Chapter Text
The clock on the far wall read 2:14 AM, but Julian barely registered the numbers.
He sat at the kitchen counter, his back hunched slightly, one hand wrapped around a half-empty glass of whiskey. The bottle beside him was nearly full; he had poured himself one drink and never made it to the second. The first sip had burned like it always did, but he hadn't been looking for warmth.
He had been looking for clarity. And he had found something else entirely.
His mind was a cluttered battlefield of things left unsaid, things he wished he could take back, things he could never change.
His father's voice echoed in the silence, sharp and biting, a scar that never truly faded.
"You're weak, Julian. Just like your mother."
The words had been carved into him so deeply that even now, decades later, he still flinched at the memory.
His father had taken everything from him—his childhood, his sense of safety, the idea that love wasn't meant to hurt. And yet, somehow, Julian had managed to keep one thing for himself.
His hands.
They had once been used to shield his ribs from the next blow. Then, later, they had learned something new—precision. His hands had become his salvation, crafting dishes with an artistry that left people in awe. In the kitchen, he had complete control. No one could touch him there. No one could hurt him there.
But outside of it? That was another story.
He had failed at marriage.
He had failed at restraint.
He had failed at being the kind of man he thought he was.
Katherine's face surfaced in his mind, unbidden. The way she had looked at him that night.
Fear.
Disgust.
Betrayal.
Julian let out a slow breath, pressing his fingers against his temple. His past was a string of miscalculations, each worse than the last. He had ruined everything he had ever touched. And now there was Adele.
She was different. She wasn't safe, but she wasn't fragile either. He could see the storm in her the same way he felt it in himself. A woman with blood on her hands and a past too heavy to put down.
A woman who, like him, was trying to be something else.
But people like them didn't get second chances, did they?
Julian exhaled and set the glass down, his appetite for the whiskey gone.
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
Her knife moved against the whetstone in smooth, practiced strokes. The repetitive shhkt, shhkt, shhkt filled the quiet of her small room, a sound more familiar than her own breathing.
It was muscle memory now—this ritual. She didn't need to think about it. Didn't need to question why, after all these years, she still felt more at ease with a blade in her hand than without.
She paused, tilting the knife to the dim light, watching the faint gleam of the edge. It was sharp enough now. It had been for a while.
But she kept sharpening anyway.
Because what else was there?
Without her knives, without the skill drilled into her from the moment she was old enough to understand pain, who was she? What was she?
She flexed her fingers. The ghost of old wounds still lingered—broken bones that healed wrong, scars that mapped out a life no one else could read.
The Ruska Roma had carved her down to the core and rebuilt her into something new. Not a person. A weapon. And she had been a good one. One of the best.
Bloody Mary, they had called her. Not Adele. Bloody Mary.
A name drenched in death, whispered in fear. She had let it define her.
She closed her eyes for a moment, the weight of it pressing against her ribs.
Then John Wick had happened. One moment—one encounter—had forced her to wake up. Forced her to see that there was something beyond the next contract, beyond the next kill. But knowing it and believing it were two different things.
She wanted to believe she could be something more. That she could live without blood on her hands.
But every time she tried, she felt it—the hollowness.
The truth was, she didn't know how to be a person. She didn't know how to exist without purpose. And when the only purpose she had ever known was death—where did that leave her?
She turned the blade in her grip, watching as the dim light caught the edge.
She wasn't afraid of the things she had done. She was afraid of what came after.
Because if she wasn't a killer, she was nothing.
And nothing couldn't be loved.
The kitchen was quiet, save for the soft hum of the refrigerator and the faint creak of old wood settling.
Julian didn't move when Adele entered—he didn't even look up at first. He just sat there, still as a statue, the whiskey glass untouched in front of him.
Adele hovered near the doorway, watching him, her fingers idly tapping against the hilt of her knife. She wasn't gripping it tightly—she wasn't threatened—but she wasn't entirely at ease either.
She could see the tension in his shoulders, the weight in his posture. It was a familiar sight.
She had seen it in herself.
Finally, Julian glanced up. His eyes were dark, unreadable, but his voice was quiet when he spoke.
"Do you ever feel like some things can't be undone?"
Adele tilted her head, considering him. Then she let out a breath. "All the time."
He let out a quiet laugh, one that didn't quite reach his eyes.
There was a long silence. Neither of them filled it.
Adele stepped further into the room, leaning against the opposite counter. The knife was still in her grip, but she held it loose now, letting it spin idly between her fingers before setting it down.
She studied Julian in the dim light. The way he carried himself—like a man waiting for something to break.
She understood that feeling.
"You drink to forget?" she asked.
He swirled the whiskey in his glass. "No," he admitted. "I drink to remember."
Adele didn't speak right away. The words sat heavy between them.
Then, finally, she nodded. "I sharpen my knives for the same reason."
Julian looked at her then, really looked at her. And she let him.
In another life, maybe they would have been strangers. Maybe they would have never crossed paths at all.
But in this one?
This one, they were two people standing in the same darkness, searching for something neither of them knew how to find.