The Lioness and the Assassin
The blood dripped slowly from his hands. He had lost count of the men he had slain. The room was silent now—except for the distant hum of the city beyond. John Wick closed his eyes, steadying his breath. He was no longer a man; he was something else.
A force. A legend. A myth.
And then, he heard her voice.
“You are relentless. But are you worthy?”
John turned, his gun still in his grasp, but there was no one there. Only a shimmer in the air, like heat rising from desert sands. Then, from the darkness, a figure emerged—a woman, cloaked in gold, her eyes burning like molten fire. A lioness walked beside her, its steps silent despite its size.
He had seen many things in his life, but nothing like this.
“You call yourself Baba Yaga,” she said, her voice echoing like temple chants in the wind. “But I know what you truly are. You are my disciple, whether you know it or not.”
John narrowed his eyes. “And you are?”
“I am Sekhmet, goddess of war. Goddess of vengeance. The fire in your blood. The fury in your hands.”
John Wick had faced death a thousand times. He had fought legends, ghosts, and nightmares. But this… this was different. He felt it deep in his bones—the raw power radiating from her, something ancient and divine.
“Why now?” he asked. “Why show yourself to me?”
Sekhmet tilted her head, watching him as a lioness watches her prey.
“Because you are at the edge,” she said. “One step further, and you will be nothing but a beast. No man left inside. Is that what you want?”
John clenched his fists. He had walked that line for years. He had told himself he was in control. That he was still human.
But was he?
Sekhmet reached out, her golden hand grazing his forehead. His mind exploded with visions—ancient battlefields, cities burning under the sun, warriors calling her name as they struck down their enemies. And in all of them, he saw himself.
The fury. The carnage. The loneliness.
“You wield my power,” she whispered, “but power is a blade with two edges. If you are to carry my wrath, you must also carry my wisdom. Otherwise, you will fall—not to bullets, but to yourself.”
John took a slow breath.
For years, he had fought for vengeance. For survival. But he had never asked himself what came after.
Sekhmet stepped back, her form beginning to fade. “When the time comes, you will know,” she said. “When you are ready to be more than a weapon.”
And just like that, she was gone.
John Wick stood in the empty room, his heart still pounding. For the first time in years, he wasn’t thinking about the next fight.
He was thinking about something else.
Something beyond the blood.
Beyond the war.
Perhaps, beyond John Wick himself.