotions on his face yesterday. The way he had pleaded, begged, and raged. So unlike the man before her, his face carefully blank, his smile polite. Winston was all business. It was a cold feeling, seeing her friend disappear and the Titan of New York emerge.

She remembered what he said about her mother. The only woman he ever loved. She understood why he had helped her without question. Why she had felt a fatherly sense of fondness from him. She wished she was feeling that now, as his icy blue eyes measured her from behind his gold rimmed teacup.

“The Adjudicator is coming today.”

She didn’t know how to respond. She sipped the oolong gratefully. It was a cold morning, and the fire didn’t seem warm enough. 

“There will be an investigation.”

He must have noticed the confusion in her face, because he smiled. Somehow, it made him look colder.

“You’re wondering why you’re not dead already. Why you haven’t been declared excommunicado, and thrown in the streets for the wolves.” He took a long sip of his tea before answering. “Because I deemed it so.”

“Winston.. Is that wise?” From what little she knew about the High Table, their rules were absolute. Anyone who didn’t follow the rules of the table were considered the table’s enemies.

He chucked, a hint of fondness in his face. “I don’t think you can afford to be worried about me, my dear.” 

His eyes lingered on her forehead and her throat. She reached out to touch the bruises, feeling subconscious. He cleared his throat, putting down his cup.

“I called the Adjudicator here. I’ve asked them to make a judgment call.” He stood, pacing the table, almost talking to himself. “Blood was spilled on Continental grounds, that’s an unfortunate truth, but the rules fail to elucidate who is at fault. Your blood was spilled first.”

She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Winston was trying to make an argument for her life, based on a flimsy premise. He must have loved her mother deeply, to risk so much on such a trivial argument, to the High Table no less.

“I appreciate what you’re trying to do for me, but this is—-“

“I’m not a fool Rei, you’re probably going to die.” His voice cut across hers, cold and blunt. “Whether today, or tomorrow, or some years from now, you’ve set yourself on a path through your own regrettable actions.”

The look in his eyes softened, as he studied her face. She felt as if he was seeing through her, remembering something. Or someone. In a second, he was back to business.

“But if you want to live a while longer, I suggest you give them a reason to let you.” His eyes narrowed. “Do you understand?”

She did. Even when she gave her assent, Winston looked displeased with her. Under the cold mask, she sensed his anger, and something that felt close to fear. 

***

The Adjudicator arrived shortly before noon. Rei didn’t expect them to be so young. Their delicate elfin features, piercing green eyes, and hair buzzed to the scalp gave an impression of modernity. A long gold bar earring dangled from the left side of their ear, shaking slightly each time they spoke. She wasn’t sure what she expected. Perhaps someone like her father, a ruthless old dictator? Or like Santino, aristocratic, cruel and arrogant?

Sitting at Winston’s terrace, their black nails clicked on the teacup he offered. They sat, watching her inquisitively. They slipped a manila folder out of the leather satchel they carried, and placed it carefully on the table.

“Your name is Yamada Rei?”

The Adjudicator flipped through the papers in the folder, glancing up at her briefly. Their tone was clipped and authoritative.

“Rei Lee. Yamada is my father’s name.”

Those green eyes measured her keenly, before returning to the papers. “There’s not much here about you, Dr. Lee. Not much at all, to explain why you killed a member of the High Table.”

Winston cleared his throat, but the Adjudicator raised a hand, silencing him. “I remember what the manager told me over the phone. I’d like to hear from the doctor.”

“It was an accident.”  The lie sounded hesitant, even to her ears. “Mr. D’Antonio grabbed me and threatened to kill me. I fought him.” She remembered the blood oozing in her mouth, and felt nauseous. “In our struggle, the gun went off.”

“Twice. In the neck.” The Adjudicator looked skeptical. “And you’re forgetting a few important details. Why did Mr. D’Antonio single you out? And what was John Wick’s involvement?”

“Mr. D’Antonio and I had met earlier that day. He tried to take Mr. Wick’s dog..” She swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. She took a long sip of tea. Her throat still felt sore.

The Adjudicator raised an eyebrow, a look of impatience on their face. “You forgot to mention Mr. Wick ran into the room with his weapon raised, with the intent to kill Santino D’Antonio.”

“I don’t know what his intention was.” Rei felt her voice rising, and she forced herself to calm down. “Mr. D’Antonio was drunk and violent. I fought him off, and the gun accidentally discharged.”

They did not look convinced. “Don’t make the mistake of thinking we don’t know anything  about you. We know about Maruinouchi. We know why you’re hiding here, under his protection.” They jerked her head at Winston, not taking their eyes off her. Their voice was soft, but somehow more menacing. “We know you’ve been aiding Mr. Wick ever since he came out of retirement. You can tell me, Doctor. Did he ask you to kill Santino D’Antonio?”

Rei froze, shocked by the accusation. She could feel Winston’s eyes boring down on her, his intentions unknown to her. The Adjudicator continued, ignoring the silence.

“Blood has been spilled on these grounds, the blood of a newly instated member of the High Table.  A life is owed.” She took a casual sip of her tea. “I am here to determine whose .”

“He didn’t ask me to kill anyone.” Her voice was small, carried away by the cold breeze blowing through the terrace. Winston was frowning. She felt his disapproving eyes on her.

“Very well.” The Adjudicator turned, looking at Winston for the first time during the conversation. “Where is Mr. Wick?”

Winston shook his head. “I had the mind to keep the perpetrator here, but I have no idea about Mr. Wick's whereabouts.”

The Adjudicator fixed Winston a frosty stare. Their lips tightened. “If he doesn’t return in an hour for questioning, have him declared excommunicado.”

Winston nodded firmly, but Rei noticed something in his face. The man did not have many tells, but she had learned to read the subtle cues in his expression. He was hiding something.

They stood, and Winston and Rei followed. “I have the names of other witnesses if you’d like to interview them..”

“No. I would like to see the body.”

“Of course. It grows colder by the minute.”

With a flick of his head, Winston motioned for her to go back to her room. Rei didn’t hesitate, her mind racing. 

***

She thought she was facing certain death, but nothing was turning out the way she anticipated.

With shaking hands she fumbled for the keycard to her door. It opened, to a tall figure standing behind her. She almost let out a scream,  but a large hand quickly covered her mouth and pressed her against their chest.

She smelled the familiar scent of woody cologne. He released her slowly.

“John?”

He nodded, his dark eyes focusing on her with quiet intensity. He was dressed in a clean suit, the cuts on his face cleaned properly. She wondered vaguely if he had paid a visit to the Doctor in Chinatown. Then she remembered the Adjudicator’s words.

“They’re trying to pin this on you, John. You’ve got to talk to the  Adjudicator now and set them straight.”

He studied her carefully, and she wished his expressions weren’t so unreadable. He was slow to respond, as usual.

“I know. The High Table’s men are posted at almost every exit. We have to run.”

“Run?

John pulled something out of his pocket and showed it to her. It was an old Nokia cellphone. “Winston warned me the interview wasn’t going well. This is plan B.”

“What was plan A..?”

John shook his head, motioning his head to the door. “There isn’t much time to explain. We need to go.”

“The Adjudicator is going to declare you excommunicado in an hour. You can’t run.”

John didn’t blink, as if he expected this outcome. He leaned towards her, his face earnest. “If we don’t get out of here, they’ll kill us both.” His voice was urgent, though there wasn’t a hint of fear.

“I promised I would come back. Now I’m promising you I’ll get us out of here.”

The way he was looking at her, was making her heart race again, stupidly. She ignored it. “What about Winston?”

She swore there was a twitch of a smile on his face when she said that. “Winston can take care of himself. He always has.”

She was out of excuses. More than that, her heart was beating wildly with hope. Hope in the form of a pair of dark relentless eyes, promising to help her.

Chapter Text

John

It didn’t take her long to gather her belongings, which were few, judging from the size of the sparsely furnished room. He wasn’t trying to spy, but it was a habit to be observant, no matter where he was. She rummaged through one dresser drawer, and removed two items--a necklace, and a ring. He watched, as she fumbled with the clasp around her neck, and shoved the ring on the fourth finger of her left hand. The pendant was coin shaped, stamped with a strange looking flower. The ring was a simple gold band. She looked down at it, an almost reverent look on her face. He clenched his left hand, feeling the comforting weight of his own wedding band, a reminder of what he had loved, and lost.

She followed him wordlessly, as he walked swiftly outside into the hall and down the emergency stairwell. He didn’t have to look back to know she was following closely, her smaller, quicker steps echoing softly against the cement steps. He had to hurry. Winston warned him of his impending excommunicado, and once they realized the Doctor was gone, she would also be marked for death. 

He found Charon waiting for him in the restaurant’s cellars. The room had been cleared, but the raucous laughter of the kitchen staff above them and the aroma of a meaty stew filled the air. The Concierge motioned quietly to the pull out stairs leading to the side-walk outside.

“It has been an honor Mr. Wick.” The man whispered, holding out his hand. John shook it, noting the look of concern in the normally complacent man’s eyes.

They climbed out into the cold air, and the overcast afternoon. The clouds threatened rain. He felt a pressing anxiety tightening in his chest. He was used to danger, and on his own he feared almost nothing. But the footsteps behind him reminded him of his obligation to protect the one who followed him. A Doctor, the opposite of what he was. He moved faster.

“John, wait.” The woman was almost jogging, and he felt a hand tug on the back of his suit. He slowed, but did not stop. “Where are we going?”

“To a theater.” He scanned the streets, noting the congestion of traffic. There was nothing for it, they had to run, even if it took them a good 40 minutes. She paced beside him, but did not ask further questions. He was grateful, as he navigated through the tangle of people, cars, and narrow streets.

The place of his boyhood, the old ballet theater loomed before them, as the Doctor huffed beside him catching her breath. Without pausing, he reached into his jacket lining and pulled the rosary from his pocket. When he knocked on the ticket office window, the woman inside barely lifted her head.

“We are closed,” she replied in a clipped Russian accent.

He slammed the rosary against the glass, and the woman raised an eyebrow, before her eyes widened in recognition.

They were admitted immediately. He turned backward as he ushered the Doctor inside. They were followed, as he suspected. He stepped inside, knowing they had run out of time.

*** 

A dozen men and women in suits and black jackets watched them carefully as they entered, lined against the walls like sentinels. The tones of a grand piano resonated softly from the center of the room, though he didn’t recognize the tune. 

A few of them were familiar faces, though it had been too long to remember their individual names. At a long table at the front of the room, he dropped his rosary in front of the man seated there, waiting expectantly.

“ It’s been awhile,” the man said by way of greeting, in Russian.

John ignored him, choosing instead to empty his pockets. He placed a marker and a gold coin next to the rosary. 

The man pointed to his waist. “ And the belt.”

He looked at him incredulously. He had only done business with the belt once, and that was long ago, in a moment of desperation. He wondered with irritation, how even that detail had become common knowledge. He whipped the belt off his pant loops, and placed it with mock reverence on the table.

They turned to the Doctor, who was so silent, John had almost forgotten she was standing behind him. “Who is she?”

John turned back to look at her. She was still out of breath, her coat halfway off her shoulders. She froze when she noticed them all looking her way. “A doctor. She’s with me.” He replied smoothly in Russian. 

They didn’t look convinced. One of the men, a towering tattooed figure, took her coat and patted her down. The Doctor frowned, but complied silently. The man moved on and began emptying her coat pockets. They removed a tiny first aid kit, several orange pill bottles, a US passport, and a wallet containing her ID. 

Always ready to run. She gave him a shy shrug, uncomfortable at having her contraband unearthed before an audience. Apparently satisfied, the man nodded towards his superiors. 

“ Show them the way.”  

He grabbed the rosary off the table. “Be seeing you.”

“Be seeing you.” Three men echoed back. It was their ritual greeting. In their line of business, they seldom did see each other again.

The Director was inside the theater, watching a lone ballerina dancing on the stage, a single spotlight following her perfect movements, until the dancer faltered. “Again!” Her bark echoed across the empty theater, as John moved down the aisle. That sharp voice filled him with so many memories. Though he had not seen her in decades,  she was the same harsh woman. Hawk-like in appearance, sharp black eyes, large pointed nose, thin, displeased lips, painted a deep red. She barely glanced at him, as he kneeled before her, instead turning her eyes back to the ballerina pirouetting endlessly in the spotlight.

“Jardani. Why have you come home?”

He bristled at that name. The name of the helpless orphan from Belarus, begging on the streets, lying cold in the dark from fear and hunger. This was not his home, but a reminder of another time, another kind of hell. He showed her the rosary. She sneered down at it, her long nose pointed to the ceiling.

“You present this to me like an answer.”

John stiffened, holding back the anger in his throat. “I still have my ticket.”

“After all the chaos you’ve caused for the last few weeks, you think your ticket is valid?” Her black eyes narrowed. “You forget that the Ruksa Roma is bound by the High Table, and the High Table stands above all?”

She looked at the Doctor, hovering cautiously behind him. “And you bring this woman with you. The one marked for death. You honor me by bringing death to my front door?”

He stayed kneeling, the rosary still in his hand, his hand shaking as he clenched his fist. After everything he had done for her, and the Ruska Roma. They had used him like a tool, almost to death before he had broken away. She owed him, and she knew it.  

“Oh Jardani, what has become of you?” She shook her head at him, her look pitying.

He willed himself not to lose his temper, to give in to the urges of the Baba Yaga.

“ I am Jardani Jovonovich. I am a child of the Belarus, an orphan of your tribe. You are bound to help me.” He gritted his teeth, the Russian sliding off his tongue harsher and more biting from the strain of reigning in his inner rage.

“You are bound, and I am owed.”

The Director’s face changed from pity to cold remorse.

“Rooney, enough!”

The ballerina still dancing herself to exhaustion, collapsed, panting on the stage. Even from their position, the dark, purple bruises were clearly visible on her calves.

“ With me.” The Director motioned her head towards the stage exit. John followed, until he noticed the Doctor had paused before the doorway. She was looking back at the dancer, a look of sadness and pity on her face, a hesitant footstep turned towards the stage. The Dancer returned the look, with a quiet look of despair.

John grabbed the Doctor’s arm, and shook his head firmly. She froze when she caught his look, then followed him silently to the doorway. 

The Director was not waiting for them. She walked through a hallway, to a dressing room where more weary dancers were waiting in the wings. They looked spiritless. Just beaten enough to obey, but still alive enough to carry out the work. The look on their faces stirred old memories, fueled the rage burning inside him.

“You are owed?” Her voice mocked. “You are owed nothing Jardani.” The Director spat, observing her students with steely eyes as she moved through the room at a rapid pace.

“You know when my pupils first come here, they wish for one thing. A life, free of suffering. I try to dissuade them from these childish notions, but as you know, art is pain.”

The Doctor flinched, when a young girl removed a bloody toe nail from her big toe. The Director smirked, noting her discomfort.

“Life is suffering.”

They moved down a flight of stairs. “Somehow, you managed to get out,” she continued. “But here you are, back where you began. All of this, for what?”

She paused to look at him, a mocking look in her face. “ Because of a puppy?”

He almost growled, tired of her mocking, tired of everyone’s perception of his actions. He did not owe anyone an explanation for his insatiable need for vengeance. “ It wasn’t just a puppy.” He hated that he sounded like a petulant child. He left this place 20 years ago, and he was reduced to the boy who had just arrived there, fresh off the docks, begging for admittance.

They moved towards a large room, with high ceilings and marble walls. The center was filled with boys circled around a wrestling mat. Two boys faced off, throwing each on the mat, the slapping sounds of their bodies being thrown echoing across the wide room. He watched them, lost in his own memories.

“ Fond memories?” The Director smiled sardonically, before moving past him. He couldn’t look away. He remembered Jardani Jovonovich, wondering if he had known then what he would become.

He felt a hesitant hand on his back that broke him from his reverie. Rei was touching his shoulder, a look of concern on her face. He walked on, through another set of rooms, filled with young ballerinas dancing and pirouetting to piano music. The sight of them was exhausting. He was relieved, when they finally entered a private room with a long table, and a lit fireplace.

“Sit.” She commanded. 

“Even if I wanted to, I can’t help you Jardani. The High Table wants your lives. How can you fight the wind? How can you smash the mountains? How can you bury the ocean? How can you escape the light? Of course you can go to the dark, but they’re in the dark too. So tell me Jardani. What do you really want?”

“Passage.”

“Where did you want to go?”

“Casablanca.”

The Director laughed, shaking her head at the two of them seated across the table. “The path to paradise begins in hell.”

Her eyes turned to Rei, a look of intense scrutiny that had the Doctor shifting in her seat. She looked the Doctor up and down, an expression that was at best, unimpressed. “She is not of my tribe, nor does she hold a ticket.”

John shifted forward in his seat. “She is my ward. She goes with me.”

The Director was not impressed. “That’s not my concern, Jardani.” She curled a finger towards the Doctor, switching to English. “You. What are you prepared to pay?” She smiled at the Doctor’s subtle shiver. “Nothing in this world is free.”

John opened his mouth, not sure if he was going to threaten her or curse, but he bit his tongue when he noticed the Doctor remove the necklace from her neck, and drop it with a clatter on the table. The Director slid her hand forward and took it, inspecting it carefully. She looked up with a start, peering at Rei.

“The Rose of Sharon . Where did you get this?”

Rei did not seem surprised at the reaction. “From my mother.”

The Director raised an eyebrow, a question in her face that John didn’t understand. The Doctor gave her one swift nod, then she seemed satisfied. The Director pocketed the necklace, then tore the cross hanging off his rosary.

“So be it. You hand me your ticket, I will tear it.” The Director looked him in the eye, and John was taken aback by the genuine emotion there. He would have sworn it was something like affection, but that would be impossible.

“If that’s what you really desire.” She said softly. He responded with a solemn nod.

One of her men stepped from the shadows, and took the cross off her hands. John stood to take off his jacket, and unbutton his shirt halfway. He pushed the shirt off his shoulders, exposing the tattoo on his back.

Rei was looking at him questioningly, alarm in her dark eyes.

The man stuck the cross into the fireplace with a poker, waiting until the cross burned bright orange. He felt the brand go into his back with a groan of pain. He heard the sound of his sizzling flesh.

“With this Jardani, your ticket is torn. You can never come home again.” She sounded regretful, but she stood suddenly from her seat.

“Take them to the life boat.” She barked.

“Do svidanya.”

“Do svidanya.” He replied, gritting his teeth against the blistering pain as the Director, the only mother figure he had ever known, walked away and disowned him.

***

He tried to put on his shirt, wincing in pain as the fabric touched his raw burn and stuck against the skin. She stopped him, her hand yanking back his sleeve with more force than he expected from someone so small.

“Let me.” She murmured, hovering over his back. She reached for the first aid kit from the table, where their belongings had been unceremoniously dumped. 

She slathered some kind fo salve over it, placing a bandage loosely over the burn. He shrugged into his shirt, tensing as she slid the clothing over his shoulders and helped him with the buttons. She must have noticed him looking down at her, because she stopped suddenly, stepping back. Her cheeks were red.

“Sorry.” She grabbed his suit jacket, waiting as he finished buttoning the shirt, and adjusting his tie. 

“What’s in Casablanca?” She asked suddenly, as he slid his arms into the jacket she offered to him. He put on his belt, and grabbed the marker off the table. She was still watching him, eyes lingering on the marker he shoved deep into a hidden pocket in his suit.

“The Elder.”

She swore softly, her eyes widening. “You’re going to search for him?”

“I’m going to ask him for a way out.” She was shaking her head, her face frozen in fear. He reached out to her instinctively, pulling her close to him. Her anxious eyes snapped up to his face.

“It’s the only way.”

She searched his face, and the fear seemed to melt away as she found something there that gave her resolution. Her trust both intimidated him and endeared him. The protectiveness he felt towards her was startling, and he stopped just short of analyzing why. There was too much uncertainty and struggle ahead to focus on his wayward feelings.

“I trust you. Thank you..”

He was speechless, but she didn’t wait for his response. She crammed the various items on the table into her coat pockets, and followed the Director’s man outside the room.

Chapter Text

Rei

The lifeboat was a cargo freighter, crewed by a dozen Ruska Roma. All surly men, who said nothing as they boarded in the cover of darkness. As the crew hastily made preparations to embark, Rei stood at the bow, watching the moonlit horizon, listening to the call of distant seabirds, and the waves slapping against the hull. 

The empty expanse of the ocean, the fresh night air, and the endless night sky had her almost feeling dizzy. She had been confined to the hotel for so long, she had forgotten how wide the world really was. It seemed surreal to think this ship would arrive in Morocco in a few weeks.

As much as she trusted her determined companion, she still shuddered at the thought of asking the Elder for clemency. From the few stories she’d heard, he was the last person to offer mercy, if you were able to find him at all.

She felt John’s presence beside her, a comforting, silent shadow she was becoming used to. He was leaning against the railing, his dark hair obscuring his eyes as he looked towards the horizon.

She had so many questions for him, but she didn’t know how to ask them. She wasn’t even sure if he would answer. She had never imagined John Wick as a child, but back in that Theater she had caught a glimpse of a boy’s eyes, reliving his painful memories. She had seen the vulnerability in him, a curtain to the enigma partially drawn back. He wasn’t always the Baba Yaga, the legendary assassin. He was once a boy, scraping by to survive, to prove himself.

“What is the Rose of Sharon?” The deep rumble of his voice broke her reverie. She turned to look at him, surprised that he would ask. He seemed a private man, and one who tended to return the courtesy to others.

“A symbol of my mother’s family.. A crime syndicate in Seoul.” She smiled bitterly, tasting the irony of it all. “It was the only memento of that side of my family I had. They disowned her when she had me.” She looked back towards the ocean, embarrassed at revealing such personal details about her sordid family history. 

“Your ticket gave me the idea. I figured she could use it to call in a favor from them.” She remembered the knowing look on the Director’s face, the one that had made her feel stripped naked before her. “She seemed to think it was a fair trade.”

“If she took it, it was more than fair.” She felt his steady gaze on her. His unspoken question hung in the air.

“I wouldn’t know, I’ve never met them.” She never wanted to. All she knew was they left her pregnant mother in the cold, simply because she was unwed. And they never reached out to either of them, when they were struggling to make it on their own in California.

“How did you end up..” He faltered, and she turned to look at him. He looked sheepish, like he had crossed a line, committed taboo. For some reason, she didn’t feel that way.

“In Japan?” She closed her eyes, forcing down the sting of old memories, both cherished and painful. When she opened them, he was looking at her, a softness in his eyes that raised a lump in her throat. She swallowed, and continued hastily. “My mother died a few years before I finished medical school. He.. my father.. Yamada-san , showed up at her funeral.”

She remembered him. The short, yet solid man, with fierce, unforgiving eyes. The way he had stared at her, measured her. She should have known not to trust him.  But she was lonely and grieving, without family. She wondered if that was his plan, to lure her when she was at her most vulnerable. “He invited me to continue my studies in Tokyo. That he wanted me to join the family there.”

She felt a chill run through her body that was not just from the weather. “I studied to become a surgeon at Tokyo University for nearly five years. In that time, I learned what my family really was. What they really did.” Her hands instinctively touched the gold band on her finger, the weight of the ring felt heavy. It wasn’t the right fit, it slid on her knuckle. They never had the chance to resize it.

“I should have left, John. But I couldn’t..” She felt the tears in her eyes, as she remembered him. His soft brown eyes, his gentle smile. Ryouta. “I fell in love with someone. Someone who worked for my father..” She brushed away her tears, her cheeks burning with embarrassment, but somehow the experience was cathartic. The words just kept flowing, like a dam had broken inside her. “I couldn’t leave him, even knowing what they did. What he did.”

John was silent and still. She kept going, feeling a sudden need to finish, to have another soul know her story. “Yamada died last year. A stroke.. He had one legitimate son, my older half-brother.” Her hands reached out to grip the railing, her knuckles clenched bone white. “I was in their headquarters at Marunouchi. Waiting for him and his crew to get off work.. That’s when..”

She remembered the gunfire, the confusion. She remembered the way Ryouta’s gentle face changed, the steel in his eye as he shoved her under a desk and pulled out a gun.

“He killed them all. All of his own father’s most loyal men and women.” She looked into the blackness of the ocean, feeling completely empty. “They were my friends. My family.”

She felt a hand on her cheek, and she looked up at John. He was much taller than her, and his face was shrouded by the dark. But she felt a calloused thumb brush away a tear from her cheek, so gently. She let herself enjoy the warmth of that touch, wondering at how much she had missed the simple touch of another human being. Her own hand reached up hesitantly, to find his, her fingertips tracing his scarred knuckles. His hand fell away instantly.

The rumble of the ship’s engine saved them from further embarrassment. The ship was pulling away from the harbor. A horn blasted, interrupting  the peaceful silence. The moment had passed.

***

The cabin was small. The air was stuffy, two narrow beds barely fit against each wall. She was exhausted, but each time she drifted to sleep she had nightmares that roused her awake. Each time she had to remember where she was, as her eyes adjusted to the blackness of the room. Her memory was jolted up to speed by the subtle swaying motion of the ship, and the heavy breathing of a man, dead asleep on the opposite side of the wall. 

His back was to her, and he was still fully dressed in his suit. The room felt too warm, and she felt uncomfortable just seeing his twisted form on the too small bed. She thought about giving up on sleep, and walking up to the deck to get some fresh air, then thought better of it. This was not the Continental, and she was no longer protected. She thought of Winston, suddenly missing him. 

It started as a quiet murmur. Rei listened intently, as she heard him mutter something, not in English. Then it was louder, until he was shouting in Russian. He sounded so anguished, so enraged. She sat up on the edge of the bed, leaning forward. There was so little room between the beds, that she was able to reach out across the aisle, and shake his shoulder.

That was a mistake. His movements were a blur, but his hand was on her throat, as he slammed her against the wall, his face a mere inch away from hers. His eyes were dangerous, even glazed over by sleep. Her hands scraped at hands at her throat, her nails digging into his fingers, as she gasped. The bruises, still healing on her neck ached sharply. He didn’t let go immediately. She reached out a hand to slap at his face, hoping she could wake him.

Confusion and recognition turned to horror in those eyes, as his hands dropped from her neck almost instantly. She felt his heavy breath on her face, as she took in air, her hands rubbing her aching neck. 

“ I’m so sorry..” His voice was so low, so mournful, she barely heard him.

She felt like she was seeing him for the first time, all of him. The man and the legend. The grieving widower and the ruthless monster. Those hands that had instinctively comforted her, hours before, had nearly choked the life out of her. She should have been repulsed. She should have feared him. But when those dark, tortured eyes could not find the strength to look at her, she felt his anguish keenly, and forgot fear.

“You were screaming.” Her fingers reached for his chin, forcing him to look at her. He wore an expression of surprise along with the guilt. 

“Bad memories..” He replied gruffly, shifting his face gently away from her fingers.

“Of your time with the Ruksa Roma?”

He stared at her curiously, warily.

“It was an easy guess.. You were shouting in Russian.”

As if noticing the proximity of their faces for the first time, John stepped away from her, settling himself on the edge of his narrow bed. His hands were on his face, rubbing the sleep away, pushing the hair of his eyes.

“You can talk about it, if you want to.” She said softly, watching him. “It helps sometimes..”

She could tell he was considering it, in the silence.

“Did it help you?”

“I think so.” Her hand touched the ring on her finger, rubbing it against her fingerbone. “It comforts me.. That someone understands.” She felt a small smile tugging at her lips, despite everything. “I want to know your story. I’d like us to be friends.”

He looked up at her, raising his face from his hands. “I don’t think you’d want that.” His eyes were hard. “If you knew what I’ve done.”

She measured the solemnity in those words, and the edge of loneliness to them. Behind those intimidating eyes, that frosty demeanor, was an aching loneliness. She understood that, felt that, had a stupid compulsion to soothe that pain. Because she felt it too, and it ate away at her relentlessly.

“Winston told me something about this world. That no one enters it of their own volition.” She felt the pang of sadness in her heart, picturing the craggy face she worried she would never see again. “Some are born into, forced into it. And others..” 

He was leaning forward, listening intently.

“Others are thrown into it, like a grain of sand in the vast ocean. And no matter how they struggle.. No matter how much they tread water, how close they get to the shore, they’re pulled back into the fray. A current grabs hold of them, and they can’t get out.”

He breathed deeply and sighed, a deep resonating sound that seemed to suck the air out of the cabin. “Then what are we doing, Rei?” He had said her name for the first time. She couldn’t help loving the sound of it as it rolled off his tongue.

His voice trembled. “What is the point of struggling?”

“You know better than anyone, John.”

There must have been something in her expression that surprised him, because he was looking at her quizzically, his eyebrows knit solemnly.

“To make them pay for it. For taking everything from us.”

Chapter Text

John

The two weeks on the ship seemed to last an eternity. He hadn’t had the time to sit alone with his thoughts, and confront the chaotic consequences  of his actions. Helen had been gone almost a month. The fact was surreal as it was painful, and there was nothing on the ship to distract him from his pain, except her .

She followed him like his own shadow. She was always in his eyeline, and he knew from her careful movements, her watchful eyes, that she took no chances. The Ruska Roma eyed them warily. A few of them had a greedy look that he was all too familiar with. It was confirmation of the inevitable, that there was a hefty price on their heads. Their loyalty to the Director was formidable, otherwise they wouldn’t be on this ship, transporting her cargo. But everyone, even the most loyal, had a price.

He didn’t sleep well. It was not just his restlessness, his loneliness, the chaos of his thoughts. It was the proximity of the very female presence, a few feet from his bed every night. The unmistakable scent of her, something soft, almost sweet, in that tiny room. His heart and mind mourned his Helen, but his body betrayed him. He couldn’t deny there were deeper, darker desires he kept a firm lid on with sheer will. He was irrevocably human in his needs, despite what anyone thought of him.

They did not talk much, after that first night. It was not an uncomfortable silence. They seemed to have reached an agreement, that enough had been shared between them. A mutual understanding of boundaries and limitations. They ate their meals in silence, away from the crew. 

She was changing. He sensed it, and saw it. It was in her body language, her expression. It was acceptance and conviction. Focus and determination. The pale, frightened woman was waning. Her complexion had turned a light gold, from the days spent wandering the deck under the sun. Small freckles had formed on her slight nose, smattered the tops of her high cheekbones. Her black hair had sun-bleached to a dark golden brown. For the first time, he realized she was young—at least a decade younger than him. Grief had aged her, and this new found conviction, this purpose, she wore well.

He kept a watchful eye on her, as careful as she was to remain in his sight. They were out for days at sea, on a boat full of greedy men. Some of those men lusted for more than money. He noticed the way their eyes lingered a little too long on her figure, hesitated and measured him, when he caught them looking. 

He felt a strange surge of rage when he saw them, a fierce protectiveness threatening to bring out the boogeyman. They always backed away, to his satisfaction and annoyance. He couldn’t justify his own overreaction. He couldn’t deny he was attracted to her physically. But his instinct to protect her, went beyond attraction. It was more than the redemption he sought for himself, to do one good deed to earn him a step closer to Helen. The thought filled him with remorse. It felt like betrayal.

Every night, he tossed in that uncomfortably narrow bed, strangling his wayward emotions and keeping his too-human urges in check. He bent his mind to what lay directly ahead, feeling a sort of comfort in the familiar struggle for survival against all odds. He thought of Helen, burning the memory of her laughing eyes into his mind, punishing himself as he remembered her, longed for her, ached for her. She was the reason, his reason for living. Was it a reminder, or a warning? He didn’t know.

***

They reached the port of Casablanca in the late afternoon. It was pleasantly warm and dry, and he was thankful for it. His suit stunk, and he sweated in it even as a soft breeze off the ocean cooled his neck. The Doctor was in no better shape, even though she’d wrapped her belongings in her wool coat like a parcel, exposing the stained white blouse underneath. They were disheveled and sour smelling, badly in need of showers and fresh clothes. 

He led her through the bazaar, the stench of fresh seafood thankfully masking their own odors. Still, they got a lot of looks. Even though it was cosmopolitan, Casablanca was a traditionally conservative Muslim city. The looks they were attracting was disconcerting, especially Rei, her shirt collar opened slightly off shoulder, blouse unbuttoned just above indecency.

He thought about warning her, then thought better of it. They were being followed. He sensed the discreet eyes on them, as he wound his way through the streets. He didn’t have a weapon, and he was badly in need of one. He walked hurriedly past the crowd, looking for a place to hide, their best option considering the untested woman behind him. He spotted a narrow alleyway across a dirt path, behind a few clothing stalls. He pulled the Doctor by the arm, the both of them narrowly avoiding a passing tram and slipping into the narrow corridor between two buildings. He waited, motioning for his companion to be silent, his hand tightening on his belt buckle.

Minutes passed, and no one approached them. His eyes scanned the marketplace, but no one in particular stood out. They had to find the Continental, and fast. The light was fading, and the streets would be empty at night.

“Is someone following us?”

He looked down at her. She looked calm, except for her slightly shallow breath. “Probably. We need to get out of the streets, before dark.” He glanced down at her shirt. “Unnoticed, if possible.”

Even in the darkness of the alleyway, he noticed her flush, a hand defensively covering her chest. A flutter of a cloth in the breeze diverted his attention. He yanked the garment off the clothesline by the stall, and a few others.

“Put these on, and follow me closely.” He waited, his eyes fixed carefully on the street as she changed behind him.

After a short moment, he felt her hand touch his arm. She was wearing a light grey kaftan, her dirty shirt and trousers discarded by the side of the alleyway. She had covered her head loosely in the light cream colored scarf. She was still wearing her black shoes, which made a strangely restrictive contrast to the lightweight fabric, but it was barely noticeable under the length of the billowing garment. 

“What about you?” She inclined her head to the row of men’s garments on the other side of the stall. He was tempted, the weight of the kevlar-lined suit heavy on his sweat-slicked skin. 

“No. Keep close, and do what I say, no matter what happens.”

Her smile was tight as she nodded, and she kept her word as she followed close behind him as they exited the opposite side of the alley, under the bright, golden light of the Moroccan sun.

They walked at a brutal pace for hours, and to her credit, the Doctor did not complain. Taking a bus or a taxi would have been a shorter journey, but John couldn’t risk it. Not with a price on their heads.

It had been years since he’d been to Casablanca, visited the Continental here. But sure enough, the cobbled streets became familiar as he approached.They passed old stone viaducts, and faded buildings made of brick, stone, and rammed earth. The light was fading fast, casting a dark shadow across the ancient city, a grey mist beginning to settle in the air around them, a sudden coolness permeating the air.

The streets were eerily empty. He walked faster, forcing his shorter companion to a jog, as they approached the dark underpass of a network of bridges. It was pitch black at the end of the tunnel. He knew they were out of time. With the fading of the light, the hunt would begin in earnest.

A single figure emerged from the end of each exit, three men in total. He felt the hesitant slow of footsteps behind him, the slip of fabric from the hem of her kaftan brushing against his pant-leg. She stood so close, so tense, he could hear her rapid breaths.

“Run.” He ordered, but she didn’t move. And then there was no time. He shoved her roughly against a wall, as the three men drew their knives and came towards him. “Run,” he shouted, dodging the first knife and twisting the arm of his assailant and clobbering him in head with his closed fist. The second man came, and he struck him in the throat. Then the third, he grabbed his knife-hand and slammed roughly against the wall. 

She had not run. The damned woman was crouched on the ground, prying the knife out of the hands of the first assailant, still laying dazed on the floor.  He slammed the third man’s head against the brick harder, frustrated.

“Enough!”

They all turned. An unknown man approached, bald and bearded, dressed in a finely embroidered tunic and a suit jacket. 

“I’m afraid our friends here are off-limits.” He lit a cigarette he removed from his shirt pocket, and puffed lightly.

“But he’s excommunicado!” The man against the wall protested, struggling against John’s grip.

“It seems the Manager has granted them amnesty.” The man turned to John, and he couldn’t help feeling a wave of relief, his eyes scanning over Rei, still crouched on the floor, holding the giant knife in her wavering hands.

“Mr. Jonathon, would you be so kind as to come with me?” He looked amused, as he glanced at Rei, still crouched on the ground. “And of course, your companion.”

The three assailants lowered their weapons obediently. John even managed to hand one of them their knife back. He motioned for the Doctor to stand up, and she did, on slightly shaky legs, dropping the knife with a clatter. He hurried her with a light grip on her arm , as the man who had saved them  had already turned and was walking away.

The sudden ring of metal alerted him to turn rapidly, just managing to push Rei behind him. A flash of a gunshot erupted to his left, and a knife clattered to the ground, the man who had wielded it falling limp.

Their savior chuckled, tucking the gun into the waist-band of his pants and turning back around to lead the way. “Welcome to Casablanca, Mr. Wick.”

“Thanks.” John mumbled, his eyes focused on the shaky woman next to him. She said nothing as they walked the rest of the way to the hotel. 

They had been saved by Sofia, the Manager of the Continental Casablanca. She was an associate, once a friend, even. But the thought did not comfort him. His hand absentmindedly brushed against his jacket, feeling the metal of the marker sitting in the hidden pocket of his suit. He hoped it would save them. He hoped it was enough.

Chapter Text

Rei 

The gunshot pierced her healing eardrum painfully, and she flinched without meaning to. She had been holding her breath for another violent confrontation. It seemed inevitable, given their circumstances. But it still caught her off guard when the sound splintered the impasse. John’s reflexes were blinding, so she didn’t see the man fall to the ground, only heard the telltale thud from behind his back. 

Shock faded to irritation. She ignored his questioning glance as they walked across an empty dirt square, towards the solid brick and earth walls of what must be the Moroccan Continental, Casablanca. Yassin, their savior and host, was exchanging pleasantries with John, but she barely heard him. 

The confrontation had put into sharp perspective her own helplessness. It wasn’t fear that froze her from action. It was inexperience, uncertainty. She was clueless when it came to the physicality of these encounters. She remembered John’s urgency, when he commanded her to run. She had frozen in confusion. Run where? Hide where? And if he fell, what then?

She had never hesitated nor feared to pass any mental test in her life. She was a master of analysis, study, meticulous planning. She possessed a focus that bordered on obsession when it came to learning things. But she doubted anyone mastered the art of combat, or self-defense by reading a hundreds of books and papers on the subject.

Her carefully constructed confidence during the journey at sea was crumbling, like the run down buildings they had passed by moments ago. Foolishly, she had kindled not only a hope of survival, but also of vengeance. She looked at John, as they crossed an open courtyard full of guests drinking, smoking hookah, mingling with belly dancers under the starlight. People like him lived their entire lives breathing violence. How was she to survive, in a world built for men like John Wick?

“Miss Al-Azwar is waiting for you. Best of luck Mr. Wick.” Yassin was smiling, a mischievous glint in his eyes as he motioned towards a set of ornately carved doors. John shifted, and she swore there was a small bob in his throat as he swallowed discreetly. Was he nervous?

They entered a suite, dimly lit by a few hanging paper lamps. It had an unmistakable woman’s touch, filled with bright mosaic patterns, ornate rugs and draperies. The first thing she noticed was an abundance of picture frames on every open surface. The same smiling girl was in each one, curly haired, the spitting image of the beautiful woman holding her tightly in each picture. John seemed to hesitate, moving no further into the room than the entryway. 

There was a low growl. A dog emerged from the darkness, baring its gleaming white teeth. She backed away slowly, as it’s twin emerged from the other side, growling louder. They looked like skinny German shepherds, very unfriendly ones. 

“Hello, John.”

She presumed it was Miss Al-Alzwar who emerged from an open doorway, a gun in her hands, pointed solely at John. If she saw Rei, she never gave an indication. She was unspeakably lovely, her golden-brown hair tumbling in waves down her shoulders, her caramel skin smooth, her long neck covered in golden jewelry. She moved with a deadly grace, a furious scowl maring her ageless face.

“Sofia.” John’s voice was quiet, hesitant. His hands were up, and Rei noted a look of uncertainty in his eyes that frightened her. 

BANG. Rei dropped to the ground, her hands covering her ears at the sound of the gunshot. John was floored from the impact.

“Sofia! You can’t kill the bearer of your marker.” His voice was an exasperated growl. Rei moved towards him, grabbing the suit and watching with relief as the bullet casing dropped harmlessly from the lining.

Sofia moved steadily closer, the gun still in her hands. “I didn’t kill you. I just shot you.” Sofia’s eyes finally flickered to her, before returning her gaze to John. “Nice suit.”

“Good to see you too.” He muttered in reply. Rei forced down her incredulity, her eyes darting between the two embroiled in this ridiculous and dangerous exchange.

“What did you do?” Sofia’s voice was tight, her words forced through clenched teeth, but the grip on her firearm dipped slightly. John was standing up, and she followed his movements, slow and deliberate, her hands up, her heart hammering wildly in her chest.

“I need your help..” John reached into the pocket of his suit. Sofia immediately stiffened, the gun pointed directly at his face this time.

“Don’t you do it.”

He pulled out the marker and opened it, displaying two bloody sets of finger prints, side by side. “This is your blood, your bond.”

Her whole body seemed to turn to stone, and her dark brown eyes blazed with anger.

“You’re excummincado. That marker means shit.” 

“Please.” The word tumbled out of her mouth, and Sofia’s blazing eyes settled on her. Her finely arched eyebrows raised as she appraised her. “Who are you? And why is the Elder looking for you?”

Rei looked at John, a feeling of numb shock overcoming her. He seemed just as surprised as she was. “He’s looking for me?” She hated the way her voice shook, and the brief look of pity on their host’s face.

“You have no idea what you’re into, do you?” Sofia aimed a pointed glare at John, who seemed almost to wilt under her gaze. Then her arm suddenly relaxed, her weapon aimed to the floor.

“Sit.”

Her dogs sat, no longer growling. Sofia eyed them sardonically when they remained standing, rooted to the ground. “I meant you two.” She flicked her head to the sofa further in the room. Licking her dry lips, Rei followed John’s lead and sat.

John set the marker on the coffee table carefully, as if reminding Sofia of their bond. She scowled at it, then at John.

“I should shoot you in the head right now.”

He ignored her. “He’s looking for her?”

“Both of you. It’s the only reason you’re not dead.”

He seemed to consider her, the two of them staring at each other in a silent, secret communication that frustrated Rei.

“How do we find him?”

Sofia made a derisive noise in her throat. “You don’t find the Elder, John. He finds you.” She flicked her eyes at Rei again, assessing her. “If you’re still alive.”

“Do we have your protection?” Rei asked, her voice sounding alien to her own ears.

“I’m not in service anymore, I don’t go shooting people in the head.” Her eyes narrowed, her voice pointed as she glared at John. “But the Elder has made it clear he wants to see you, alive.” Sofia let out an exasperated sigh. “I want to know what kind of trouble I’m getting into. Before I agree to anything.” She leaned forward, a glimmer of fear and frustration shining in her eyes, mingled with the anger. “I can’t afford to make enemies of the High Table, John. You know why.”

John’s normally emotionless face seemed to soften, and Rei noticed how weary he looked, how the lines in his face seemed deeper, more shadowed. 

“Do you want to know where she is?” He asked quietly.

“No. I don’t ever want to know. Because I don’t trust that I won’t go find her.” There was a painful break in Sofia’s voice. Tears brimmed her eyes. “A part of me longs for her. And I have to kill that part of myself everyday, just to keep her safe. Because sometimes, you have to kill what you love.”

Rei looked away, overcome by the raw emotion on the stranger’s  face. A feeling of guilt swept over her as she fixed her eyes on the intricate pattern of the carpet under her feet. Was anyone free under the table?

“Consequences,” John said quietly.

“Yeah, consequences.” She replied in sad agreement.

“I’m sorry Miss Al-Azwar.” Rei didn’t look up as she spoke, even though she felt their eyes on her. She didn’t want them to see her tears, the evidence of her weakness, her shame. “I made therah decision to kill Santino. I wanted to stop running for the first time in my life.” She gave herself a moment to get a hold of herself, then braved a glance at Sofia. She was staring back quietly, just listening. “I didn’t think about how the consequences would reach others.” 

She dropped her eyes again, feeling increasingly ashamed and embarrassed, pathetic and weak. “But I have no choice but to beg for your help. I’m.. hopeless, without it.”

A calloused hand brushed the tip of her fingers. She looked up to find John staring at her, a foreign but heated look on his face.

Sofia’s loud snort diverted her attention. “I think you give yourself too much credit, miss..?”

“Rei. Rei Lee,” she replied softly, confused by the sudden mirth in Sofia’s tone.

“..Rei Lee. I’ve know John a very long time. We’ve worked together.” Sofia’s look was hard as she looked at John. “I’ll bet my life, and my dogs, that none of this is your fault.”

The accusatory note in her voice was sharp, and Rei noticed the sudden steeliness in John’s eyes.  

“You’re just another butterfly caught in the burning wheel that is John Wick.” She felt John bristle beside her, watched the smolder of anger in those black eyes. Sofia didn’t seem at all phased, matching his look with a fire all her own. “He tends to run over everything in his path, friend or foe.”

Rei couldn’t help feeling like she had disappeared from the room, as the tension in the air began to thicken between them. She cleared her throat, hoping to catch their attention, then spoke when neither of them seemed to notice.

“Miss Al-Azwar..”

An eternity seemed to pass, but Sofia finally acknowledged that she had spoken. “It’s Sofia.” She stood suddenly, and her dogs snapped to attention, trailing her footsteps.

“I’ll show you to your rooms.” Sofia glanced backwards, as the two of them stood to follow her. She wrinkled her nose. “I would suggest you take a bath first.”

“Sofia..” 

“Tomorrow, John. I’ll take you where you can find the Elder.”

***

She took her time in the bath, scrubbing herself vigorously with a rose scented soap and sinking into the scalding water. The warmth soothed her aching muscles as she tried to clear the complicated thoughts in her head. 

The idea of finding the Elder, and somehow surviving the encounter felt impossible. Yet two weeks ago, she thought she would never leave New York alive. Here she was, sitting in a copper bathtub in Casablanca’s  most exclusive hotel. 

She had to take things a day at a time, or her fragile hope would crumble. The precarious grip she has on her sanity, her false confidence would shatter. She closed her eyes, and sunk into the water.  A comforting thought floated to the top of her mind. She wasn’t alone.

She left the tub an hour later, weary and longing for sleep. She nearly lost her grip on her towel when she realized someone was in her room. 

John was sitting on the edge of a chaise, his hands folded in his lap, waiting. Without a sound or a flicker of emotion, he turned around as she fumbled for a clean set of clothes at the foot of her bed and dressed hastily.

“You could have warned me.”

Back still turned, he shrugged his shoulders. He looked strange out of his usual black suit. He was wearing a plain white shirt and wide legged pants that looked as if they were made of linen. His hair was wet and  she noted the smell of the same floral hotel soap she had used hanging in the air. Less formally attired, she couldn’t help noticing how the shirt fit tightly across his broad shoulders and strong arms.

“You can turn around now.” 

He turned, leaning back on the chaise and closing his eyes as if to sleep.

“Is there something you wanted?”

His eyes flickered open. “No. Get some rest.”

She didn’t move immediately to the bed, suddenly wide awake and unsure. She wanted to ask him so many things, but she couldn’t seem to form the words.

“It’s safer if I’m here.” His voice was so gentle, so reassuring. 

She nodded slowly, moving towards the bed and sliding under the silky covers. His eyes were closed, his hands behind his head, his long legs dangling over the edge of the chaise. With one last glance at his resting form, she reached over to turn off the lamp by her beside.

The room was flooded with darkness, and the silence felt deafening. It was broken by distant laughter outside the courtyard, where the midnight revelers were still drinking under the stars. She was exhausted but wide awake.

“John..”

“Yes?”

His quiet reply comforted her, and she fumbled for a question. She wanted to hear his voice, to know she wasn’t alone in the dark.

“The Elder.. why do you think he’s looking for us?”

There was a pause, and she pictured his serious face contemplating the question. She listened to his steady breathing in the silence.

“I don’t know, Rei.” He replied softly.

His reply has the opposite effect it should have had on her. She was glad it was too dark for him to see her smile.

“You’re not going to get hurt. You have my word.”

He said it was so much conviction. She ignored the warmth spreading through her cheeks, and the loud thumping in her chest. She closed her eyes, willing herself to sleep.

Chapter Text

John

Their world was fire. The days stretched under the relentless glare of the sun and exhausting toil in the collapsing sand. When evening set in the desert, they rested, too tired to speak. He charted and re-charted their direction by the stars in silence, before they pressed on after a few hours of sleep. Canis Minor. Lesser Dog. How fitting.

The camel loaded with water was a blessing.  A blessing that Sophia assured him was not her mercy. On that first day, at the edge of the desert, she had taken a greedy swig of one of the skins, and spat noisily back into the water to prove it. Then without a word, she sped off in her truck with her dogs, back the way she came.

There was only water and time, and walking. He lost count of how many days they spent over the sinking sand. The camel needed water too. They both ignored it, but the sagging water skins over the camel’s back were getting harder to ignore. When they rested, he noticed Rei taking smaller and smaller sips of water. To her credit, there wasn’t a flicker of worry or a complaint. She kept her face shrouded in her linen shawl. When he did glimpse her expression, there was only a deep concentration, a resilience he couldn’t help but to admire.

But resilient as she was, he knew she couldn’t last long. The mind could only take you so far. She fell after a few days, with a soft, almost comedic thump in the zenith of the sun. He stumbled in his hurry to catch her as she rolled down a steep dune, his knees sinking deep into the sand as he pinned her body securely underneath him. He pulled back the shawl, and with relief felt her soft breaths against his cheek. Her eyes were closed, her skin was clammy. But she was still breathing.

She felt heavy under his weak legs, and the stubbornly sinking sand. But he managed to tie her securely on the camel, her face resting against the belly of the animal, her limp legs dangling on the other side. Her face thumped against the waterskins as they pressed on, but there was nothing that could be done. The longer they stayed stationary, the less likely they were to survive.

When they finally ran out of water, he was too tired and hot to care. He thought he saw Helen. Her slim figure, her brown hair blowing in the wind, waving at him at the next dune. But when he staggered towards her, she was gone. It was maddening. His own personal hell. He didn’t care if each step led to his salvation or his doom, he just knew he had to get there. With the girl.

She was conscious for a few hours each night, when they rested. Their lips cracked and their throats parched. She stared at him through glazed over eyes, half delirious. He considered killing the camel and surviving off its blood. But he had no weapon, and was too weak to attempt it. The girl must live. He didn’t question it. Didn’t want to pull at the nagging thread that it wasn’t just that he owed her, or that he felt a twisted sense of salvation in helping her. 

It was loneliness. He felt bonded to her by grief. It felt wrong, and frankly pathetic. But when he heard her wheeze in the bone dry night, he couldn’t help his heart clenching with fear. She must live.  

He thought of Winston. He thought of the last drink they shared, in the all glass walls of his  “administrative office.” Protect her, John. She must live. Consider this my last request.

John.

He heard her voice again. He crawled to higher ground, feeling the sudden coolness of the sand against his wrist. He was exhausted, but he wanted to see her. He would die happy seeing her one last  time.

“Helen.”

His voice was a raspy whisper. He peered across the desert,there was only darkness, and an endless glitter of stars. He slammed his fists weakly on the sand, the bitterness of that empty expanse like a knife in his gut.

“Helen!”

A hand touched his, and his heart lept with hope. He turned his head, slightly dazed, he hadn’t noticed he had collapsed in the sand, or even how long he had been laying there. When his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he saw her almond shaped eyes. They were barely open, but her hand was still on his. She tried to say something, but the words shriveled in her mouth. Those dark eyes were shining with something like sympathy. Shared grief, shared pain.

Against his better judgement, he gave in. He threw loyalty, dignity, and even his own sanity into the wind. He kissed her, not caring how blistered and dry his lips were, painfully against hers. He didn’t care to even measure her reaction to it. He needed her. 

Then he blacked out.

Chapter Text

Rei

She dreamed she was back in Japan. The cicadas were buzzing, and the sun was bright--too bright. In the sweltering heat, she lifted off the ground and flew. The buzzing grew louder, even though she soared above the treetops and the hills surrounding Tokyo. 

Rei-chan.

Now she was on the grass, staring up in the sky. A familiar, warm face loomed overhead. She smelled the scent of sandalwood, musk, and sweat as he pressed his face closer to hers. He kissed her softly, and she smiled. She looked into his kind brown eyes, blissfully happy.

The buzzing grew louder. It was painful. She blinked, and Ryota was gone. Fear gripped her heart. A familiar dread, a reminder of something too painful to name. She closed her eyes, praying to go back to that grassy knoll, under the Camelia trees, where the cicadas called in the sticky summer heat.

The buzzing would not stop. It shook her until she was forced to open her eyes. Her lids were crusted and dry, and bright light filtered through her eyelids, through a piece of wet cloth. When the buzzing in her head died down, she realized she was submerged in water. She cupped her hands and instinctively reached for it.

A soft female voice, in a tongue she did not recognize chided her, and she felt hands on her wrists, stopping the tantalizingly cool liquid moments from her lips. The cloth fell from her eyes. She was inside a tent, and three women, clothed in black robes surrounded her, only their beautiful dark eyes sparkled from behind their full veils.

One of them pressed a strange bitter liquid in a small metal cup to her lips. She choked it down, coughing in her hurry to drink. The buzzing gradually subsided, and they allowed her small sips of cool soring water. The mineral taste of it awakened her senses, and she remembered wandering the desert. The thump of her face against the animalic scent of camel.

She realized she was naked, and soaking in rose-scented water. She felt herself flush from head to toe, but there was nothing to be done. The ladies gently washed her, then helped her out of the copper tub. The water was filthy, and full of gritty sand. They rubbed her with scented oils, and dressed her in the identical black robes they wore, fitting the veil carefully over her face and damp hair, steadily drying in the heat of the desert. They put the softest silk shoes on her feet, embroidered with gold thread. She suddenly felt like she was in a fairy tale. The gesture was somehow so touching.

“Thank you,” she rasped, her throat still scratchy from thirst. They looked at her curiously, then led her away. “John?” She asked, trying hand gestures distinctively miming a much taller man. They only shook their heads, never stopping.

She didn’t remember passing out. She didn’t remember much of the desert, except strange dreams, the oppressive heat, and mountains of sand. It all felt like a dream. She remembered an ocean of stars in the night sky. The scene was burned in her memory, something so beautiful she wondered if it was even real. Her heart thumped mercilessly in her chest, when she remembered where she was. This must be the Elder’s caravan.

It was hard to worry about John, when they were leading her somewhere purposefully, through a network of different tents. There were many women, preparing food, washing laundry, drawing water. They looked at her curiously as they passed. 

They stopped abruptly at a large opening to the network of tented rooms. One of her benefactors pointed towards the exit, towards a distant pavilion. She stumbled out of the tent, but they did not follow. The sun was blazing, and she was grateful for her shoes as she stumbled across the sand. Two men in turbans and silk tunics gave her a sideways glance, then led the way without sound or a second glance.

The scent of something sweet and spicy filled the air. It was intoxicating. She was in a large pavilion, covered with intricate gold screens and furniture. A silk screen was set just in front of the wooden settee, intricately carved and inlaid with gold. A figure sat, fuzzy through the silk screen, his eyes downcast, the gold knots on his turban glinting softly in the sunlight. He puffed from an ornate hookah, the smell of rich tobacco filling the air. She shivered, sitting down stiffly on the silk cushions placed before the screen. He did not look at her for a moment, only puffing. Even in his repose, he radiated a kingly authority. He was both beautiful and terrifying.

A sharp bark in what she guessed was Arabic pierced the silence, and one of the men silently stepped forward, carrying something on a silk pillow. To her surprise, the sentry brought the pillow to her.

It was her mother’s medallion, without question. The smooth heavy gold, the pendant marked with the Rose of Sharon, a flower her mother told her was indestructible, a symbol of her family. She felt the familiar scratches, the heft of it in her hand. The strange writing on the back she never deciphered.

“This.. How did you get this?” The words left her lips in a whisper, it was a rhetorical question, born of astonishment. But the Elder heard her. He was not the master of all whispers for nothing.

“My child, this is no mere trinket that can be traded away. All under the table know my mark, when they see it.”

He was interrupted by two more men, carrying a heavy table laden with fragrant tea, dried fruit, and some sort of bread. Her trembling hand placed the pendant on the table, peering at the script on the flat edge of the pendant. It was stupid of her not to recognize the script, so exotic in her childhood. It was Arabic. She reached for the tea, to give her shaking hands something to do. She did not shake merely from fear, but also from excitement. She felt like Alice, falling through the looking glass. The feeling of flying, falling through an unending rabbit hole. The Elder continued.

“Do you know what the Rose of Sharon symbolizes?”

She did not dare answer, instead pressing the tea to her lips, tasting nothing.

“Longevity. Your maternal clan is old. Almost as old as mine. For centuries, they operated in the shadows of kingdoms, empires, and governments. They were brought under the table, their bond bought with the blood of thousands.”

She shivered in the heat. Though she knew all of this, sensed all of this when her mother told her stories, like lessons from Aesop’s fables, she had buried away the violence of her family legacy. She let herself pretend that the stories of her family, her ancestors were some cautionary folklore. The Elder’s soft, melodic voice brought her back to the present. This was very real. The scent of the burning tobacco leaf was suddenly sickening.

“Do you know what the Chrysanthemum symbolizes?”

Again she was silent. 

“Longevity. Your paternal clan is much the same, but not quite as old. Related as they are, but prouder. Insistent on their superiority over the others.” There was a strange mirth in his voice. She did not understand why the Elder was saying these things to her. She stifled her confusion, and forced herself to focus, to stay calm.

“Do you really know nothing about your family?” She could tell he was smiling now, even behind the silken screen. It was in the way he said it, she could feel the smirk in the way he shaped his vowels. “I see your mother kept her promise.”

“You knew my mother?” There was a quaver in her voice, that she could not hide.

“Yes.” He had put down the hookah, and she heard a soft sip as he took his tea, so leisurely. The silence stretched on, the tension grating against her nerves.

“She saved my life, once.” He said it so casually. She dropped her cup, the metal thumping softly against the thick tapestry spread on the sand. The cup was empty, she did not remember drinking.

His voice was a harsh whisper this time, cutting through her stunned silence. Yet it was as biting as if he had shouted in the still and silent desert. “Do you know what the dragon symbolizes?”

“Longevity?” She answered, hiding her own mirth, almost hysterical in the strangeness of the conversation.

The Elder was silent, and he straightened suddenly, as if displeased by her mirth. “Yes.” His answer came suddenly. “The Triad is the oldest of all, and the largest of your clan. The largest of all clans under the table.”

Rei shook her head violently. “What are you saying? The Triad? As in the Chinese..?” Her head hurt, and she wished a cool breeze would clear the heady scents, overloading her senses.

“Your maternal grandmother’s clan. Yes, the Chinese Triad.” He sounded impatient. As if he wanted her to realize something.

“So my entire family legacy is violence, and death.” A bitter laugh fell from her lips. One of disbelief, and utter sadness. And a lingering dread, though her overloaded mind struggled to put the pieces together.

“She sacrificed much, to protect you from it.” There was a regret to his words, something that sounded almost like sympathy.

“Protect me? Save you? Tell me what I don’t understand.” The hysterical pitch of  her voice summoned the sentries from their posts. The Elder raised a hand, and they slowly backed off.

“You understand this in your heart. It is the thing you fear. The root cause of that dread night. The one you keep running from.” His voice was grave, but soft.

“What do they want from me?” Tears. She felt solitary tears falling, but no more. She was too dehydrated for much more. She felt like sobbing. The guilt came back, crashing in violent waves. Why did they want her dead. Why did her mother flee everything she had known. Why was there always blood and death in her wake.

“To use you. To prop you up as the heir to unite the three clans. To usurp me.”

She wanted to scream. But nothing came. Slowly, she picked up the fallen cup, and with trembling hands, poured herself another cup. She longed for something stronger. She longed for the burning in her stomach that took the edge off her nerves. She longed for the craggy face of Winston, soothing her, promising her everything would be alright. She longed for John Wick, the solid shadow of the man she knew so little, but felt so much for.

“I refuse.” She said, sounding to her embarrassment, like a pouting child.

He laughed. It was a rich, melodic sound. The laughter of an exasperated parent, exuberantly indulging his senseless child. “You cannot. They will come for you. And they will prop you up in the bloodiest war that has ever been. A war against the table. Against me.”

“Then kill me. End it.” 

The Elder’s voice was skeptical. “You do not fear death?”

“Only a fool claims to be that brave. But I will not be used.” She was shouting, but she couldn’t seem to control herself. From her periphery, she sensed the guards bristling, displeased. “I will not be a pawn for their war.”

The Elder studied her, but his expression was not readable. “Alas, I cannot. Even I am bound by the rules, my daughter. That pendant is not merely a token of thanks. It is a promise.”

“It didn’t stop you at Marunouchi.” That stupidly brave of her. She felt the Elder’s displeasure, but she was too overwhelmed to care.

“I do not break my promises. Even at the risk of my life. I’m afraid that was solely your brother’s doing.”

The pain of that fact was raw. It bled. She could have forgiven him if he had been forced into it. The last vestiges of forgiveness and excuses died in her. She slumped on the cushion, her head felt too heavy to hold. Then a familiar shadow fell across her, and she looked up in a daze. 

She didn’t know how long he had been standing there, but John was still wearing the black suit, ragged, and torn, dusted with sand. He looked haggard, but he was standing there all the same. He crouched down, looking at her with that same infuriating expression. Intense, but unreadable all the same.

“My son, how have you come to be so lost?”

“I am not lost. I have found my path.”

“And what is that path?”

John did not tear his eyes off her. She felt strangely vulnerable under that heated, mysterious gaze.

“Redemption.”

Chapter Text

John

 “No.”

Her voice was soft, barely a whisper. Yet even in his state, half dead from exhaustion, he heard the warning note. The sound of a frightened animal, backed into a corner. Fight or flight. The gears in motion behind her wild eyes, her small frame wound tight. He was used to this. Could read it flashing in the eyes of his victims a moment before he pulled the trigger. He never lingered long, he did not enjoy prolonging fear of pain.

But he did not have that option now. The horror in her dark eyes, written so plainly across her face, touched a raw nerve. Ironically, this time he offered his service, his life. She looked at him like she was staring into the seventh pit of hell. For the first time in his life, it shamed him.

“I’ll stay here.. Please.”

It took him a minute to remember the Elder was there, and she was addressing him. The Elder was now observing them keenly from behind his silken screen. It took John a moment to register her words.

“That is not possible, my daughter.” The Elder smiled suddenly, their eyes meeting, but the look he gave was impassive. It made his blood boil, even more than his next words, spoken so casually.

“Unless you would marry into this clan.” 

John clenched his fist into the sand. He was kneeling now, and he kept his face down-turned. The rage was pooling in his belly, and the part of him that he could not control was threatening to boil over. It almost happened when he tried to kill Santino.  It happened last night. He remembered with shame, the desperate way he had clung to her lips, half mad for a reason to live, the woman before him barely conscious. He had to keep the beast chained.

“Fine.”

He stared at Rei’s resolute form, not believing what he was hearing. Behind her frightened eyes was the same conviction he had once admired. He wanted to shake her. The Elder laughed.

“You are truly desperate. But the answer is no.”

She was the one who became unhinged. She lunged at the Elder, the screen toppling over. Her speed was remarkable. He registered a shout in Arabic, but he had already caught her wrist and pulled her tightly against him. She raged against his grip, slapped him, scratched at his chest. It didn’t take long for her to give up, suddenly exhausted by her outburst.

He let her down gently, watching her kneeling in the sand, listless and broken. The sentries finally led her away. The last glimpse he got of her, she looked like a limp doll, a bare foot dragging through the sand. One of her shoes lay on the cushion she had been sitting on. He picked it up, feeling the cool slip of the silken material.

“Never seen a man fight so hard, to end up back where he started.”

He kneeled down, the shoe still in his hand. There was a look of pity on the Elder’s  face that discomforted him. It reminded him of the way the Director had looked, so many weeks ago. A strange, invasive  familiarity. 

“Is there a way out?”

“Perhaps, if you clean up this mess you’ve made with the Camorra. You have broken no rules.”

“And the doctor?”

The Elder shook his head dismissively. “She has killed a member of the High Table on Continental grounds. She lives only because I am bound by a promise. But there are worse punishments than death.”

The Baba Yaga stirred, and he took measured breaths to keep himself in check. As if sensing the tension in the air, two more of the Elder’s sentries shifted behind him, a subtle warning.

“I’ll take the punishment.”

The Elder raised a finely arched eyebrow. He looked surprised. A look John was not expecting.

“Why? Why do you wish to do this?”

“Because she is innocent.”

The Elder scoffed. He rose from his chair, and sat at the table set on the floor, laden with tea and fruit. He took his time, pouring two cups. John took the proffered cup, willing himself to be patient, to be calm. 

“No one under the table is innocent. That is why the table exists.”

His hand clenched around the metal, as he forced himself to down the bitter tea, oversteeped  and nauseously fragrant. “She does not belong under the table.”

“She is the product of my most ancient enemies, clans as old as the table itself. They seek to use her to take my place, and uproot the rules of this world. The very rules that have preserved her life. Had I not made that promise to her mother, some thirty years ago, I promise you now she would not be breathing.”

John drew a long breath, unable to help himself from glowering at the Elder—the highest of the high, the man who held his life and Rei’s  in the palm of his hand. The Elder seemed unperturbed.

“Why do you wish to help her?”

He knew he couldn’t avoid the raw truth. The Elder would not accept anything less.

“To redeem myself.. in her eyes. To be worthy of my wife, and her love.”

“So this is the path you have chosen? To deserve the love of your wife?”

“At least the chance to earn it.”

The Elder rose, and seated himself back on the gilded chair. “I will allow you to share whatever punishment I devise. But should my enemies capture her to use her against me, you will kill her.”

Chapter Text

Rei

It felt like something had died within her. The great sadness, the guilt, had burned to ashes. In its place was only rage.  She had tried to suppress the memory of that bloody night, to stop herself from facing her true feelings. She was afraid of falling into a pit of helplessness, guilt, and pain. She was afraid she would never turn back from the darkness of those thoughts, falling down an endless well and never seeing the light again.

Now, those memories came churning back. Many faces, some nameless, some so dear to her heart that the pain made her stomach churn with bile, the bitterness rising to her throat. But those memories did not plunge her in a cold dark well of despair. In its place was a scorching fire. A burning hatred. She could not sit still. She paced, restless, angry, and without a single coherent thought in her mind, and a strange hunger for something she could not name.

It was dark when John found her, still pacing the perimeter of the small tent that was her prison. The Elder’s sentries had shoved her unceremoniously to the ground and left hours ago. The sand floor was busy with her footprints, going in endless circles. The room was dark, lit dimly by a pale sliver of moonlight. His tall form cast a ghoulishly long shadow across the room. Baba yaga. He was watching her silently from the entryway. The longer he was silent, the more her irritation grew.

“Did the two of you finish deciding my fate, or do I get a say?” She wanted a reaction, but he was still silent. She felt a nagging sense her anger was misplaced towards him. His help, even if it came from a very misguided place, was all he offered. But it was only a reminder of her helplessness. She was so very helpless. “Why are you just standing there?” She advanced on him, barely registering her own footsteps. His dark eyes flickered, measuring her movements. She was close, close enough to hear his steady breaths, and register the soft light reflecting in his dark pupils. “Why are you still here?”

“I made a promise.”

She laughed in his face, too unwound to gather her unraveling emotions. She felt a speck of spittle on her chin, that she wiped hastily on her sleeve. “Did you not hear the Elder? Half of the world wants me dead, the other enslaved.” She swallowed, trying to still the tremble in her voice, adrenaline rushing through her body. “You can’t help me anymore, John. No one can.”

She felt large hands squeezing her shoulders, she flinched away from the abrupt touch. His hands were firm, stopping her from stepping backwards. He bent his head closer to hers. It took a moment for her bewildered eyes to focus, and meet his, partially obscured by stray locks of his wild, dark hair. What she found there was terrifying. 

“I can.” The cold steel in that voice and look was not the John she had come to know. The quiet, thoughtful, and tortured man was gone. This was a man of focus, determination, and sheer will. 

She swallowed, her throat suddenly dry, suppressing a shudder. She yanked herself away from his firm grip, refusing to let him intimidate her, dominate her, control her. “You don’t get to make that decision.” She turned her back on him, unwilling to let him see how affected she was by his sudden change. “I don’t want anyone else dying for me.”

“I’m not planning on dying.” His response was dry, edged with equal parts humor and arrogance. His attempt at humor only stoked her anger.

“What’s the real reason you’re doing this, John?” She turned back to look at him, to ensure he had heard her. He was tense. “Tell me this isn’t about your dead wife.” His entire body coiled, and she shut her eyes in response. The blow didn’t come.

“That’s not your concern.”

When she opened her eyes, his back was towards her. His anger was palpable in the way he spoke through gritted teeth. She immediately regretted it. It was a low blow, and he did not deserve it. He was her strange friend. Her confidant. Someone who understood how bleak life was, how colorless, when they had lost everything that mattered.  

“It is my concern.” Her voice caught in her throat, and she realized why she was so angry. It wasn’t just the lack of control. Or her helplessness. It was fear. Fear that she would lose him, too. “I can’t lose another person...” Her voice caught in her throat. The anger melted away, and all she felt was fear. She felt herself falling, and her entire body trembled as the rage holding her together fell apart completely. She was a fool. She hadn’t learned her lesson.

She didn’t touch the ground. He held her against him, supporting her weight easily in one arm as if she weighed nothing. He smelled sour and his chest was painfully hard against her cheek. But she didn’t move away, her face buried against him as her whole body shook, racked with sobs. She felt a hand slide in her hair, felt his head lower, hovering above her scalp. She swore he whispered something, but the next morning, she wasn’t sure if she had dreamed it.

****

She was awake before dawn crept above the horizon. She was curled up on the sand, her neck stiff from lying in one position too long. The memories of last night came in flashes. She had fallen asleep in his arms, exhausted from weeping. Her cheeks burned with the embarrassment of that memory. She chanced a glance behind her, where John slept, his large back facing away from her. His soft snores filled the room. He had wandered the desert far longer than she had. He looked dead to the world. She checked his pulse, and touched his forehead to be sure he was okay. He didn’t stir. 

Someone had brought a tray of refreshments and a basin of water in the otherwise empty room. She scrubbed the dried tears off her cheeks, and forced herself to eat and drink. Then she waited. She didn’t have to wait long.

The sentry led her back through the network of tented rooms, and back to the pavilion. The Elder sat in his chair, the screen back in its place, blocking his face. The memories of her terror and her outbursts replayed in her head, as she settled herself back on the cushion. She took measured breaths, willing herself to be composed. He could not kill her. It gave her the false sense of security she needed.

“I hope my guards were not too rough in their treatment of you.”

She took in the coolness of his words, and forced herself to lower her gaze. “I was not myself.”

The Elder nodded, seemingly satisfied by her half-apology, then gestured to his sentries. They placed a table before her. On it was a strange coin, the shape of a single flame struck in the middle. The coin was old. The edges of the burnished gold metal were bent and worn. Words encircled the flame in Latin. Lux in tenebris lucet. From the darkness, light. She picked it up, trying to shake off the feeling of dread overcoming her. On the back of the coin was a single open eye, surrounded by three circular shields.

“It is an old office. One that has not been needed for centuries.”

“What office?” She almost whispered. He heard her all the same.

“The office of the Inquisitor. Your office.”

“I don’t understand..”

He smiled at her, and from even behind the screen, she noticed all his ivory teeth showed.

“This is a punishment well suited to you, my daughter. You will seek out my enemies. And you will kill them with your own hands.”

She laughed, more out of shock than dismay. “You forget that I am not an assassin. I could no sooner fly out of this desert, than do what you have asked.”

“No, you cannot.” His agreement stung. She felt a spark of anger, and doused it quickly. “But he can help you. He is the very best at this line of work.”

“ He has broken no rules.” There was an edge of anger to her voice she could not suppress.

“He has bound himself to your fate.”

Her fist clenched around the small metal coin, wishing for all the world she could crush it in her palm. It shook from the strain.

The Elder chuckled darkly. “Like I said, a fitting punishment.”

“And if we succeed?” She pushed the screen away, wanting to see the Elder’s eyes. He was frowning at her, as if affronted by her boldness. “If we succeed, what then?”

The Elder measured her thoughtfully. “Then your debt is paid. You are free from service.”

“And John?”

“Him too. And any other Praetorians. It is tradition. ”

“ Others? Praetorians?”

The Elder gave her a look that dripped condescension. “Surely, you do not think this monumental task can be completed by you and John Wick alone?” He smiled at her confusion. “Him, and two others of your choosing. There are always three Praetorians.”

She turned the coin in her hand, tracing the lines of the three shields surrounding the eye. The table lived for their symbols, their rules, their Latin, their traditions. It was almost comical how strictly they adhered to these archaic patterns. No better than a fanatical cult.

“..and if I fail?”

“You all die.”

Her breath hitched in her throat, even though she anticipated this answer. The Elder was still smiling.

“As I said, a most fitting punishment. You cannot endure the weight or the price of power, because it is forged on the blood of others. But you must learn, there are consequences. You killed a member of the high table--now endure the weight of your choice.”

She knew there was no other choice. But as she stared at the Elder, his eyes glinting with mockery, she promised herself something. That no matter what happened, she would not let herself be helpless again. There was no plan--only focus, and determination. She had to, or she could not live with the consequences.  It was comically simple,  succeed, or die.

“I have served. I will be of service.”

Chapter Text

John

When he opened his eyes, he was nearly blinded by the blaze of sunlight. His exhaustion was replaced with a buzzing headache, and the growling of his belly. He closed his eyes against the blazing light. Rei was gone.

He remembered how he held her against his chest the night before, stroked her head, the strands of her black hair slippery like silk against his calloused fingers. When she was finally finished weeping, she had fallen asleep, her small frame pressed against him. She smelled of roses and softness, and he clung to her warmth like a man starved for touch. Her scent still lingered in the tent, but he knew she was gone.

“Goodnight.” He had murmured it in Russian against her hair, breathing in her scent. He was unsure why the language of his boyhood had sprung to his lips. In that moment, he forgot about John Wick and the Baba Yaga. Instead he remembered Jardani Jovanovich.

He had to let her go. This was wrong. Clinging to a woman he barley knew. Why? His grief for Helen still burned deep in his chest, the pain of it so raw sometimes it hurt just to breathe. He almost welcomed the life threatening predicaments of the last month, solely because it had distracted him from the black oblivion of his loneliness and pain. He wondered if this was the root cause of his recklessness, his uncontrollable temper. Was he raging against fate for a distraction from his suffering?

But this woman—he could no longer deny she was important to him. It was confusing and frustrating. It had started out as another mission, to do the honorable thing, to prove himself to God, or the Universe, or even to himself, that he was a man who had deserved Helen. Or were those all excuses he had invented, to prevent the guilt from washing over his conscience? He felt like he was losing his mind. 

He had held her long past when she had fallen asleep, her body limp from exhaustion. He had listened to the soft sound of her breathing, the thump of her heartbeat against his chest. That’s long enough, he had admonished himself. He did not want to let her go.

She returned as he finished the last morsel of food on the plate and the last of the water. He could sense her, hear the hesitant footsteps by the entrance. It was second nature for him to know when someone approached, and he knew her sounds, her scents.

“You spoke with the Elder.”

She flinched, a startled look on her sunburned face. He watched as she adjusted the black veil covering her hair, a nervous gesture. He recalled the slip of that raven’s wing hair against his fingers. As if reading his thoughts, her cheeks flushed a deep rose. He cursed himself for finding her all the more attractive for it.

“Yes.” She said finally, then settled herself across the table. She sat gingerly, and he couldn’t help feeling something was off. Her clothes were disheveled. She was moving slowly, like someone in pain. 

“He hurt you.“ The rage was simmering in his belly, as he watched her expression carefully.

“Nothing life-threatening.” She opened her palm before him, showing him a bent gold coin, crusted with traces of what looked like skin..

He couldn’t stop a snarl from escaping his lips as he stood suddenly, the urge to strangle the Elder with his bare hands overtaking him.

“John!” She stood sharply, then hissed in pain. 

Rage gave way to concern, as he helped her fumbling fingers pull the loose black robe away from her upper back. Between the creamy skin of her left shoulder blade, there was a circle of angry raised skin. He had branded her.

“This is the least of my worries.” She tugged the robe back on carefully, stepping away to look up at him. She was looking into his eyes, in that quiet, sincere way that both calmed and unsettled  him. “He’s made me an Inquisitor.”

He picked up the coin extended to him, and glanced at the eye, the shields, the flame, and the motto.  Lux in tenebris lucet. From the darkness, light.

He was vaguely familiar with the title, but the fancy titles and the rituals were only a front. Service to the table was brutally simple. He handed the coin back to her, brushing bread crumbs off his lap. “Who do I have to kill?”

She seemed affronted by his bluntness. But he didn’t have time to mince words. She had to learn, this was the nature of survival here.

“Are you really thinking this through? You could die.”

He barely heard her, his hands itching for a weapon, his mind already miles away. “We could all die. But you won’t.” 

She flinched away from his gaze. She was too innocent for the road ahead. It pained him. He brushed past her, intent on finding the Elder.

“This is not what she wants.”

Those words brought him hurtlingback, a stab in his heart at the mere mention of her, and not even by name. He felt the same anger rising that he felt the night before, and truth be told, fear as well. She has come dangerously close to unleashing his rage. Whatever he felt for this woman, he was not ready for her to pry into his life. To speak of her.

“I told you, it’s not your concern.” She must have heard the warning note in his voice, because her face twitched like it had been slapped. But she made no move to get out of his way. Instead, to his utter astonishment, she took his hand.

That small, frozen hand. Even in the afternoon heat, it felt cool to the touch.

“I know what you’re thinking, John. That this act, this sacrifice is going to redeem you in her eyes.” He looked at her, his hand was shaking. But he could not look away, something in her voice, desperate and sad, compelling him to listen.

“But she loved you. And nothing you’ve done would ever change that.” A single tear rolled down her cheek. She wiped it away hastily, then looked at her feet. “She would want you to live.” Her bare feet shifted in the sand. Then she said something so softly, she almost whispered it. “I want you to live.”

He didn’t know he had done it, but his hands were suddenly in her hair again, tugging the hood off of her face. His free hand tipped her chin, forcing her to look at him. Her almond shaped eyes were wide, like a deer caught in headlights. He wasn’t  thinking. He couldn’t bring himself to care about all the reasons this was wrong.

He kissed her, slowly at first, then fiercely when she responded shyly, her cold hands gripping his shoulders. When they parted, she was still looking into his eyes, a mixture of concern and confusion in her expression. He forced himself away from her, gathering his thoughts and his breath.

“I want you to live too.” 

She looked at him with those large dark eyes, welling with tears, not of sadness this time, but abject fear. It broke his heart. He let himself hold her as long as he wanted this time. He tried not to think of how wrong it was. At least for a moment.

Chapter Text

Sofia

When John Wick arrived at her doorstep, she understood what he wanted. She was embittered and angry about it, but it was inevitable that someday, he would come to collect what was owed. Blood bonds were not given lightly, and to refuse one was certain death. Rules, and consequences. This world was simple.

Memories of the day she struck that bargain flooded her with images. Terrible memories. Of a small, thin hand, clenched around her own. Shouts, screams, little fingernails gripping her arm, leaving small scratches that drew blood. The black-clad reaper dragging her daughter away. 

Sara. It took everything she had not to chase after that van. She fled New York, worked herself to death in Morocco. A small piece of her died everyday. She chipped away at herself slowly, hoping the day would come when she would no longer remember her name. No longer remember that tear-streaked face. 

He had not used the marker. She did not enjoy owing him. She did not enjoy his company. He was like a harbinger of destruction. A beacon of bad memories. He left nothing but ashes and blood in his wake.

As Manager of the Continental Morocco, she was called to duty. And not just by anyone—but the Elder himself. In her years as Manager, she had never heard from him. His presence was a shadow in the desert. A rumored threat. But in only two weeks, she had been contacted twice by his emissary. This time, to prepare for John Wick’s arrival—and that strange woman’s.

She did not know what to make of Rei Lee. She was soft and untested. Not of their world. She couldn’t make sense of what the girl’s involvement was. It felt odd to call her a girl, but in terms of age and experience, she was one. A girl with no idea that she stood at a precipice, and she was about to fall into a deep, bloody pit. 

A pit she tried to escape. And this was the best outcome she could hope for. Living half a life in the shadows, trying to dull the aching of her still-beating heart with alcohol and rage. Here she was, waiting at the edge of the desert. Waiting to bring them to a villa on the outskirts of the city, to prepare. Prepare for what? The budget they had been cleared for was ludicrous.

She felt sick to her stomach. Like she was on the bow of a sinking ship, approaching the eye of a hurricane. She did not like to feel helplessness or fear. She much preferred rage.

They arrived at the edge of dusk on the backs of camels. There was an awkwardness there that she hadn’t sensed before. It was in their strange body language, a precise distance they both seemed to be keeping from one another.  Curiosity overcame rage, and she motioned them towards the back of her Jeep, her dogs panting by the windows as they all approached. As she watched in the rear-view mirror, the girl sat petting her dogs, lost in thought.

She drove for a few miles, but couldn’t stand the silence or her curiosity any longer. John returned her pointed stare with a quizzical flare of an eyebrow, seated in the passenger seat by her side. “So.. what did he want?”

He hesitated, then looked out the window. “The usual.” Never speak three words, when two is enough. Typical. She scowled.

They arrived in the darkness, under a night sky full of starlight. The villa was peaceful. It was rumored to be a place the Elder entertained his VIP guests. The place was a sprawling stucco mansion. Eerily empty. Their steps echoed across the cobbled courtyard, where palm trees and exotic flowers shivered in the cool night breeze.

She led them to a suite of rooms on the east wing. Watched them from her spot at an ornate table, as they chose their bedrooms. Waited, as they washed and changed. Her dogs bristled as John’s heavier steps echoed on the marble floors. He was wearing grey silk pajamas laid out for guests--a comical sight in any other circumstance. With his wet hair hanging haphazardly over his face, pant legs slightly too short for his legs, he looked like a middle-aged dad on vacation.

He sat slowly to the right of her, and ignoring the low growl of her dogs, reached for a banana sitting in a bowl at the center of the table. She poured him a glass of bourbon, and nudged it towards him. She has already started on her glass, waiting for them. Stewing in irritation and anticipation.

He took the glass without looking at her, taking a long slow sip. He peeled the banana, but before he could put it in his mouth, she lost her temper. She slapped it out of his hand. Her dogs made quick work of the fruit on the floor, but she barely paid attention to their scuffle. She fixed her eyes squarely on John, who returned her gaze, a look of mild surprise and wariness.

Good. “You owe me an explanation.”

He nodded stiffly, and reached for an apple. She scowled at him, until he moved his hand away from the bowl. “What do you want to know?”

She jerked her head towards the last room in the hallway, where the distant sound of running water running through pipes echoed through the high ceilings. “Her. What’s her deal?”

A flurry of emotions flickered through his face. Confusion. Pain. Concern. Then the customary hardness in his glance, a wall she recognized, a dam on their true selves that was necessary to survive under the table. “She’s.. A Doctor.”

“That much, I know.” She managed to speak through gritted teeth. “The rumors about her are rampant. The Doctor that killed Santino D’Antonio on Continental grounds, and somehow evaded execution.” She suppressed a shiver. “Why is she not dead?”

“The Elder..” John spoke impossibly slow, she could tell he was measuring his next words. “He owed her a favor.”

She let that shocking revelation sink in, as she sipped the drink in her glass, then realized it was empty. John took the bottle of bourbon from her side, sloshed her glass liberally, then refilled his empty glass.

“Well shit.”

He nodded, clinking his glass to hers. “He made her a deal.”

“What kind of deal?” She watched as his hand fidgeted in his pocket. He caught her look and put his hand in his lap. But as he leaned forward, she caught the guilty intent in his eye.

“The kind where I’m going to need your help.”

She shook with fury, seething, as she gripped the glass tightly in her hand. “Don’t you do it.”

He slid the marker on the table, and she swept it off the table with her free hand. It clattered noisily to the ground. One of her dogs was growling again, and advancing on John.

“ Ia . No. ” She barked in Arabic, and they backed down, and she watched as John Wick picked the marker up from the floor, and wearily placed it back on the table.

“This is your blood, your bond.”

“You’re excommunicado.”

He shook his head. “Not any longer.”

She reached out to take the marker, half a mind to hurl it out the big windows by the sitting room. A small figure approached from the hallway. The girl hesitated, like a child caught in a parents quarrel.

She finally  sat down at her right, across from John. The Doctor’s matching silk pajamas were too large, and hung like a sack on her shoulders. She had rolled her pant legs several times. With no makeup, and wet black hair, she looked like a child. A very lost child. Whatever this is, it’s hopeless. 

Those grave, almost black eyes studied her solemnly. After a frustrating pause, too long for Sofia’s taste, she put something in front of her, that clattered on the table. It was an ancient coin. One eye, three shields, and..

“You’ve got to be shitting me.”

The girl smiled strangely, and reached for Sofia’s glass, emptying the contents of the bourbon at an alarmingly fast rate. From her periphery, she noticed John shift, barely looking at the woman across from him. Something was definitely strange about the two of them. Something she didn’t have the time nor inclination to ponder.

“Winston taught me everything I know about this world. He told me it was part of his instruction. As a caretaker of the Hotel, and an enforcer of the rules.” Her voice was startlingly clear, if not loud. “Can you teach me?”

Sofia picked up the coin, refusing to look at the girl for the moment. She tossed the coin to John, who caught it reflexively in his hand, barely moving. “This is a death sentence. Count me out.”

“Sofia.” John’s voice had an edge, a warning note. 

“All I ask is for you to teach me the rules.” The girl looked down, a mixture of sadness and determination on her face. When she looked up, there was a slight glimmer in her eyes. So soft. “I promise, I won’t ask for anything more.”

John looked angry. He was finally looking at the Doctor, a mixture of exasperation and annoyance on his face. “You are going to need two more. And she’s one of the best.”

“I understand. But I won’t force anyone into this.”

“This isn’t going to be easy. Even with help.” He sighed, and John Wick, the grim reaper himself, rubbed his eyes like he was tired. Sofia clamped her jaw shut, willing herself not to show her surprise.

“I know, John. But I can’t be like them. I won’t.” The Doctor's jaw was clenched tight, and there was a startling look of hatred in that childlike face.

Sofia cleared her throat, and the two looked sheepishly back at her. “I’ll tell you what I know. I’ll help you get what you need. On one condition.”

John scowled, as if he could read her mind.

“The marker is fulfilled.”

“How is that even—“ The girl interrupted him with a single look. Those large dark eyes, pleading silently with him. He hesitated. “Fine.” He looked back at the girl quietly, a gentleness that she had never seen on John Wick’s face.

It suddenly clicked for her. That idiot.

Chapter Text

Rei

“Tell it again,  from the beginning.”

Sofia was insistent, even as she caught her breath, gasping in the sand. It was still dark, the pale fingers of dawn just starting to creep over the dunes. But she had been jogging in the sand for the better part of an hour, barefoot in the sand. Her eyes burned with sweat, her soles still tender, even after a full week of this strange drill. Her lungs and torso ached with muscles even she, an ex-surgeon in training, didn’t realize she had.

“Again?” She managed through gasps, mopping sweat from her brow. 

“Yes, little dove. Again.” There was no hint of mockery in Sofia’s voice.  She remembered the first time she had asked her why a dove. Sofia wasted no words. They were similar in that way.

“I can’t teach a dove to fight, but I can make it fly.”

Rei tried to stand on shaky legs, and stumbled in the collapsing sand. Sofia’s honey colored eyes were upon her, silently judging.  “From the beginning.” She said it so closely, her breath blew a strand of sticky hair from her face.

Ignoring the pain, she prayed desperately for sunrise. When the sun would be too full, and the day too hot for this strange torture that Sofia insisted was “training.” And she began again, half panting, half gasping as she jogged at a steady pace, gasping her story to Sofia of her relatively mundane time in Japan. As mundane as advanced surgical training and strained family relationships go. At least, until the end.

“You don’t talk about your lover much.”

She had stopped jogging, half from shock and half from mortification. Sofia raised an eyebrow in warning, and she was forced to jog in place. As irritating and callous as she was, one could not help but admire her commanding presence. She positively glowed as she jogged in pace next to her, not a spot of sweat on her golden skin.

“We were engaged.” Rei managed through gritted teeth. Her whole face burned. She felt raw, like too-ripe fruit, peeled and rotting under the glaring scrutiny of a pair of golden eyes. Eyes that missed nothing.

“I still don’t get it, why did Ichiro kill him, but not you?”

“I already told you—.”

Sofia scoffed. “Ichiro Yamada doesn’t kill 47 of his own men in a shitstorm of bullets, and somehow miss only you . You are not that lucky. You are not that special. The only talent you seem to have is encouraging delusional men on suicide missions.”

White hot rage flooded her senses. She had stopped again, her right fist clenching and unclenching as she tried to find civil words. She wanted to slap that perfect face. Sofia looked at her, as if she were mildly entertained. As if reading her mind. She smiled, a slight smirk forming on the corner of her full lips. Daring her to try. 

Rei released her clenched fist and jogged faster, further ahead. She welcomed the pain. She was learning she much preferred physical pain to mental. She said nothing, and sprinted towards the Villa, uncaring if she was cutting their “training” short. She put on a burst of speed that made her calves sing with pain. She wanted to run from it all.

But she could not. When she reached the sliding glass doors to their part of the Villa, she caught a glimpse of him sitting at the table. Dressed in a pair of faded jeans and a white t-shirt, he was drinking coffee. The scene was domestic, peaceful even. Her heart clenched and swelled simultaneously as he looked up, ever alert to his surroundings. 

She always thought he was handsome, even in his grimmest, darkest hours. But in this light, in this place, he looked human. Beautifully normal. He shifted his glance elsewhere, and she knew he felt as uncomfortable as she did. Ever since that kiss, she felt an uneasy distance between them.

Mutual acknowledgement of whatever was blooming between them had not been cathartic. It felt absurd, the wrongness of this intense attraction, in spite of the bleak situation they were thrown in—no, perhaps amplified, because they knew each breath, each day, could be their last. 

And he was a widower. She was too, sort of. The tangle of emotions, it was all too much for her. Too many threads of feelings, all connected, tugging and pulling her in too many directions.

He coughed into his mug, and she realized she was still half inside the door, staring at him. Resisting the urge to blush, she closed the door behind her and busied herself making a cup of tea. She wanted things to be comfortable between then again, before their trek through the desert and the Elder. Somehow, it felt like that was eons ago.

“Rei.”

The quiet, earnest way he said her name always sent a slight shiver down her spine. She didn’t turn around immediately, instead pouring water into a kettle and setting it onto the stove. She took a deep breath, steadying herself before turning around.

He was studying her face, in a slow and measured way that made her feel that he could read every fleeting emotion passing her mind.

“John—“

“I—“

They both paused, and a slight smile touched his lips. She let out a nervous chuckle, and leaned back into the kitchen  island, forcing herself to relax. In that silence, she gathered her strength. Tightened her resolve.

“Things have been.. odd, between us. And I’m sorry for it.”

He looked about to protest, but she knew she had to continue. She had to clear the air, and if she wasn’t sure she’d summon enough courage to bring the matter up again. Perhaps  the way Sofia stripped her feelings and laid them bare was therapeutic, in a torturous sort of way.

“I can’t deny that I care for you. I do. I can’t pinpoint the moment it happened.” She couldn’t look at him anymore, the way his eyes were looking unblinkingly into hers. She didn’t want to study the emotion there, because it didn’t matter what it was. It was wholly inappropriate, what she felt.

“I realize this isn’t the time or place for such feelings. And if I’ve overstepped or behaved inappropriately  I am truly sorry. The only excuse or apology I can offer is that I was vulnerable, and afraid. And you..” She chanced a glance up at him. He was staring into his cup, but from the way he sat, in alerted stillness, she knew he was hanging on to her every word.

“You make me feel safe. You’re the only one left, besides Winston, that I trust in this world. And.. You make me feel like I might survive all this.” She laughed, half at the absurdity of her pronouncements and as the rush of adrenaline that followed the baring of her soul. “You make me hope.. for a different kind of life.”

The tea kettle whistled, and she reached for it automatically, cursing as she scorched her finger tips on the steam. He was there in an instant, so silent and quick, she barely registered his hands on her wrist, the click of the stove turning off and the flip of the faucet in the kitchen sink. As her blistered finger tips registered the coolness of the water running over her hands, he let her wrist go, gently. He stood so closely behind her, she could smell him. Clean soap and sandalwood.

“John.. I don’t want—“

“You have nothing to apologize for.” His voice was hard and deep. It surprised her how deep his voice went. She had heard this tone before. She remembered flashes of that voice, and those terrifying dead eyes the night she killed Santino. She turned from the sink to face him.

The veneer of stillness and calm that he usually wore on his face was cracking. His hands were on the edge of the sink, his knuckles clenched and white.

“My instincts are what make me good at this.. job . It’s what’s kept me alive, what got me out.” He looked at her then, his expression softening. “It’s what’s going to get you out.”

She was dumbfounded at the raw display of emotions. A stark contrast to the weeks of emotionless silence.

“Those same instincts, whether it’s bent towards survival.. or..need.. are hard to control. I owe you an apology. For taking advantage of you.”

A flush crept over her cheeks, as the sudden memory of his urgent lips and his hands crushed into her hair flashed in her mind. “But you didn’t.”

His eyes had snapped up to look at her, but she forced herself not to return his gaze. The air felt charged and thick. She needed to change the subject.

“I need your help with something.”

The darkness in his expression had not fully gone. “What do you need?”

“A gun. And instruction.”

The look on his face changed. And a chilling resolve replaced the look she didn’t dare name, for fear that it would empower her to act in the shameless manner that had led her to this awkward point. He gave her a swift curt nod. “Tomorrow.”

The glass door swung open, and she would have jumped backward if she was not trapped between the sink and John Wick.

Never one for a silent entrance, Sofia stomped inside, brushing sand from her feet. She gave the pair of them  a glare of derision, one that seemed to encourage John to step a few steps away from her, giving her room to scramble towards the table.

She half expected Sofia to hit the showers, as she usually did after their training, but she sat herself at the table, on the seat across from her.

“There’s a reason he left you alive.”

It took her a moment to shift focus, and realize what Sofia was saying. Sighing, Sofia reached for an apple, and bit off a chunk noisily. 

Rei waited impatiently for her to finish chewing. By the time she spoke, even John had come to stand by the table, listening intently.

“I suggest you find the reason.”

“Why? There’s so much I need to prepare for..”

Sofia leaned in, swallowing the last morsel in her mouth. “An instinct. Something doesn’t add up. One week after your father dies, your brother takes the trouble of killing a building full of Yakuza, but not the one person in the way of his seat at the table. Why would he do that?”

“Because it was never about the table.” John’s arms were folded, his brows knit in deep thought. 

Sofia nodded in grim agreement. But Rei was only confused. 

“The Elder said his enemies want to prop you up as a figurehead, in a bid to take control of the Elder’s seat and the High Table, and everything under it.”

“That kind of undertaking doesn’t happen without meetings. Alliances. Formal contracts.”

It was as if their meandering conversation had jogged loose a pebble of a memory inside her mind. She remembered one night, when Ryouta had not returned her calls. She remembered her juvenile anger, as she stormed her way towards the sleek black  building in Marunouchi. The strange grim scene as she approached. A line of black cars, a dozen or so stone faced men in very expensive suits. Her father, Ichiro, and Ryouta standing and shaking hands, and the deep necked bows of her father’s  men, as the sedans carrying those VIPs sped away.. 

The hard look Ichiro aimed her way when he spotted her on the corner, watching them. The disapproval on her father—no, Yamada’s face. Ryouta refusing to meet her gaze. She had walked home alone that night, the feeling of unease tightening around her heart. She felt like she had pulled back the magicians curtain, seen the secrets of a trade she had no place seeing. The dead doves smashed in their cages and the rabbits sawn in half. By that time, it was getting harder and harder for her to ignore the truth of what her family was. What Ryouta was.

They had fought the following days. She had almost ended it—when he asked her to marry him. To run away from all of it. To find a quiet place in the country, where she could have a small clinic, and he could be a farmer.

That was only a week before the massacre.

“Rei?” There was concern in John’s voice.

“Let her work it out.” Sofia half snapped back at him.

“I think I saw them. The men.. who made a deal with my father.”

Sofia smirked. “Instinct. Would you recognize them?”

Rei shook her head. The shock of it all finally sinking in. Of realizing how foolish she had been trying not to examine her past.

“I saw them only once.. and from far away. But you were right, Sofia. They were all there. All 47 of them, including Ryouta.”

Sofia gave her a curt nod. “They didn’t die protecting you. Ichiro killed those men because they could identify the ones who want to pull down the Elder.”

Chapter Text

John

He watched as she took his Hecker & Koch, comically large in her hands, and took careful aim at the paper targets tacked up on empty oil drums. If the blast of the gunshot or the kickback had any impact on her nerves, she didn’t show it. He supposed it made sense. She was no stranger to life and death predicaments, though her trade was in the saving of lives, not the taking of them. Firing a few rounds at stationary targets was not a good simulation for what lay ahead, but her mental toughness was a good sign.

“Is this okay?” She asked, without looking back at him.

He straightened her arms, adjusted her grip on the gun. He could tell it was heavy in her hands, and he made a mental note to find her a lighter, more easily concealed weapon. 

“Don’t aim for the head first. Twice in the chest, then the head.”

She nodded, getting into the stance he had shown her minutes before. The soft intake of a shaky breath was the only indication of nerves. She fired three rounds, two in the crude chest he had drawn in pen, and one in the red circle that was  the “head”. While the targets were only 5 yards away, he couldn’t help feeling a little proud of the neatly clustered bullets marking their targets. 

“Does it hurt?”

He wasn’t expecting the question, nor the turn of her head, as she faced him expectantly. Thankfully, she had lowered the loaded weapon to the ground as she turned. The golden light of the afternoon sun haloed her face in a surreal glow. He noticed the beads of sweat on her forehead, the way her shoulders and chest were tanned by all the running she and Sofia were doing in the mornings.

“Being shot, I mean.” She turned back to the target, and he glimpsed a flush of embarrassment on her face.

“I’m afraid so.” He tried to sound as neutral as possible, he didn’t believe in padding the truth.

“But you wear that body armor, don’t you?”

“There’s a lining that stops some types of bullets, but it does nothing to soften the pain.”

“Do you still have your suit here?” 

Perplexed by this line of questioning, he didn’t answer straight away. She emptied the cartridge into the last target, and placed the gun by its handle into his hand.

“Can you shoot me? I just want to know what it feels like.”

“It won’t help. So no, I’m not going to shoot you.” 

The disheartened look on her downcast eyes immediately softened the edge of his anger. He was starting to resent how easily she affected him—with one look, she shook his resolve. It was maddening—and dangerous. But it was impossible to separate himself from his feelings. The rage inside him was what made him successful, what pushed him over the limit against insurmountable odds. With her, he felt a different kind of intensity.

“You won’t be shot at, Rei.”

She gave him one of her solemn unsmiling looks. Her dark eyes shone almost amber in the bright sunlight. 

“I’m not letting you run into danger without me.”

He hesitated, unsure if he should tell her he didn’t plan on letting her get close to any of it. The killing, the blood shed. It wasn’t only that her lack of combat experience was a liability. The idea of letting her soak in that kind of violence seemed unnecessarily cruel.

“John—remember, nobody is dying for me.” She put her hand on his arm for emphasis, her fingers digging into the crook of his elbow. “If we do this, we all take equal risks.”

“When it begins, there won’t be a time to measure that.” He tried unsuccessfully to unhinge her fingers from his arm. She only dug in further, and he was forced to rest his hand over her fingers. “I’m good at this. Just trust me, Rei. Let me figure out what’s best.”

She huffed, her fingers finally falling away from his arm. “If Sofia’s hunch is right, it means the minute I step foot into Triad territory, they’ll be looking for me. How can I expect you to protect me, and hunt down the Elder’s enemies?”

“I’ll find a way.” 

“What can I do? How can I be useful?” There was a tremor of rage and frustration in her voice. 

“You can patch me up.” He smiled at her, trying to lift her mood. It didn’t work. 

He resisted the urge to comfort her. To wrap her up in his arms, like the night in the desert. Instead, he settled for putting a hand on her shoulder, and giving it an awkward pat.

“I’ll find you a lighter weapon. Let’s continue this tomorrow.”

“This discussion isn’t over.” She replied pointedly, a stubborn look in her eye that made him weary. She was not going to let this go. He watched her go inside the Villa, walking purposefully towards the showers.

“Well that was painful to watch.”

He was surprised that Sofia was there, watching them. She had made it abundantly clear that teaching Rei to shoot was a waste of bullets and time. But she had provided the weapon and ammunition when he requested it, all the same. 

She had been avoiding being alone with him since their time in the Villa. He suspected it had something to do with the marker, based on the leery looks she shot his way whenever their eyes met. So he was surprised when she pressed a cold can of beer into his hand, and gestured towards the shade of a palm tree. They both eyed each other warily, as they sat under the sand. He snapped open his can, and took a long cool sip.

“Can you get her something smaller? Something that fits in her hands well.”

“Sure. Not that it will help. Glock 19?”

He nodded in agreement, although he was more preoccupied with what Sofia was doing here, drinking a beer in the sand with him. 

“She cares for you. Deeply.” Sofia’s bluntness caught him off-guard. He swallowed the beer and narrowly avoided choking. He did not like where this conversation was headed. He had barely had a chance to reconcile his attraction, no, his possessive feelings towards the doctor. He did not want to have his feelings laid bare and examined by his shrewd and  unflaggingly honest companion.

“None of that matters.”

Sofia scoffed, tossing an empty beer can  into the sand. “She’s too soft for all of this, John. She’s also not..scared enough. And she should be. She still believes in win-win scenarios. Happy endings. She thinks she’s going to come out of this with the sun still shining.. If she makes it out at all.” 

He couldn’t find the words to respond. To him, this was another impossible task. Win, or die. He hadn’t reconciled what his failure would mean, to those around him. He was not afraid of dying. But the consequences of his failure on Rei, the thought was too distressing to bear. He couldn’t fail her. He needed her to survive. Her survival was proof that his existence had some kind of meaning. That something good would come of all the killing he had done up to this point. That Helen, if she was up there, would be smiling down at him. He was reminded suddenly of the last letter his wife had written him. Start with this. Because the car doesn’t count. She had wanted him to find someone, something else to love. But she hadn’t known that his only talent was killing. And the only thing he loved was her.

“You should tell her the truth of what you’re up against. Before she does something stupid, and gets herself killed.”

“She isn’t a child, Sofia. She knows what we’re up against.”

“She isn’t ready to make the hard decisions. The decisions that will keep her alive.”  

He had no answer for her, because she was right. The thing that he admired most about Rei was her unwillingness to compromise her morals, no matter the cost. The thing that made her stick out like a sore thumb under the Table. The thing that made her an easy target.

“Teach her to be ruthless, John.”

He watched his companion, staring wordlessly into the distance. He was surprised by her. Sofia wasn’t soft, or caring. Those luxuries had been ripped from her ever since she lost her daughter, and began fighting solely for her survival.

“You know you can’t teach that. It’s…burned into you, with experience.”

For once, Sofia seemed to agree. “The weak ones are snuffed out quickly. It’s unfortunate she got in this mess, at her age.”

“Her compassion and morality.. It’s not just a weakness.”

“No?” Sofia’s eyes blazed, as she finally turned to face him. “I was like her once. Younger and dumber. Look where it got me.” She crushed the empty beer can under her foot. “This isn’t living, John. It’s just existing.”

“What if we could change that?”

“John—don’t.”

He ignored the warning in her voice, instead, removing the marker from his pocket. He had no intention of following Rei’s instructions regarding the matter. While her instincts were noble, they were also stupid. He would not miss an opportunity to gain Sofia’s skills–both in combat, and knowledge. He had only been waiting for the opportune moment. Ruthless. If Rei couldn’t do it, he would. 

He opened  the marker in his hand, and laid it open before her. “When you needed me, I was there. I protected the one that mattered most to you, with my life.” He ignored the  storm of rage and grief that seemed to fight for dominance over Sofia’s face. 

“I owe Rei, and you owe me.  The Camorra and the Triad are hunting her.. If not for me, she would still be hidden, under Winston’s protection.” 

The bloody fingerprint was still crimson inside, after all those years. “I owe her my blood, and you owe me yours. Whether I die, or you die in service, doesn’t matter. These are the rules.”

“Ruthless.” There was a hint of mirth in Sofia’s choked voice. “Rules you say. Rich, coming from you.” She spat in the sand. “When did you ever obey the rules, John? If you had any respect for the rules, you would have steered clear of them. Two hapless butterflies, what chance did they have crushed under a wheel named ‘John Wick’?”

He slapped her, hard. It was an automatic response that surprised even him.  He regretted it instantly, and he made no effort to block the hard punch to his jaw that Sofia returned. The impact flattened him backwards into the sand. 

“You are cursed, John. Everyone who crosses your path is fucked by association.” 

He ignored her, even as he felt the cold grip of fear, wondering if she was right. “You can find Sara again.” He sat up from the sand, wiping away blood from his mouth.

“Don’t you say her name.” Her words were a hiss, through gritted teeth. She raised an arm, but he blocked it this time, grasping her forearm. There was no real strength behind her second punch, and her arm fell to her waist easily. 

“If we complete this task, he will burn our books. You would be free to find her again.”

“Against what odds?”

“I’ve survived worse odds.”

“Liar.”

Hesitantly, he put his hands on her shoulders. To his surprise, Sofia did not flinch, or move away. “The odds would be much better, with you.” 

The change came over her slowly. The expression in her eyes went from fury, to something that looked like a desperate hunger. He recognized the misty-eyed look, and he knew she was finally letting herself dream of what her life might be like, with her daughter, without the threat of her enemies, out from under the Table. He recognized it because he had seen it in himself. The day he decided to leave service, and forge a peaceful life with Helen. The day he decided it would be better to die trying, rather than to live this meaningless existence, a circle of blood and vengeance..

Before she even reached out her hand to pull him up from the sand, he knew he had her. He didn’t allow himself to feel guilty. Sofia knew the odds, and so did he. But the scent of hope was tantalizingly sweet, like the smell of rain to a man dying of thirst. It was addicting. It rooted itself to the brain, and could not be ignored once it took hold.

“I will serve. I will be of service.” She muttered, looking deeply into his eyes, daring him to fail.

Chapter Text

Rei

Rome rose around them in the early morning light. Ruins and crumbling corinthian columns mingled with neo-classical palaces. Wide streets merged with tiny cobblestone roads. She couldn’t help forgetting what she was doing here, as she gazed out of the car window. She could feel the momentousness of this place, and a small voice in her whispered, this is not a bad place to die.

She banished the traitorous thought. She could not afford to think this way, no matter how hopeless it all seemed. She glanced at her companions in the front seat, Sofia driving silently in the rented black sedan. They were quieter than usual. John had given her no explanation for Sofia. She had joined them wordlessly on the plane, suitcase packed, no sign of her dogs.

For a moment, she indulged in the fantasy that she was on a long holiday. She rolled down the windows and let herself touch and smell the breeze. The air was hot and arid, though the sun barely crept above the seven hills. The smells of the city changed  rapidly— the heady musk of white flowers, the smell of baking bread, the stench of sewage baking in the sun, and from a passing cafe, the sudden bitter scent of strong coffee.

Sweat started to prick her neck. She considered taking off the navy jacket. She felt overdressed in the heat, in an ill-fitting pantsuit and buttoned up shirt she had borrowed from Sofia. The holster hidden at her hip dug into her side as she shifted in her seat, forcing her to give up this little daydream. John had given her the gun before they boarded the plane. No words exchanged. Not a hint of the heat in his gaze that had sent her heart racing. All politeness, all business. It was better this way, she almost convinced herself.

She couldn’t help but to wonder if he was remembering his last assignment in this city. Gianna D’Antonio was no saint—but there was something in his face when she asked about her, something close to regret. She couldn’t imagine he saw Rome with the same wonder she was experiencing. For him, the seven hills must be dripping with memories of bloodshed.

She caught his empty black eyes staring back at her, only a look of polite curiosity on his face.

 “Are we close?” Her voice was reedy and parched.

He nodded once, then resumed staring ahead.

It was better this way, she repeated to herself, as she reached for the dossier on the D’Antonios that she had read for what seemed like the thousandth time.

Giada D’Antonio. Gianna and Santino’s niece was beautiful in her photograph, and young. She wasn’t thirty.. It was hard to imagine the smiling blonde leading an entire cabal of the Camorra, but she was a brutally efficient leader, based on the pages of her exploits. She was about to lead the entire clan, and take a seat at the High Table. She wondered if that smiling face still lit up in the face of so much bloodshed. She wondered if this would have been her life, had her father seen more potential in her than to be a pawn in this strange crusade against the Elder. 

“Someone’s following us.” Sofia said it so softly, she almost missed her words. She hadn’t noticed the car had slowed as they entered the middle of the city, and traffic became thicker. The air in the car had become unbearably hot.

“How long?” John shifted slightly in his seat, glancing in the side mirror. His face remained implacable, but she noticed the way his posture had changed, he seemed charged, ready to spring at a moment’s notice.

“Since the airport. I wanted to be sure.”

She wanted to turn around, but he seemed to read her intent with a single glance through the rear-view mirror. “Rei—don”t.” He resumed looking into the side mirror, squinting at something. “Gun it.”

Sofia scoffed, gesturing ahead. A long line of cars were  at a standstill as they headed closer towards the apex of the city.  “Any other ideas?”

He hesitated, turning to look at her, then back at Sofia. “On foot?”

Sofia flicked her head towards Rei, and she couldn’t help feeling affronted at her next words. “She won’t make the run to the hotel.”

She wanted to protest she could try, but in the blink of an eye John’s weapon was trained behind her. Her eye’s didn’t register he had pulled it from his side harness, until the giant black object was almost in her face. In a swift movement he was in the backseat, surprisingly lithe in l for a man his size.

“They’re coming towards us. Sofia, get us out of here.” His body was entirely blocking the right side of the car from view. She couldn’t see who or what he was pointing his weapon at. 

Her heart was pounding. Her hand instinctively touched the bit of metal piercing her hip. Without even looking at her John shook his head, and shoved her by the shoulder out of view of the windows. “Stay down, don’t move.”

The words were firm, and strangely cold. Uncomfortably so. She did as she was told, forced to watch as John towered above her in the seat, his weapon trained on someone approaching them in traffic. 

Sofia cursed, honking her horn. All she earned was what sounded like a curse in Italian. 

“Shit,” Sofia muttered. From her periphery, she noticed she had abandoned her place at the steering wheel, and had made her way to the passenger seat. She was also armed, weapon drawn at an unknown assailant.

The car door clicked open. John had exited the vehicle. Unable to help herself, she turned up her head to catch a glimpse of what was happening.

At least five men in black suits surrounded them. None of them were armed, and stood a good distance away from John, who had not lowered his gun.

“John.” An unknown voice, smooth and deep rang through the noise of the city streets. 

“Cassian.” She heard his cool reply. His body belied his voice, his arms still tense, his gaze never flickering, his weapon trained directly at the man who had spoken.

“I’m not here for you.”  Was the other man’s unphased reply. 

“Then what are you here for?”

“Dr. Lee. My mistress would like a word with you.”  His accent was surprisingly American. She ventured another glance. He was a statuesque black man with a shaved head, impeccably dressed in a grey suit. She noticed he was ignoring both John and Sofia, and looking at her.

At some point, Sofia had exited the vehicle, her weapon steadily trained at the others. Her blazing golden eyes were focused, and her skin glistened under the Roman sun. 

She did not wish to meet them like this. Crouching, cowering, heart pounding like a coward. She sat, then slid her way out of her seat with as much composure as she could muster. As she exited the vehicle, John gave her a furious stare, but she ignored it as best she could. She could not face this road without accepting some part of the danger. He had to accept that.

“Your mistress?”

“Giada D’Antonio. Head of the Camorra.”

Speak of the devil. “My.. friends and I were headed to the Continental. Could she meet us there?” Her voice was surprisingly even, and she hoped her expression was equally calm. To her credit, Cassian looked almost impressed.

“I’m afraid the hotel isn’t safe, doctor.” He cleared his throat, glancing at John and Sofia. “You and your friends will be safer at the D’Antonio estate. I’ve been sent to escort you.”

Slowly, John and Sofia holstered their weapons. Her heart missed a beat, and she felt all the relief flood into her tensed body.

“What do you mean the hotel isn’t safe?” John asked, moving to stand in front of her. Sofia moved almost as quickly, taking her place to block the right of her. It was as if they were one mind, their movements, their body language. It was as fascinating as it was suffocating.

“Some of the Camorra aren’t too pleased with your doctor. They might try something inside the hotel.”

Sofia snorted. “Stupid.”

Cassian fixed his brown eyes squarely on hers, as he replied, seemingly to Sofia’s comment. “Stupid, but not unheard of.”

***

The D’Antonio estate was a strange, crumbling ruin. Broken columns littered the spacious rocky grounds, and the rooms were a series of abandoned aqueducts converted into cave-like dwellings. It was grand in its scale and its antiquity, but seemed an extremely inconvenient place to live.  As with most things under the Table, form and history was far more important than function. It was old . The seat of a clan as old as Rome itself.

Longevity. She shivered remembering the Elder’s strange words in the desert. John seemed to notice, and gave her a measured look, as if he were reading her every thought. His own face gave away nothing. She ignored him, and focused on where Cassian was taking them.

They found the newly elected leader of this ancient cabal perched on a crushed velvet green sofa. A single cell window in the back of the cavern cast a soft light in the room. She was dressed simply, wearing a white silk shirt and spotless white pants. She looked effortlessly beautiful, the picture of model femininity, hunched slightly over a silver coffee service. Her blonde hair fell in long waves across her shoulders as she busied herself pouring espresso into little silver cups with dainty handles.

She could smell the rich, bitter scent as she sat down on one of the overstuffed cushions to where Cassian gestured, in front of the young heiress. John and Sofia stood next to Cassian, only a few feet behind her. But it might have well been a mile. She forced herself not to look at them, for fear of looking like a lost child.

She didn’t know what to do with her hands. She settled them on her lap, waiting for the young woman to speak. Luckily, she didn’t have to be the one to break the silence.

“ Signora. Dr. Lee is here to see you.” Cassian announced, as if she hadn’t already entered the room and sat down. 

She finally looked up, and Rei noticed her eyes were a brilliant green. They glittered when she smiled, and her whole face lit up radiantly. “Thank you, Cassian.”

Giada handed her a cup of espresso, and she took it automatically, pressing the bitter, thick, liquid to her lips. She hoped she did not look as out of place as she felt, but she doubted it.

“Dr. Lee, thank you for coming all this way to see me.”

As if she had had a choice. She bit her tongue.  “Please, call me Rei.” She spoke automatically, surprised to hear her own, clear voice bouncing off the cavernous walls. She thought she saw Sofia fidget in her periphery, but she ignored it. She had to ignore both of them, or she would lose all composure. Something told her that a show of weakness in front of this smiling woman was a mistake. Forty pages of purges, assassinations, and clan wars, with Giada D’Antonio at the forefront, had warned her as such.

“Rei, then. You must have had quite the journey.” The lilt in her Italian-accented English was not quite deadpan–there was an hint of mirth.

“Not at all.” She replied politely, knowing not to take the bait. “We flew private.”

Then she laughed, and the sound was as pretty as her perfect countenance. “Your reputation does you no justice. I was told you were just another dull, humorless assassin.” Then she turned and looked at John, and the sudden and violent shift of rage in her eyes sent a shiver down her spine. When Giada turned back to face her, the look was wiped completely clean. “Clearly, my information was wrong.” She smiled into her own espresso, taking a long, leisurely sip.

“I’m no assassin,” was all Rei could manage, forcing down her urge to look to John. She took a larger sip of the bitter drink to buy some composure, unsure of where this conversation was headed, and what this woman wanted. 

“Yet you have completed the largest bounty there ever was. My Uncle.”

“I assure you, that was never in my plan. I was trying to save–”

“His life.” She interrupted, nodding her head towards John. 

“My life.” Rei corrected. 

Giada seemed to ignore her. “The man who killed my Aunt. The man who started this whole debacle.” 

She could have sworn she saw Cassian shift, but when she glanced at him he was only standing stiffly, staring at the wall like it was his most important duty.

“Your Uncle started this mess.” She replied softly, and she felt the woman finally drop that veneer of friendliness and levity. Giada measured her with a small, forced smile, and sharp green eyes. The look reminded her of a hungry cat, measuring the best way to take a bite out of its prey.

“Perhaps. But he could not have achieved it alone. My Aunt was a strong woman. A fierce woman. The best of us.” She felt the barely restrained anger in Giada’s voice, and grief beneath the anger.

Shared grief, shared pain. A spinning wheel of bloodshed.

“She was a friend to me.” John’s half whispered declaration cut through the silence like a knife. She couldn’t help whipping her head around to look at him this time.

He had that same unreadable expression on his face. He was standing motionless by Cassian. She could swear Cassian was clenching his fist, but when she caught his eye he seemed to relax, and stare mindlessly ahead.

“She was a friend to you.” Giada parroted his words with mock sincerity. She leaned in close, a delicately painted fingernail tracing the skin of her hand as it rested on the table. “ Cara Mia, from this point on, I would watch your friends closely. Or keep better company.”

She frowned, not able to hide her anger at the jab. Angry that of all people, Giada was judging them. The woman known as the butcher of Campania. 

“We are bound to the Table..” She managed to say quietly, trying to hide her annoyance.

She did not hear Giada’s reply, only registering the raised arch of a finely groomed eyebrow, before a burst of noise flooded the room, echoing around the high-ceilings..

A young boy, not 10, with a curly mop of brown hair chattered excitedly in Italian, bounding into the arms of the laughing Giada. His exuberance and innocent energy filled the room, and the shift in the tension left an awkward silence. Giada embraced her ward, and sent him running off with a cookie from the silver platter.

Startled, Rei could only observe the faces in that room. She noticed something shift in John—a hard look on his face as he glanced at the boy. Then a questioning look, as she looked at Giada. As if looking for confirmation of something.

“Relax, John.” She said with a deft shake of her head. “He’s not yours.”

She watched as he kept his clenched fists firmly by his side, but the unmistakable tremble of rage shuddered through his body. She was shocked, her mind racing through the implications.

“They were  lovers—my Aunt and your friend. ”

Rei did not know what to say. Only the boy looked very much like the photo she had studied for hours on the plane. Giada must have seen the look of understanding on her face. “Yes, Cara mia. I loved my Aunt, and now I raise her boy as my own.” Her green eyes flickered over John, slowly measuring him. “How does it feel, John? To not only murder a friend, but to make an orphan of a young boy? An innocent boy.” 

She snapped a cookie in half, and dipped it in her espresso. She was enjoying it, his inner turmoil.

“He was bound.” Rei did not recognize the sound of her own voice. It was soft and cold. She didn’t know what she felt exactly, but she was weary of the injustice of it all. Being caught by titans at war, punished for their own skirmishes. Being caught in the endless fray. There was a bitterness to the knowledge that John had killed someone he cared for, if not loved.

“You are right, of course. And you have avenged her, in some way. But your murdering my uncle has caused.. other issues.”

She only nodded, wishing for this moment to be over.

“The Camorra is not the Mafia. We do not obey a single person. We are a system of clans. Sometimes, one clan goes to war with another. In good times, we come together to make peace. But now.. you have created two factions.”

She paused, licking the crumbs off her fingers, before continuing. The reddish hue of her lipstick had transferred to her fingers, looking disconcertingly like blood.

“One faction supported My Aunt, and now me. The other.. Santino.” She almost spit out his name, a look of deep disgust coming over her face. “This faction, the ones who supported my Uncle are old-fashioned. They don’t believe a woman should lead the clans. Now that Santi is dead.. they are demanding I bring them your head. As a symbol of reconciliation.”

Rei shuddered inwardly. She wondered what welcome would have been awaiting her at the Continental Rome, had she stepped into the building. “And the reason you haven’t honored their request?”

Giada smiled widely, but this time it felt genuine. “Because I obey no one.”

“What is it you want from me?” Rei asked, fighting the dread coming over her.

“To lure out my enemies. Help me set a trap.”

She heard the sound of footsteps on the stone floor, followed by the sagging of cushions to her side. Even without looking, she knew John had joined her side.

“Too dangerous.” Was his quiet response. She wasn’t sure if it was aimed towards her or Giada.

She ignored him. She felt she was at a precipice, looking down the rabbit hole she was about to plummet through. She knew there was no way to avoid danger down the path she was headed. And she could not stomach being a coward, waiting for someone to save her time and time again. Some decisions had to be her own. Some decisions were easy, even if they were frightening. 

“Do I have a choice?” She asked, already knowing the answer.

Giada gave her a sympathetic smile. “No, cara mia. According to the Elder, you are entirely at my disposal.”

“Tell me what I need to do.”

Chapter Text

John

“Bourbon, right?”

He looked up from his seat in the guest quarters, he had been lost in old memories. He was not in the habit of letting anyone sneak up on him. It was disconcerting, given the mission ahead. Cassian didn’t wait for an answer, coming towards him with a tumbler of amber liquid in his hand. He took the drink gratefully. 

Being here was chaotic. The old memories were mixing with the new. The way the dim light shimmered on the cavernous rock walls, the ornate furniture was hauntingly familiar. He kept remembering Gianna’s face nodding in the water. The way her soft curls felt threaded through his fingers.

He remembered the first mission he had completed for Gianna’s father. He had almost died. That same night he found her waiting for him in his quarters. He took comfort in her arms. She was a beautiful woman, and he wanted to feel human again. He wanted to escape the cold stench of death that followed him.

“Good memories?” Cassian’s tone was mocking. He was sitting across from him, a sardonic smile touching his lips as he sipped his gin.

“Not particularly.” He took a long sip of the bourbon, watching the flames in the granite fireplace dance across the logs. “How’s the aorta?”

“I’ll live,” was the terse response.

Neither of them were well versed in the art of conversation. Their regular means of business was much more physical. But the unspoken things had to be said. He had to know he could trust Cassian.

“I wouldn’t have done it if not for the marker.”

“So you’ve said,” was Cassian’s stiff reply.

“I need your word you won’t hurt her.”

“I owe you nothing, John.”

His hands itched for his gun, strapped tightly to the harness at his side. He couldn’t stop remembering what Cassian had said, the night of her death. An eye for an eye, John. You know how it goes.

“She doesn’t belong in this world.”

Cassian shook the ice from his glass, and took his time downing the rest of the gin. “She killed Santino.”

“She had to—.”

Cassian shook his head. A look of icy hatred on his normally placid face.  “She killed Santino, I won’t touch her.”

He felt flooded with relief, and he unclenched hishand from his empty glass. He gave Cassian a nod of thanks, but was only returned a pointed look. He got the sense he would not be given the same courtesy.

“About this mission—“

“Nothing I can do about that. Your friend has accepted, and Signora does not negotiate.”

He choked down the slow burn of anger simmering in his belly. “You want her at Giada’s coronation where half the guests want her dead?”

“You got out alive, didn’t you?”

“She’s not one of us.”

“So you say. But she has blood on her hands. You know the rules, John.” Cassian’s smile was bitter. “Doesn’t feel too good, does it?”

He did not dignify that with an answer. He reached for the decanter sitting by the edge of the bar cart, and poured himself a healthy second drink.

“Even if your ward survives this, she’s got a gauntlet ahead of her. It may be better it ends here.”

He focused the swell of rage threatening to dull his inhibitions. Even as every fiber of his being assured him he could finish Cassian with just his fists.

“What have you heard?”

Cassian paused for a moment, as if choosing the right words. “Someone high up the Triad is looking for her.”

“Alive?”

“Yes. I wouldn’t consider that a silver lining.”

“Who?”

Cassian shook his head. “No one knows. The word on the street is there’s a very large contact for her waiting to be placed.”

John frowned, mind racing at the possibilities.

Cassian raised his empty glass in a mocking gesture. “One problem at a time, John.”

On instinct his hand was on his gun, even before his mind registered the sound of soft footsteps by the door. A thin shadow registered, and he registered a mop of brown curls first, then the face of a sleepy boy in blue pajamas.

“Cassian?” The tremulous voice called out, giving him a curious glance as he shuffled past the door.

Cassian was already standing, his features softened, arms protectively reaching for the boys shoulders.

“Luca, why aren’t you in bed?” He questioned in Italian,  in a soft hushed voice.

“Couldn’t  sleep. Mama isn’t in her room.”

Cassian cast a wary eye at John, before gathering the child in his arms. “I’ll take you to your room.” He hastily to leave, but John couldn’t help himself. The question had hung heavy on his mind all night.

“Who is his father?”

Cassian froze at the doorway, the big gathered over his shoulder. Round hazel eyes peered curiously at him over Cassian’s shoulder.

“He’s not yours,” was his stiff reply as he continued out the door.

He didn’t know what he was feeling. Perhaps it was relief. Something so small and innocent had no place in his life. Even when he had first married Helen, he had never considered fatherhood. He had too many enemies. Too much blood on his hands. To give someone his name, to pass on his bloody legacy was unthinkable. 

Her face.. Gianna’s face.. the scarlet bloom of the pool of water as her head fell, never to rise again..Seeing her son, with those same bright eyes brought back the last memory he had of her. The woman who he had respected. Lusted for. Taken comfort in. Used, and killed. 

He had never felt guilty for what he did. Never felt shame, for being a killer. He was born into this world. It was an occupation. But now.. 

“Are you thinking of her?”

He knew she had been listening to them, him and Cassian. But he had failed to notice how close she had come inside the room just then. Her hand on the counter of the bar, bare footed, her wet hair dripping water steadily on the black marble. She wasn’t looking at him. There was an emptiness in her eyes that he didn’t like. Like all the warmth had been sucked from her. Bleak acceptance. It infuriated him.

“Of who?”

“Gianna D’Antonio.”

“Yes.”

Rei took a seat. He watched as she poured herself a bourbon from his decanter, and took a soft sip. “Did you love her?”

The question caught him completely off guard. The crystal glass hovered near her face. She was hiding her expression. Faking nonchalance. 

“Does it matter?”

The glass dropped from her hands, the clatter echoing loudly, sloshing a drop of whiskey on his hand. It took her awhile to respond, and he noted the flush on both her cheeks. Anger.

“Yes. I want to know.. if you could.. if you..”

“If I could kill a woman I loved?” He turned to face her, and she dropped her gaze. She looked ashamed.

“No. I didn’t love her. But she was a friend… are you satisfied?”

He was surprised at his own anger. It was misplaced, even if she asked too many questions. Seemed to read him like an open book at times. He felt exhausted. He had been tired for months.. but now he felt truly exhausted.

“I’m sorry, John.” A small cold hand rested lightly on his shoulder. “I didn’t mean..” He felt her shuddering breath. Then soft warm pressure on his back.

She was leaning her head against him, the dampness of her hair soaking through the back of his suit. 

“Rei..” He resisted the urge to turn towards her. The urge to find comfort felt uncontrollable inside him. Regret, pain, and the unending memories were a storm threatening to swallow him whole. He wanted to grab on, hold onto her. He wanted that small hand, that little frame against him.

“I’m sorry I brought you back here..”

She was gone as quietly as she came. The wetness on his back and the empty whiskey glass the only evidence he hasn’t imagined it all. He took her glass and downed the rest of the bourbon.

He had little to hold on to these days. Little to live for, except for the memory of Helen. It was what made him effective. Nothing to lose, no holds barred.

But like the coldness of the water creeping along his back, fear was beginning to take hold. Make him lose the edge he had.

Chapter Text

Note: I have been away too long. I tried to work on this in bits and pieces, but struggled with immense writer’s block. I will keep trying! Thanks for your support.

Chapter 22

Rei

She awoke in the strange stony tomb that was her quarters. Dim light shone through the thinly slitted windows. The sunlight was warm, a strange contrast to how cold she felt, despite being swallowed in the down blankets of the giant bed. She made her way to the window, trying to absorb the thin rays.

How did I get here? She thought she had accepted her life was over after Marunouchi. She knew there was no road to happiness for her. No one, nothing to live for. As bleak as the thought was, there was a small comfort in knowing it. Nothing more to lose, no more fresh pain, just emptiness. Waiting for the end.

But why now did she feel the coldness of her reality? Why did she crave warmth and life, knowing that kind of future was gone? If she had known there was any hope for her, she would not have murdered Santino. She would not be following this twisted, bloody path. She would not…

She would have fallen for John Wick. There was no point in denying it any longer.

The sharp tang of jealously, misplaced and wholly inappropriate, knowing Giana had been his paramour. The horror she felt at knowing he had been the one to end her life. He was a man shrouded in so much darkness. A wraith to be feared.

But she dreamed of him as a man. Wondered what kind of mark he would have left on the world had he not been under the table. If he had been able to see the light and feel its warmth. She wanted to embrace him. He had become her hope. Her ultimate downfall. They could call her an innocent all they wanted, John, Sofia, and Cassian. She knew her love, her hope was doomed. The only thing she could truly wish for was to spare those wrapped in the chaos of her own making.

The sound of footsteps on the stone tiles was a welcome reprieve from her muddled thoughts. The door swung open and it was not John. She was unsure if she was disappointed or relieved.

“Signora requests your presence.” Cassian and Sofia stood behind the door, dressed in freshly pressed black suits and ties. Sofia’s golden eyes warned caution.

She moved to grab her clothes but Cassian shook his head. “You can come as you are.”

Nonplussed, she dropped the sheet wrapped around her like a cape over her pajamas, and followed him in her bare feet.

She found Giada sitting, naked, in a large, rectangular bath. Warm water steamed and pooled around her face, forming damp golden curls. The mineral smell of the water mixed with the pleasant scent of strong coffee.

Cassian and Sofia were silent sentries seemingly unphased by the naked mafiosa relaxing in the bath.

“Join me,” Giada said softly, not even looking towards her. She fought her embarrassment as she undressed and slipped quickly into the water. It was warm, but she couldn’t say she felt comfortable.

“This is where he killed her, you know.”

It took a second for her words to register, but Rei knew better than to react. It was exactly what she wanted, judging from the way she was looking at her now. Measuring her.

“He left her naked and bleeding in this bath, a hole in her head.”

She looked at Giada, wondering what she was trying to measure in her. What kind of reaction she had been hoping for.

“I’m sorry.”

Giada’s eyes narrowed. “I wasn’t fishing for an apology. I wanted you to be forewarned. I want you to know what to expect.”

She didn’t know how to respond, luckily Giada did not wait for her answer.

“A woman’s heart has no place in this world. It’s treacherous. It leaves one vulnerable. My Aunt is a prime example of this.”

“Did she love John?” Her voice was a whisper, but it echoed around the cavernous walls of the bathroom.

Giada snorted. “I was talking about Santino.” With a flick of her finger, she motioned to an all but invisible maid hiding in the shadows of the room. A silver plate of fruit and coffee was placed before them.

“She should have killed Santino. But she was crippled by love.” She scoffed, before ripping through a piece of watermelon. Rei noticed a small fleck of red fruit fall onto her collarbone. “This is our world, Doctor. You’ll learn soon enough, that you must always strike first. “

Giada’s green eyes narrowed, sharp and feral. “Pluck out your heart, stop the wound with stone.”

Rei sat silent for a moment, ignoring the other woman’s intense gaze. She knew Giada was waiting for a response. She was calculating, and she could almost hear the dice rolling in the blonde’s head. She knew there was something this woman wanted that she was not disclosing. Something she needed from her.

“You’re wrong.”

Giada’s eyebrows arched high. Rei watched a drop of bath water sliding down her porcelain cheek,

“The only thing that can keep you alive is a beating heart. One with a purpose. A reason to live..”

Giada smiled, showing her pearly white teeth. Somehow, all that beauty only managed to look frightening. “And what is that for you, Dr. Lee?”

“Hope.” She whispered it. It was only half her truth. But Giada didn’t need to know that.

Giada’s chuckle bounced off the cavern’s walls. Then she became abruptly serious. “Set hope aside. Do what is asked. Live another day.” Her long fingers suddenly wrapped around her own, her pointed nails digging into her hand painfully. “You are bound.”

The bath was warm, but Rei felt numb.

She forgot her embarrassment even as a barrage of staff entered the room. She barely felt the swirl of synchronized chaos around her, directed in sharp Italian.

She endured the tugging and cutting of her hair, the scrubbing of her skin, the strange luxuries she had never partaken of in her entire existence. She felt neither pampered nor relaxed. She felt like a doll as they polished and primped, assessed her naked form and brought silken fabrics to her face in endless droves, consulting each other but not saying a word to her. Not that she understood a word of Italian.

Hours passed. Her face was covered in a thick mask of makeup that made her unrecognizable. A porcelain doll, ready to be smashed. The spotless white silk evening gown they put over her head was gossamer thin and cold, and resembled a long piece of lingerie to her eyes, the neckline barely covering her breasts. Her hair was tightly swept into a updo that hurt her temples. Her lips were painted a deep blood red. Who am I?

“Much better.” Giada smiled, dressed in a lacy black gown that hugged every curve. Giada’s hands traced her neck, making her shiver. She spoke something in Italian, and a man in a suit came rushing forward with a velvet box.

The necklace was cold. A thick diamond choker, double strands of them glittered tightly against her neck. An expensive dog collar.

“Beautiful.” But she wasn’t speaking to Rei. Giada was looking back at John, who had appeared like a shadow in the back of the room. He was in a formal black suit, impeccably cut. His dark hair was slicked back carefully. She wondered if it was a cosmetic touch for the formalities of the evening, or a way to keep his vision from becoming obscured during his sweaty endeavors.

She hadn’t seen him all day, only Sophia had been present, keeping watchful golden eyes on her.

She agreed with Giada’s assessment. He was a beautiful man. A stark, sharp figure. Poetry in the efficiency and confidence of his form. He wore a suit like no other man. But there was nothing of John in the eyes of the Baba Yaga.

He ignored the comment, gave Sofia a curt nod, and unfolded a large parcel wrapped in tissue paper. It was a white mink coat. He held it out to her expectantly.

She hesitated. “I don’t like fur.”

“It’s not just fur.”

She stood gingerly in the tall white satin heels, and let him drape the coat over her shoulders. It fell just below her hips, and was invitingly warm, and exceedingly heavy. Bullet-proof lining. He nodded at her questioning glance.

Giada’s voice echoed somewhere outside the room. Assured she was not in hearing distance, Rei stepped closer to John, getting the scent of sandalwood aftershave. She noticed up close that he had shaved and trimmed his beard. “My gun?” She whispered, hoping no one in the room heard it.

He gave her a stony nod, and kneeled. To her surprise, she felt his hands slip up her dress, and tighten a holster on her thigh. It was fast and business like, but the warmth of his hands sent a flush of embarrassment up her chest and towards her cheeks.

“John.. what should I be doing?” She hoped she didn’t sound afraid.

“Running.”

She choked back her frustration. “Where? I haven’t seen a map of this place, and it a maze—“

“Behind me. Keep the coat on.”

The eerie calm in his voice did not comfort her. She felt like she was talking to a stranger - no, an acquaintance. The stone-faced man who had almost made her collateral damage, the night she murdered Santino.

The events of that fateful night seemed like a distant memory. She prayed by some miracle that part of her, the reckless part that had decided to exact vengeance on Santino, still lay dormant somewhere. Ready to kill and be killed.

“It’s almost time. Stay close.”

His words did not comfort her. Instead, she felt a nauseating weight in her belly. Her legs felt like jelly in these too tall shoes. Kicking off the heels, she headed for the toilet, retching into her hand involuntarily.

Sofia was frowning.

The world swam away as the bile emptied into the toilet. A strong hand steadied her, stopping her from swaying into the toilet.

“Trust me, Rei.” His voice was low. A solemn promise of violence.

“I do, John.” His words did not comfort her.

Chapter Text

John

The night was a mirror of the past. The ostentatious displays of wealth and power were the tradition of the D’Antonio’s. He could recall four or five such gatherings, where he’d stood sentry in this very estate. Faces changed, but the dance hadn’t changed much. Only the music and the menu, according to the tastes of the current hostess. 

A live orchestra played on stage as an opera singer crooned to the dulcet tones of Puccini. The guests were currently dining on veal, the rich scent of meat wafting through the open air. The tables were lit only by silver candlesticks, the flames flickering over the low murmur of conversation. The only other light in the darkness of the courtyard was the stars above them, and a thin curve of a finger-nail moon. 

The highly choreographed evening droned on as he watched carefully, never allowing himself to lose an eye on his charge. She was eating mechanically from her place of honor, to the right of Giada, at the head of the long table. None of the other heads of the Camorra spoke to her, but they stared. Some with icy looks of anger. Others with curiosity. The small part of him not tensed for action worried.

Hours earlier she had looked pale and nervous, but now she looked expressionless, her powdered face blank, her crimson  lips frozen. He needed her to hold herself together. This night held a promise of violence, despite the silky laugh that emanated from their hostess, swirling yet another glass of red.

He glanced at the ramparts to the west, fully knowing it was impossible to spot Sofia. There was some comfort in knowing her sights were trained on them. From behind Giada he spotted Cassian, and met  his  gaze. The man smirked. An eye for an eye. Despite his promises he could take no chances. They were surrounded on all sides.

There was something more to this shoddy excuse for a plan than Giada was disclosing. It was his instinct to trust in no one, but he couldn’t understand what he might be missing. Giada stood to gain some loyalty by killing them, to avenge the murder of Santino. But he knew better. She hated Santi and was not a leader who appeased those beneath her. She wanted a clean slate to mark the beginning of her rule.

The last course is the finale. Giada’s green eyes had almost  glowed when she announced it. She baited these grizzled Italians, these followers of Santino openly by honoring the woman who murdered their chosen one. She was forcing  them to break bread together. She was daring them to reveal their malcontent.

As the last plate was cleared away, the  orchestra was silenced. Grappa was brought out on silver serving trays, served in a tulip-shaped glass.

“Get ready.” Sofia’s voice was a soft buzz through his earpiece. “Giada’s men are moving in.”

Giada stood, raising her glass victoriously.

“Honored guests,” she spoke in her lilting Italian. “Tonight we celebrate the turn of the tide. Welcome back the arms of justice.”

The tension in the air was palpable. Even Rei seemed to sense it, though she couldn’t comprehend a word. For the first time since the dinner started, she looked alert, her shoulders stiffening, her hands smoothing the silk around her thigh. Feeling for her gun.

“Santino was  no true son of this clan, and not fit to dirty the high table with his kinslaying hands. My aunt is avenged, and I will take her place as an upholder of order.”

She took Rei’s  hand, motioning for her to stand. He watched as she did, managing not to tremble or shrink. Giada raised her arm towards the star-strewn sky.

“Sic semper tyrannis! A fitting end to all tyrants. Let us raise a glass to my honored guest, who absolved us of the sin of kinslaying.”

Rei looked ashen at her words, and he recalled the night she had spoken that very Latin phrase to him. The night he asked her why she had killed Santi.

Thus always to tyrants.

Half the table raised their glasses. Half did not. The table was surrounded. Black-suited sentries, some Giada’s men, others not, stood by their masters. Tensed. Poised Waiting for the first blow. 

“Shit.” Sophia hissed in his earpiece.

Giada seemed not to notice, the grappa still in her hand, her free hand wrapped tightly around Rei’s wrist. 

“Why do you not raise your glass?” Her voice was quiet, in a way that seemed far more sinister than a shout. “Uncle Marco, Signore Rossi.. Enzo?”

Her glittering green eyes laid an accusing stare at each man whose hand was empty, all the way down the length of the table.

“You know full well, Giada.” Enzo, a thin dark haired mafioso stood. He was the youngest of them, though he was well in middle age. “This was not the agreement. Hand over the Japanese-whore, and we will not oppose a regency.”

Giada smiled, finally letting go of Rei’s wrist. Instead of looking angry, she looked expectant, almost pleased. A cold breeze interrupted the short silence, flickering all the candlelight and threatening to shroud the table in complete darkness. Rei was shivering. Thanking the pretext, he placed the mink over her shoulders, as she sat back down in her place.

“If you will not toast to our guest, then the rest of us must.”

She motioned to the others, and they all downed their glasses. With a smile like an indulgent mother, she pushed Rei’s glass towards her, and she downed the glass obediently.

“Very well. If you can’t accept my peace, then you will not be forced to.” She flicked her hands, and the glasses not imbibed  were whisked away by servers. It was only when those glasses were long gone, and the guests began whispering in confusion that she stood again to  address them.

“I cannot win the hearts of those who have already hardened against me.” She feigned a look of dignified sadness, and John realized how much Giada was enjoying this.

His hand tapped Rei’s shoulder twice. Her shoulders tensed under his fingertips. She had discreetly kicked off her ridiculous shoes under the table, and slid a  hand near her thigh holster, though her face remained placid.

“The best I can do is offer a small token of comfort.”

In the silence pregnant with anticipation, a man began coughing fitfully. 

Giada seemed unbothered, as she paced before her audience. “If you will not take your salvation, then I can only promise you a swift end.”

The coughing began to intensify from all sides. A startled shout echoed as the man named Rossi fell out of his chair, apparently choking. 

“Go, meet your bastard son Santino.”

He didn’t wait for the first gunshot. Practically grabbing her by the collar of her coat, he began to drag Rei away from table, his free hand on his gun.

Chapter Text

Rei

The chaos erupted immediately. Her legs felt leaden. She moved like she was trapped under water, her knees straining against the silk of her fitted gown. He dragged her stumbling on her bare feet over cobble stones and dirt. Shots began to explode and echo across the ancient ruin. He did not stop, one hand on his gun, the other pulling at her arm so roughly she felt it would come out of its socket.

A rifle shot echoed through the courtyard over the din of multiple firearms popping off like fireworks. “Don’t look back. Sofia’s covering us.” His voice was calm, almost chillingly so. Baba Yaga.

A part of her wanted to drop to the floor in fear, but his pace was relentless. The coat felt heavy on her shoulders and she could feel herself sweating even in the chill of the evening. The entire banquet had erupted into an all out brawl.

A shot zipped by her face, and he shoved her against a wall, already answering with his gun as a spray of blood erupted from the head of an assailant around the corner. She tried not to look at his mangled forehead as the man dropped like a doll in front of them. Pop. Pop. Pop. Three more bodies.

Panic was rising like the bile roiling in her stomach. She was familiar with blood. Blood trickling from precise, careful cuts, in a cold, sterile room, brightly lit. The rhythm of the heart monitor, the steady hiss of a respirator. The pressure to be quick, careful, diligent. The power to preserve. This was not that kind of blood. This was not that kind of pressure.

He shot two men point blank, brain matter splattering the stone walls as they ran deeper into the maze. He didn’t spare a glance backward, his hand still gripped her wrist. The men slumped to the ground, one with a bloody hole where his eye should have been. The blood was pounding so fiercely in her ears she almost didn’t hear the shots anymore. Flashes of that night in Marunouchi kept invading her mind. Her legs felt like jelly as she faltered. She looked up at him, the man her treacherous heart had claimed to love. His eyes were so dark she could hardly see his pupils. Stray hairs fell across his eyes, a look of iron focus that never shifted. All she felt was fear.

“Rei, you need to follow me.” His voice was a sharp, a cold command. She followed him into the darkness, under a deep crypt-like cavern lit by only torches. The stairs were endless. She heard the sound of panting as she scrambled down the steps, only just realizing it was her own breathing.

John seemed to know the way, never hesitating as he turned around each corner, both hands on his gun, squinting into the next dark passageway. Then the next, and the next. The darkness was an endless void. It was eerily quiet. She couldn’t hear the gunshots outside anymore. Something felt terribly wrong about the sudden quiet.

“John..”

He put a finger to his lips, his eyes locked ahead. She could sense he felt the wrongness of it too. The sudden solitude, the ease of this escape. The heat of the torches felt unbearably warm. They continued walking in silence.. Then she felt it - a cool breeze and a soft wail of wind. Hope and relief flooded her senses, knowing the exit must be close. That they could leave this bloodbath.

She knew it was too easy.

Click.

She saw the glint of silver metal, and a gun pressed straight to John’s head. It was Cassian.

“Put it down, John.”

She reached reflexively for her thigh holster, but Cassian was faster.

He trained a second weapon on her, shaking his head.

“I wouldn’t try that, Signora.”

John trembled with anger, his gun pointed at Cassian in a stalemate. He flickered a glance back at her, then put his arm down slowly. “You gave me your word, Cassian.” His voice was almost a growl.

“I’m not going to hurt her. But you will follow me.”

“Where?” She asked, her tense words echoing in the dark.

Cassian didn’t put his gun down, instead motioning with his head down a different path, away from the whistling of the wind. Away from freedom.

He herded them to the end of a different corridor, a dead end. There, in the semi-darkness she was waiting for them.

“Brava. You’ve played your part well.” Giada stood as pristine as she had been all evening. Not a speck of blood on her black lace evening gown. Not a hair out of place in her ornate chignon. Not a spot of sweat. The flickering torch light caught the knuckle sized rubies on her earlobes, glittering beautifully. Like crystallized blood.

Rei felt the sweat dripping down her own neck, her arms and shoulders leaden and tired from carrying the weight of the mink coat. She forced her panic deep down into the recesses of her mind. She had to think clearly.

“Why are we here?” She asked quietly, too afraid to speak louder lest Giada detect a tremor of fear in her tone.

“Because you are not done. You must still serve.”

Giada stepped aside. At the end of the corridor lay a small bundle of blankets. Rei peered at it, unsure of what she was looking at. Until she registered soft brown curls. The hair of a young boy. He was wrapped in blankets and passed out on the floor.

“Luca?” Her voice bounced sharply around the cavern. Even John looked shocked, his eyes widening, his body tensed.

Giada pressed something firmly into her hand. A hypodermic needle filled with…

“You’re a doctor. Send him to his eternal rest. It will be peaceful.” Giada’s voice was trembling.

She could not hide her shock, as slow tears slid down the cheeks of the statuesque woman before her. A woman who had poisoned half a table of her kinsman not an hour earlier, and relished it.

“He’s a ten year old boy!”

“Yes. And I love him like my own son. But a cub will one day become a wolf, and bite the hand that raised him.” Giada wiped away her tears with the back of her hand. Her eyes narrowed.

“You are bound. If you will not complete this task, you at my disposal.” She smiled, and Rei noticed she had smudged her red lipstick. She looked as pale and frightening as a mad clown.

She looked at John, who seemed to be bursting with the need for action, but Cassian’s gun was trained right on his head. She looked into his troubled eyes, wishing she could read the thoughts in those dark pools. His hands were clenched into fists.

But this.. This could be no decision but hers. She felt the weight of the needle in her hand, a simple tool she had used so many times. This time, it felt so heavy.

She knelt slowly to the ground, the seams of the silk gown ripping as she sat. She reached for the boy’s wrist. She put her fingers on his pulse, and felt the slow beating of his heart. Giada had given him something - he was already sedated. She felt three pairs of eyes on her. Boring into the back of her head.

What was the worth of her life? Her mother was gone. Ryouta was dead. And John.. She turned back to look at him, the man that was not fully John. The Baba Yaga with his raging eyes, furious at his own inability to act.

Nothing. My life is worth nothing.

The boy slept soundly, his face curled around the blankets. All the thoughts of survival against any odds, the hope of a life away from bloodshed, a yearning to love again, melted away into this one, bleak reality. I can’t do this. I won’t.

“I’m sorry, John.”

She didn’t wait for them to understand what she meant. She took a deep breath and twisted backwards on the floor. Without a second thought she stabbed the needle into Giada’s calf pushing the contents into her.

It’s all over.

The woman screamed in agony, then began kicking Rei’s body with the sharp toe of her shoe.

“You stupid bitch.”

Rei covered her head as best as she could, her body curled in a fetal position, but the blows kept coming.

“Giada, stop!” John’s voice thundered through the room. Through the blows, she registered John’s panicked voice. Not the Baba Yaga’s. She felt lightheaded, the pain of the blows suddenly dulling as her vision swam.

Pop.

A loud gunshot echoed through the room. She felt something trickle down her face. Warm, dark blood. Endless blood. A river of blood.

Then Giada fell like a rock. It took her a moment to register that the blood dripping from her face was not hers. It was Giada’s. She unwrapped her arms from around her head, and looked into the glazed over green eyes of the Italian tyrant.

A neat hole gaped from her forehead, blood dripping steadily out of it. She was gone.

“Sic Semper Tyrannis.” She laughed. Shock and relief flooded her senses.

Cassian put the silver gun back into its holster in his suit jacket, and knelt down.

“Is Luca alive?” He was crouched over the boy, and he sounded fearful.

“She sedated him, but his pulse and respiration is steady. He’ll live.”

She vaguely registered that John’s arms were wrapped around her, lifting her to her feet. She stood on shaking legs, the adrenaline leaving her body and causing her entire body to shake. He held her firmly against him.

Cassian was standing, holding the boy against his chest. “Signora.. thank you.”

She blinked in confusion, wiping away blood from her face. “Why.. did you shoot her? She would have died from whatever she gave me .. eventually.”

“Because she deserved it.” He said it coldly. He turned to leave.

She limped forward, even as John held onto her. “Wait! How do I know you won’t hurt him?”

Cassian looked back at her. He studied her, taking her in from her bloodied face to her bruised legs and torn white dress, now ruined with blood and dirt.

“Because I’m his father.”

And without another look, he disappeared towards the exit.

Her feet suddenly gave in, and if not for John’s strong arms, she would have certainly fallen.

“Rei. Are you hurt?”

It was his eyes again. His voice. She smiled to herself. “I’ll live.. Get me out of here, John.”

Chapter Text

John

They fled on foot. He kept a brutal pace, one hand on Rei’s wrist as he led her down dark alleys. He could not risk the main streets, he was uncertain if they were being followed.

Rei struggled beside him, the heavy mink jostling around her shoulders. She made a move to shrug it off, but he shook his head. Better to sweat than to risk being shot in the back.

When they finally reached the Continental Rome, she dumped the coat unceremoniously on the ground. Then she ripped off the diamond choker, and flung it on the ground. A quarter million dollars worth of diamonds glittered on the steps. He raised an eyebrow at her, but her look was one of pure malice. If she wasn’t barefoot, she might have even stomped on it before she walked up the stairs to the hotel.

It felt like every pair of eyes were fixed on them. He hoped that the Camorra wasn’t among them. He wasn’t hurt, but he could tell Rei had enough for one night.

She was red faced and shoeless, with half her hair spilling out of her updo. Blood, sweat, and dirt stained the silk of her ripped white gown. The modest slit had ripped up her thigh, revealing a bit too much of her hosiery.

He looked away, surprised at himself for tracing the nude seam running up her leg. She didn’t seem to notice, instead shrinking under the attention from the people standing in the lobby. He took off his coat and wrapped it around her for modesty.

“Julius.” He felt relieved as the Hotel’s proprietor stepped towards them, waving away the Concierge at the front desk.

“Good evening, Jonathon, Dr. Lee. Ms. Al-Aswar is at the bar. I imagine you’ll be wanting a room?”

John leaned in over the desk. “We need something private. Inaccessible to outsiders.”

Julius seemed to understand, because instead of handing them a room key, he motioned them towards a private elevator in a closed-off room. He accessed a biometric panel with his thumb and inputted a code.

“This is a private suite, used by his holiness the Pope. No one can access this floor except me and select members of the staff. Please, make yourselves at home.”

Rei’s voice broke the momentary silence as the elevator sped upwards.

“Is Sofia all right?”

Julian smiled. “If her appetite for bourbon and steak is any indication, I would say she’s abundantly well.”

She breathed a deep sigh of relief. He could see the angry red marks all over her arms and parts of her face, where Giada’s pointed heel had undoubtedly bruised.

The elevator doors opened to a cozily lit entryway, with ornate red and gold wall paper and plush crimson carpets.

“I’ll send up some refreshments. I heard dinner was not an appetizing affair.”

“Thank you, Julius,” he replied as his friend disappeared behind the doors of the descending elevator.

He found the main room, with a giant marble fireplace already lit. Vaguely aware of his companion stumbling behind him, he located a bedroom towards the back of the suite. He turned towards the soft thud of her body, and found her crumpled beneath the loveseat she meant to occupy. She was shaking uncontrollably. Her teeth chattered loudly as she struggled to say something.

“I…can’t.. Feel..”

Shock. Her face was ghostly pale, her lips almost blue. He picked her up and took her further into the giant bedroom, navigating around the massive four-poster bed with the velvet curtains. He found the en-suite bathroom, a massive room larger than most bedrooms. He laid her gently in the copper claw foot bathtub, set by large floor to ceiling windows, the glittering lights of Rome twinkled below. The floors, sinks, and counters were the purest white marble. A giant centerpiece of hundreds of blood red roses sat on a gilded gold table. A bust of Venus with a transparent veil peered at them from a vaulted shelf.

The beauty and extravagance of the suite was almost sickening. Especially in contrast to the broken and beaten woman shaking in the tub, unable to speak. He turned on the warm water, letting her soak in the warmth, fully clothed. Slowly, she came back.

“Thank you.” She said when her teeth finally stopped chattering. She said it without looking at him. Her eyes were fixed on the skyline of Rome. He wondered if she saw it as he did now. A gilded city overflowing with blood.

He left her there to clean herself up. His own thoughts were chaos. Giada’s ruthlessness. Cassian’s son. The Camorra, now broken and seemingly leaderless. They were supposed to serve the Camorra, not dismantle them.

He was unsure of what the Elder would do, now that Rei had murdered Giada. But he could not blame her. She had the same look when she killed Santino. One of potent rage, and incredible helplessness. What other choice was there? To kill a child.. It was unthinkable. By any standard under the Table.

The Table did not deal death to those who were too young to sit under it. The boy would have his choice once he reached the right age. What Giada had asked was anathema. And yet killing her.. He couldn’t unsee the look in her eyes when she stabbed that needle full of poison into GIada’s leg. There wasn’t just rage there. There was also satisfaction.

She may have sentenced them to their next doom. They would not know until dawn broke. He should have been angry, but he was not. She was a woman of stubborn principle. If anyone could understand that, it was him.

He didn’t understand the cacophony of emotions coursing through him. He felt tortured and proud. Angry at their predicament, but strangely hopeful. And this blooming warmth in his fractured heart. Why was it there? And when had it started?

A knock at the door announced room service. He pulled the silver cart by the fireplace, grateful a large decanter of bourbon was included amongst the antipasti and wine. He poured himself a healthy glass and downed half the contents.

By his third drink, she was there. She walked unsteadily towards the silver cart, and miraculously uncorked a bottle of wine. With her unsteady hands, she sloshed Barolo into a wine glass. She joined him on the brocade sofa, close enough for him to smell the lavender soap on her skin, and feel her thigh press lightly into his.

She drank too greedily, and choked. He put his arm around her, patting her back as she coughed. She flinched away from his touch like he had burned her, as if the sensation was too much. Her hands started shaking again, and the glass fell to the ground.

“Rei, stay with me.” Her dark eyes were as wide as dinner plates, her mind somewhere else. Somewhere dark. He took her hands, ice cold, and held them to the fire. He held on to her, feeling as her hands stopped shaking, and warmth returned to her. And he coaxed her back to the light, anchoring her to the present.

“I wasn’t going to kill her. I thought.. I thought about ending it. Turning that needle on myself.”

Her eyes were on him. Large, almond shaped, and grave as they were lovely. He could picture it without even looking at her. And he knew he had painstakingly memorized every detail of her. And not only because it was his duty.

“I thought I had nothing left. Then I saw you. And I hoped..”

He forced himself to let go of her hands, but she reached out to grab them back. She squeezed them as if she was holding on for dear life.

There was pleading in her voice. She trailed off with a strange laugh, but the sound was wrong. Broken, defeated.

“I hoped for a future. With you.”

He couldn’t resist the temptation. He turned to get the full picture. Her face was so close to his. Her full lips were blood red, her cheeks rosy from a flush that went down the neck of her robe and he imagined the naked skin there.

She sighed, a soft desperate sound.

He had denied his want for so long. He told himself it was to honor the memory of his beloved wife. That was only the partial truth. The other was that he was afraid. To open himself to another so soon, when death beckoned around every corner. Waiting to swallow them both.

Looking deeply into his eyes, stubborn yet afraid, she finally mustered the courage.

“I’m in love with you.”

He wasn’t surprised by the declaration, as much as he questioned her judgment.

“I’m not someone worthy of your love, Rei.”

He let go of her hands, half a mind to leave her there. But he found his fingers tenderly tracing the line of her jaw. He cupped her soft cheek and wiped away the tear sliding down it. It pained him to hurt her. He knew he should go now, before it was too late. He was mesmerized by the raw emotion on her lovely face. And despite the rumors, he was only a man.

His finger lightly touched her lips, hesitating, questioning. As if in response, she closed the distance, her lips and teeth and tongue meeting his own in an explosion of repressed feelings.

The feeling of her body pressed against him was like a drug. He couldn’t feel enough. He slid his hands into her robe, against every part of her naked skin, swallowing her gasps with his mouth.

When they parted, gasping for breath, he met her eyes. Without looking away, he reached for the cord on her robe, pausing, stilling himself before he lost all control. To his shock and dark delight, she stood up, unbinding the cord and letting the robe hang half open. Her pupils were blown wide in a hazy mixture of wonder and lust. She had his hand, and tugged gently, leading him to the bedroom.

Millions of inner voices screamed at him that this was not the time nor place. That he was not worthy of her affection. That he was betraying his wife. The logical choice was to head downstairs with his bourbon and regroup with Sofia. But he was a man starved for warmth, for touch. For beauty. World weary and sick of death.

Sensing his hesitation, she flushed a deeper shade of red and closed the robe around her protectively, embarrassed.

Without another thought he lifted her against his chest. She yelped in surprise, but he was already placing her on the bed, his mouth on hers. Any notion of turning back was properly quashed, as he slipped the robe off her body, and put his mouth on every inch of skin he’d been dreaming to taste.

Life was for the living. And in this moment, he felt very much alive.

Chapter Text

Rei

Warm. She hadn’t felt this warm and safe in years. She could lay here for hours, pretending that there was nothing to wake up for. Nothing was waiting for them, just an endless day of freedom. Her mind begged her not to get up. To stay in this cocoon of safety and the pleasant, golden comfort for a while longer. But the sun’s pale fingers spilling into the windows was so blinding, she was forced to open her eyes.

The massive vaulted ceiling painted with naked cherubs and Roman gods stared back at her. In response to her shifting body weight his heavy arm wrapped tighter around her torso and pinned her against his solid chest. She remembered the wounds there, from knives and guns and fists, a saga of violence scribed into his skin. She remembered touching each and every mark, and the way his eyes burned. She wondered if Helen had done the same.

Helen, his lost love. Thinking of her didn’t inspire jealousy or feelings of insecurity. Her reputation was as mythical as the man beside her, perhaps even more. She was Helen of Troy, the woman who had launched a thousand murders. A figure of tragedy that shaped the myth of the man she loved. It grieved her that he had lost her, this woman who had been a light in his life. A woman who had given him strength, like he was giving her now.

Love was such a sudden feeling. One moment a gentle flicker, the next a raging fire, making you wonder how you had lived without its warmth and strength for so long.

She smelled his musk and sweat and sandalwood, a familiar addictive scent. She smelled of him, and snapshots of last night sent a rush of blood from the tips of her toes to the top of her head. She looked at his calloused hand, laying against her naked stomach, as if that was the most natural place in the world for it to rest.

She felt like Pandora. She had opened a box and released all manner of evil into her life. But in it, she had also found a sliver of hope.

His soft, peaceful breaths tickled the back of her neck. She had forgotten what it was to live. To feel the warmth of human comfort. To care for another without limitation. A transcendental feeling, eclipsing all boundaries.

It didn’t matter to her that he may never feel exactly the same way. It didn’t bother her that to him, she was a warm body to dull the pain of his loss. An anesthetic to relieve his pain. It was enough for her to know this part of her had not withered away. She still had passion and feeling in her. She still had the capacity to love.

When she lost her mother, her world had shrunk to a black hole of emptiness. Then when she lost Ryouta, she had died inside, her body a husk. Hiding in the Continental, she had been living like a ghost. No life, no purpose, no home.. She wasn’t sure what kept her alive.

And now, she felt an awakening. Like a warm ray of sun had broken the frost. She felt. She saw. And she wanted..

She was elated and scared. To yearn for something meant you were still vulnerable. To rejection. To separation. To loss.

She turned around to face him, watching the peaceful rhythm of his breath. The slope of his straight nose, the thickness of his lashes against his cheeks. The way he relaxed in sleep, completely unguarded. So unlike his waking moments.

She would not lose him. Not like Ryouta. Without a whimper or a shout. She was starting to forget the fine details of his face. She didn’t have one photograph. He had disappeared into the blackness of that building and her memories of him had grown fuzzy, like moss covering a beaten path. All that was left was the emptiness and guilt..

She must put up a fight this time. How was she to fight? Not guns blazing like Sofia or John. How could she manage that?

Like Winston. She missed her friend, even as she imagined his disapproval at her current predicament. She had to be like Winston. Mastering the rules, manipulating the odds. Turning the tables on the Table, the Triad, and whoever it was that threatened them. If she could learn this chess game, perhaps there was a chance. To end all of this without risking others. A chance to right the wrongs of Marunouchi.

He seemed to sense the storm in her mind. His eyes opened, looking at her. Sleepiness quickly faded to realization, and he wore an expression of complete uncertainty. His breathing quickened.

She wanted to soothe whatever fear was behind those dark, ever brooding eyes. She pressed a soft kiss to his inviting lips.

He slowly relaxed, tentatively returning her kiss. With her free hand she stroked the rough beard against his cheek. His eyes scanned her face, as if he was trying to read her thoughts.

“Good morning, Mr. Wick.” She wasn’t sure why she addressed him that way. Only, she was reminded of when they first met. What seemed like ages ago, but in reality was a few months.

“Good morning,” was his quiet reply, his voice slightly husky from sleep. He was still studying her, staying unnaturally still and tense.

“I don’t regret it. Not a single moment.” She punctuated each word, staring into the depths of his dark eyes.

He seemed bemused by that statement. She found it strangely adorable, how bashful he seemed. So different from the man who had carried her to bed last night. She wondered what had come over him. What had made this disciplined man lose all control. She felt a delightful ache in her body from all the ways he hadn’t held back. And she found herself blushing at her lurid thoughts.

“I don’t either.” He finally replied, his fingers hesitantly tracing the flush in her cheeks down to her jawline. “But you’re in love with a ghost, Rei. I can’t give you what you need.. That part of me died, with Helen.”

He let out a deep sigh, like he was exhausted by his own thoughts. “You’re a beautiful woman. And I hadn’t.. It’s been awhile.”

He was concerned about her. No, about taking advantage of her. The realization brought tears to her eyes, even as he gently rejected her feelings. She expected no less from him. Feeling guilty when it was her that had thrown herself at him, selfishly declared herself to him. His thumb wiped the tear falling down her cheek, and he wore a deep frown of concern.

“I understand. And I never expect you to. I just.. needed to tell you what I felt. In case there wasn’t another moment.”

He seemed even more surprised by that, the way his eyes widened. She suddenly felt awkward, feeling overly vulnerable to him.

“Maybe near death experiences are an aphrodisiac for me.” She laughed awkwardly, her joke falling flat to her own ears.

He didn’t laugh. Instead he leaned in, kissing the top of her head. “I’m sorry, Rei.”

Those words cut her deeper than she thought possible. But even with the bitterness of it all, she still felt gratitude. It didn’t matter that he didn’t love her. She loved him. And that was the only purpose she needed to sharpen her resolve.

Chapter Text

Sofia

From her vantage point at the D’Antonio Estate she had watched them disappear into the catacombs, as planned. She had dispatched any stragglers on their heels. Then radio silence. 

As the sun made its steady climb above the horizon of Rome, she made her way to the hotel lounge. There was no sign of them.

Instead, she found Cassian sitting at a velvet sofa alone, sipping an espresso.

He was not well known to her, but they had crossed paths. The few in this profession that had survived to this point were at least on a first-name basis. It was not uncommon for young assassins to cut their teeth on the brutal territories of the Camorra and Mafia. 

She joined him there and waved over a waiter. The rich smell of hot coffee and butter baking into dough was mouthwatering. She ordered a coffee and several pasties. She enjoyed what she could while she was alive. There was never a promise of tomorrow. 

“Sofia.” Cassian said finally, putting down his espresso cup. He was dressed in a fine navy suit, cut perfectly around his muscled arms. 

“Cassian.” She returned the greeting, swirling her cornetto in her black coffee before taking a giant mouthful. 

He quirked an eyebrow at her in question. “Where are your friends?”

“Colleagues. And I don’t know.” She frowned. When he was working, John was usually a professional. It seemed odd to her that he hadn’t sought her out to give her an update. The Concierge had assured her that they had arrived last night. Given the stakes, the fact that the two of them had not come downstairs to regroup was troubling. 

“I need to speak with her.”

“Why?” Does Giada have a message?” She wondered if it was over. If they had appeased Giada’s thirst for blood. Not that the blood bath was over. The thought of the Triad hunting them sent an involuntary shiver down her spine.

“You don’t know?” Cassian looked surprised. She felt a sense of dread overcoming her as she lowered the cream filled pastry halfway to her mouth.

“What don’t I know?” She said flatly. She always showed anger first when she was afraid. It was a good defense mechanism. Never showing fear to anyone.

“Giada is dead.” 

“John?” Her shock was fading quickly into despair.

“No, not John.” Cassian had a strange smirk on his face.

Sofia was stunned. “Rei?” When he nodded in the affirmative, she smashed the pastry in her hand, furious, spurting cream everywhere. She took a long drink from her cup, trying to collect her thoughts. Reckless. Too reckless.

“Why? And how?” She finally got out, slamming the empty cup in her saucer and wishing it was whiskey.

Cassian fixed her with a pointed stare, seemingly measuring her. After a beat too long for her patience, he finally answered. “Giada ordered her to kill Luca. My son.”

She let it simmer in her thoughts for a second, and her heart softened treacherously. The boy with the curly mop of hair. And she knew, deep in her heart, she would have done the same. The shadow of the Table was not meant for children. She could not think of Sara now, or she would fall apart.

“Fine. Now what?”

“The Camorra have already elected Alessandro D’Antonio as a regent. He will take the seat, until Luca comes of age, and makes his choice.”

“Alessandro.. Gianna and Santino’s uncle. I thought he was passed over for being soft.”

“There’s no one else they trust with guardianship over Luca. After last night, there’s not many of the leaders left alive. Luca is the only heir to the Camorra left. And I trust Alessandro. He wouldn’t hurt Luca.”  Cassian’s look was one of heavy resolve. “The Camorra are no longer your enemies. In fact, they send their compliments. For getting rid of her.”

“Why not take Luca and run?” She asked, knowing full well the answer.

“There’s nowhere I can run where the Camorra wouldn't find me. They would kill me, and take my son.” Cassian sighed, as if he had already run through this scenario in his head a million times over. 

“I need a way out. I’ll find him when he is of age. I can show him there is another life waiting for him. And maybe.. He’ll make a different choice than his mother. A different choice than me.”

She felt involuntary tears in her eyes and it took all her willpower to keep them from falling. 

“You know there’s no way out. No one gets out.” She couldn’t hide the bitterness in her voice. The truth was that she’d been tempted into accepting John’s offer and there was no going back. But the odds were monstrously against them. She felt like she was staring up at a black wave, waiting to crush them. 

What she had really decided was to die trying. She was tired of surviving, of trying to forget. To drown the hole in her heart with drink every night, still seeing her daughter’s face every night in every dream. Waking up screaming when she realized Sara was gone.

It was disconcerting how piercing Cassian’s black eyes were as he looked at her. Like he could see her thoughts, feel her pain. She got the alarming sense he knew what she was thinking at this moment. Because the look on his face was one of sympathy. Shared grief.

He paused, and seemed to swallow whatever it was that  was on the edge of his tongue. She was grateful. She didn’t welcome sympathy.

“Like I said, I need to speak with her. The Inquisitor.”

“Don’t tell me you’re joining in on this insanity.” She wondered how he knew. As if reading her thoughts again, he answered.

“The scar on her shoulder. I know the sigil. I thought it was a myth. But now I understand why the Elder set them free.”

“Sentenced them to death, more like.” She scoffed. 

“Yet here you are.”

He was right. Why was she here?. Why had she been tempted to take this terrible gamble? What faith did she have in John Wick, a man as unpredictable as a roulette wheel? And a girl-doctor. Naive, enamored with ideas of chivalrous morality and fidelity. Wide-eyed and afraid. It was childish. It was stupid. And a small voice whispered to her, that it was also satisfying. She didn’t like to admit that her heart was penetrable. But for once in her life, she wanted to believe in something good. A cause worth killing for.

“Do you trust her?” Cassian asked. And she was once again unsettled by his knack for following her train of thought.

“Can we trust anybody under the Table?”

Cassian nodded in agreement. Then amended his words. “Is she worth the risk?”

“She’s naive, impulsive, and at times stupid. But, yes. I think she is.”

“What’s her connection to John?” 

Sofia raised her eyebrows. “It’s complicated.”

Cassian sighed. “Is it going to be a problem?”

“I hope not. Maybe you should talk to him.” The girl was an open book. Too caring, too impulsive in her kindness. A heart that was too open. Sofia remembered a time when she had also been careless with her feelings. She ended up pregnant. And fighting for her life and her daughter’s. And John.. she knew he was protective, possessive even, of the doctor. But who knew what he was really thinking. The man was nothing but an inferno of rage and grief. Unpredictable, changeable, and apt to burn down everything in his path.

Cassian snorted. “You think he would listen to me?” 

“We’re both cautionary tales, aren’t we?” She said too quickly, immediately regretting it.

“You think a talk would have changed anything for us?”

“No.” She agreed. It was the nature of feelings. Irrational, dangerous, untamed, it was a wildfire that spread a swath of destruction too large to contain.

She didn’t believe the glass was half full at any point in her life.  As far as she was concerned, life had been a glass full of shit.  At the most dangerous of times, love was an emotion that dulls the senses. Made you make stupid decisions, made you feel stupidly invincible. It was what got her in this mess to begin with.

But it was hope that finally pervaded. Nudging at her pessimistic heart, like the pricking of a needle. Thin and frail, but insistent as hell.

“Welcome to the team, Cassian.” 

“Thanks.”

Chapter Text

Cassian

The doctor was looking at him seriously. Cassian didn’t fully know what to make of her. She was young - at least younger than him. Early thirties, petite, pretty to look at. He could see why John was taken by her - high cheekbones, large dark eyes, an expression too solemn for her age. They shared a grief that seemed to connect them. Even as they stood in this uncomfortably long silence, side by side, they seemed to be sharing some silent communication. 

When Rei finally moved, uncrossing her arms, the man’s button down she was wearing seemed impossibly larger. It swallowed her, reaching almost to her knees. He raised an eyebrow at John, taking satisfaction as he glowered in response. Her indecorous state of dress seemed to embarrass him. The intimacy they shared was a new development. He could sense it - his discomfort. He couldn’t help enjoying it a little.

“Are you sure about this, Cassian?” She asked her question so quietly he had to process what she had said for a moment. She looked worried, her eyes flickering towards Sofia. “The odds aren’t exactly in our favor.”

“This is the only way out.” He nodded at Sofia, who seemed distracted. She had been sullen and silent all morning since their talk. She was still distracted, the way her long fingers curled against her empty coffee cup.

He had heard the rumors of what haunted her. It wasn’t a surprise to him. It seemed a common tragedy, given the nature of life under the Table. Violence was a virulent disease. It could never be contained to yourself. Yet it was human nature to crave comfort. Companionship. Love, even. To risk it all for a chance to feel alive.

He had loved Gianna, once. When he was young, and he found her bold spirit irresistible. He had romantic fantasies of dying in her arms, giving his life in her service. But then Luca had come around. And her proclivity for risk had become unappealing. Putting herself at risk put Luca at risk. The only pure part of his entire life.

When the black reaper standing in front of him had murdered the mother of his child, he knew Luca’s future hung in the balance. When John had left him there on that train, knife in his aorta, he began to realize how meaningless his rage was. He had narrowly escaped death (after a few surgeries) and almost left his son alone among a pit of vipers. 

His hatred for John’s actions would never leave him. He disliked the man in general. But it was useless to die for vengeance. He couldn’t afford to be stupid, like John. He actually had something to lose. He looked at Rei, studying her as a million thoughts seemed to flicker in her dark eyes. Did this young woman know who she was entrusting with her life? Her heart?

It was plainly written in her face every time she looked at him. It was a little painful to watch.

“While you’re all here, there’s something I’ve been meaning to say.” 

He watched as she inhaled a deep breath. Even Sofia seemed to break out of her daze at the urgency in Rei’s voice.

“Nobody is dying for me. No suicide missions. No martyrs.” 

The look in those grave eyes was positively haunted. He watched as John seemed to soften, a hand almost reaching out to touch her. Fool.

He cleared his throat, watching with satisfaction as John’s hand fell away.  

“I assure you, Signora, I’d like to be alive to greet my son, when this is over. “

“Please, call me Rei.” She replied, a ghost of a smile on her lips. Hope. Despite everything, the girl had hope.

“I’m glad you all believe the sun is shining and the Table holds hands and sings kumbaya. But before we start braiding our hair and making friendship bracelets, enlighten me. What is the plan?”

Sofia always had a way with words. He admired the way her eyes blazed as she aimed a hard stare at Rei. To her credit, the younger woman did not flinch.

“I don’t know yet. But I need to call the Administration. I need files.”

“Files? That’s your plan?” Sofia scoffed, but the bite was out of her words. She was curious.

“I need to know my enemies. Their weaknesses.” Rei said softly, her eyes glazed over in thought.

“And I suppose you’ll need some clothes.” Sofia finally replied, as if realizing her state of dress for the first time.

Rei flushed beet red, a little too embarrassed. Her eyes flickered up to John’s then back down to her feet. He gave John a hard look.

The look the Baba Yaga returned was one of fury. But behind that veneer of rage, he knew he was ashamed. John stepped forward, almost moving to block their view of Rei.

“I’ll take her to Angelo.”

“We’re all going. We all need some bullet proofing.” Rei spoke from behind John, pushing him slightly to the side. “We need a plane ready. I want to leave Rome as soon as we figure out where we’re going.”

Cassian nodded, wondering at how naturally she seemed to be taking charge. He didn’t quite expect that - someone who was so new to the Table, telling the three of them what to do. He supposed it was better than the alternative. And she was the Inquisitor, the one who was appointed to seek the truth of the threat to the Elder. And they, her sworn guardians. Rules.

“What exactly are the rules. What kind of authority do I have?” Rei asked, as if reading the train of his thoughts.

“There isn’t exactly a manual on this type of secret-society bullshit.” Sofia replied. “It’s not an official office. Until you showed up with that coin, I thought it was all a myth.”

“The Table and their myths.” Rei muttered. “The Elder asked me to hunt down the ones who are plotting against him. Does that mean the entire east-Asian end of the Table? Or just the ones behind the plot?”

“Cut off the head of the snake.” Cassian replied. These kinds of coups were common in the history of the Camorra. Once the leader was made an example of, the followers tended to fall back in line. Or be killed. Their choice.

“Yamada is dead. But the plot is still moving. Who is the snake?” Rei muttered, almost to herself. 

“Someone in the Chinese Triad.” Cassian replied. They all looked at him with a face full of dread. The Triad was the oldest and most powerful of the East Asian crime families. Their reach was indomitable. Their resources were vast. There was no one else who dared to challenge the Elder. To upset the balance of the whole Table. 

“There are rumors that have reached all the way to Rome. Someone high up in the Triad is waiting to place a bounty on you.” He said, watching as a dark look passed between John and Sofia.

“I don’t understand.” Rei said finally, frowning and rubbing her temples. “If they want to use me, why are they trying to kill me?”

“Not all contracts are hits.” John replied, looking down at his ward with concern. “They want to capture you. Bring you to whoever is behind this.”

“To what end?” Rei asked, still confused. Cassian withheld a sigh. The girl was still naive. Sofia was not as patient.

“Marriage, Rei.” Sofia snapped, exasperated. “They want to join your bloodlines. That’s how they lay claim to everything. The Triad. The Yakuza. The Jopok. That’s a quarter of the entire Table.”

Cassian watched as the young doctor’s face changed from surprise to rage in a millisecond. It was such a sudden and venomous change, he began to understand how this woman had ended up killing two members of the High Table in the span of two months. How a person who had allegedly lived her life saving others, had turned to murder. He looked at John, seeing the same anger mirrored in his eyes.

Rei was spinning a gold band on her ring finger, so loose it moved easily around it. Cassian wondered if she had been married. He didn’t know much about the doctor, only that she had been chased out of Japan by her elder brother. That she had never been part of this world until that moment.

So he felt a little surprised when she smiled, a look that didn’t quite reach her black eyes. “They need me alive. We can use that.” Her eyes glittered. “I need those files.”

Chapter Text

John

“Singapore.” 

It was the only word she spoke to him in two days. She was buried under a mountain of papers on the Triad, hundreds of  files faxed to them through Julian’s personal line. She had spent almost the entire time locked in the Pope’s suite, reading  and muttering to herself. She didn’t speak a word to any of them, only pausing for a bite of food and to order more coffee from room service.

He was relieved she was occupied. He didn’t know how to talk to her. The furrow of her brow as she squinted at something on a page, a hint of her collarbone as her shirt shifted, and he was thrown back into memories of that night. They came to him unbidden, and unhelpfully detailed.

He hated the way Cassian and Sofia looked at him. The mute accusation in their glances, the telling looks that he should know better. As if they stood on solid ground to judge him. Either of them. He was glad they were out of the suite.

If she was bothered by the shift in their relationship, Rei didn’t show it. She only seemed focused and alert, despite the mess of papers scattered around the mahogany desk she hadn’t budged from in hours. She seemed in her element, surrounded by papers and coffee, unbothered by lack of sleep and exercise. He wondered if this type of late night cramming used to be her normal, before her life on this side. He wondered what she looked like then - as a normal medical student. 

He wondered if they would ever have noticed each other, had they passed each other in the street. He was 10 years her senior, at least. Had they not been tangled in this mess, by unlucky circumstance, she wouldn’t have been touched by his shadow. She wouldn’t be searching manically for a solution to their predicament. 

When Helen died, he wondered if it was a divine punishment for his wickedness. But what kind of god would make a woman like Helen collateral damage? What kind of altruistic god would send this young woman, with a heart as pure as the driven snow, into his arms?

“We need to arrange a meeting with CalebToh.” Rei said insistently, realizing he hadn’t fully heard her. 

“Why?” He replied. He hadn’t meant to sound terse. He was half lost in his thoughts when the word snapped out of him.

“He knows something.” She replied evenly, the only indication she was surprised by his tone a slight stiffening in her posture. “He’s been seen with multiple members of the Triad, the Yakuza, and the Jokpok in his hotel. More frequently since Marunouchi.”

“He’s the Manager of the Singapore Continental, Rei. It’s the largest Continental in the world. It’s a hub for business.” He didn’t know him, just the name. Nobody ruled the playground of Asian crime syndicates without being formidable.

“He wasn’t there.” She said softly, and he noticed her eyes were far away. “At Marunouchi.” She rubbed her eyes, and he wondered is she was hiding tears, her eyes were suspiciously bright. He shook the uncomfortable instinct to comfort her.

“He’s young. I think I would have remembered him if he was one of the VIPs at Marunouchi. I don’t remember all their faces, but I know they were all old men.”

John’s curiosity got the better of him. He took the piece of paper on top of the pile, and took a closer look. He was 34 years old. Well-dressed. Incredibly rich. And relatively new to Management.

“If he wasn’t at Marunouchi, then he’s not relevant.” He replied as gently as possible. “Send us to China. We’ll take out all the leaders.”

She looked at him for a long time, letting the silence linger between them. She was hesitating, as if she wasn’t sure if it was her place to speak. Then he saw the transformation in her features. Resolve. He admired the way she stood up from her desk, her back straight, her eyes slightly narrowed in concentration. 

“Too dangerous, John. I told you, no suicide missions.” 

“The longer this mission lasts, the more dangerous it will be.” She was looking at him with a stubborn look in her eye. “We’re professionals. Let us do what we do best.”  He said as gently as possible. But she seemed even more resolved, by the way her arms folded defensively around her chest.

“What you do best.” She repeated softly. Then she looked him dead in the eyes, not blinking or flinching. “You mean like Brighton Beach.” 

He paused, doing his best to hide his surprise. “Where did you hear about that?”” He said evenly, even as discomfort gripped his heart.

Rei smiled, a look of triumph that didn’t reach her unblinking eyes. She picked up a large accordion file from under the desk, and tossed it towards him. Papers slipped out the open side, confirming what he already feared. A picture of him on one corner, his hair cut short, about 5 years prior.

“You took on an army of Tarasov’s enemies. You had help of course, and Santino collected a marker. But you almost died. Shot, stabbed, and hit by three different cars.” Her fingers traced the edge of his picture, her gaze shifting to his photo, and he knew she had read it all.  His heart dropped to his stomach.

“Of course, none of your hired companions survived.”

His hands were shaking. He didn’t know if it was in anger or fear but he couldn’t stop the hoarseness in his voice.

“That’s none of your concern.”

She looked up at him, a mixture of sympathy and concern on her face that made him feel irrationally angry.

“But it is.” She said almost apologetically. “I don’t like your way of doing things, John.” She sighed, and her hands were on her temples like she was finally admitting her exhaustion. “I understand why you did what you did. That it got you out.” She was smiling, and a tear slid from a corner of her eye. She wiped it away hastily. Then one of her hands was on top of his. He didn’t know that his hand was balled in a fist, crumpling his picture. He forced his hand to relax, stepping away from the desk, the files, the disconcerting gaze of the young woman judging him.

“But that’s not the way this is going to go.” She said softly, from behind him. “We have too much to lose, now.” He felt her standing behind him, so close he could almost feel her breath. She stopped just short of touching him, and he was thankful.

“I’m going to wage a war of attrition.” She said quietly. “And Caleb Toh is going to help us.”