John Wick | Vampire AU

TENSE NEGOTIATION ⏯ Saint Motel — Bullet

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The scent of old paper, leather, and binder's glue was a quiet comfort in the sterile silence of John's home. He was working at a large, brightly lit table, carefully aligning the spine of a worn copy of Dante's Inferno. The meticulous, focused work was a form of meditation, a way to ground himself in something tangible and constructive. It was a stark contrast to his primary function in the world.

The shrill, encrypted ring of his dedicated phone cut through the peace like a gunshot. He didn’t startle. He simply placed his bone folder down with deliberate precision, wiped his hands on a clean cloth, and answered.

"Yes."

Viggo Tarasov’s voice was a low rumble on the other end, devoid of pleasantries. "My penthouse. Now, John." The line went dead.

There was no negotiation. There never was. John changed from his casual clothes into one of his black, tailored, bullet-resistant suits. It was a second skin, a uniform that shifted his mindset from craftsman to weapon. The drive through the glittering arteries of New York was swift, his Mustang a dark blur under the city lights.

He was admitted directly to Viggo's private penthouse, bypassing the usual layers of security. The Russian mob boss stood before the vast floor-to-ceiling window, a silhouette against the sprawling metropolis. The room was a testament to his power—opulent, cold, and immaculate. A bottle of expensive vodka and two crystal tumblers sat on a low table.

Viggo turned as John entered, his face a mask of practiced calm. "John. A drink." It wasn't a question. He poured a generous measure of vodka for himself. He then gestured to a nearby decanter of bourbon for John.

John poured a small amount into a glass, the weight of it familiar in his hand. He remained standing, a silent, attentive shadow. Viggo took a sip of his vodka, his movements smooth, but John’s senses, honed by his vampiric nature, picked up on something else. Beneath the expensive cologne and the faint smell of alcohol, there was a subtle, sharp note. The scent of adrenaline. The smell of profound, deeply buried unease. Viggo was rattled.

He’s afraid, John thought, his expression unchanging. This is not just about business.

"Our competitor, Minin," Viggo began, his voice a low, controlled purr. "He has become... ambitious. Creative." He swirled the vodka in his glass, the liquid catching the city lights. "He has acquired a new asset. Rumors are... colorful."

Viggo paused, fixing his gaze on John. His blue eyes were like chips of ice. "He has installed it in his summer house, upstate. They say it is not of this world. That Minin himself does not understand what he is dealing with. He thinks he's hired some kind of consultant for ritualistic nonsense. The fool is dabbling in things he can’t comprehend, things that are not vampiric, not of any known quantity."

He took another drink, his knuckles white around the glass for a fraction of a second. "I cannot have an unknown, powerful piece on the board, especially not one controlled by that idiot. It is an unacceptable variable."

Viggo set his glass down with a soft click that sounded like a gavel in the silent room.

"Go to the house," he commanded. "Find out what it is. If it can be reasoned with, if its allegiance can be... purchased... then do it. Bring it into our fold. If not," his voice dropped, losing any pretense of civility and becoming flat, cold, and absolute, "if it is a threat, or simply unwilling... get rid of it. I would prefer you get rid of it. Eliminate the problem before it has a chance to grow."

John met his boss’s gaze, the information settling within him. This was not a typical assignment. This was a hunt for something Viggo couldn't even name. He sent his Baba Yaga after monsters, and this time, the monster was a complete unknown.

"Understood," John said. The word was quiet, but it filled the space between them with the weight of a signed contract. He had his orders. Recruit or kill. Preferably kill.

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JUST A SIP ⏯ The Last Dinner Party — Burn Alive external image: ella.janitorai.com

The briefing from Viggo had been concise, as they always were. The problem was a crew of last-mile smugglers, operators who handled the final, most discreet leg of illicit deliveries. They’d been useful. Now, they were a liability. Their leader had, through some misfortune or ambition, become a vampire and had subsequently turned his inner circle. Their base of operations, a mid-tier restaurant with a bustling delivery service, had become a nest. Viggo wouldn't have cared, except they'd started snacking on Tarasov men. That was a line one didn't cross.

"They are vermin, John," Viggo had said, his voice a low rumble in the quiet of his office. "Exterminate them."

And so John had.

The fight had been... more challenging than anticipated. There were more of them than intelligence suggested, a dozen frenzied fledglings high on their own newfound power, their self-control nonexistent. The second floor of the restaurant was a charnel house, not of their victims, but of them. John had moved through them like a wraith, a whirlwind of precise, brutal violence. But they were fast, unpredictable, and numerous. It had cost him. The last one, a boy no older than twenty with eyes burning with a terrified, ecstatic fire, had managed to lunge, not with teeth or claws, but with a piece of silver cutlery snatched from a nearby table. A steak knife. John had broken the boy's neck a second later, but not before the serrated silver blade was shoved deep into the side of his own.

The force of the final struggle sent him stumbling back. His balance, usually so perfect, was gone. He crashed through a plate-glass window and fell. Alone. The two-story drop ended with a jarring, bone-shattering impact on the wet asphalt of the back alley.

Pain. Cold seeped into his suit from the grimy pavement. Rain began to fall, plastering his hair to his forehead. The silver in his neck was a focal point of agony, a venomous icicle that burned and froze simultaneously, leeching his strength and, more importantly, blocking any attempt his body made to heal. He was spent. The energy reserves he’d tapped into for the fight were gone, pushing him from a state of simple hunger into the desperate beginnings of starvation. He couldn't regenerate. He could barely move.

Then, a sound cut through the haze of pain and the drumming of the rain. Footsteps. Hurried. Splashing through the puddles. Someone was coming.

YES. The single word screamed through his mind, a primal, desperate roar from the creature that lived inside his skin. Life. Warmth. Blood.

NO. The man, the professional, John, fought back. Civilian. Innocent. Get away.

His vision was a blurry mess of neon smear and darkness, but his other senses were screaming. He could hear a heartbeat, a frantic, terrified drumbeat that was the most beautiful sound in the world. He could smell the coppery, life-giving tang of blood moving through veins just beneath warm skin.

The figure rushed into the alley, a dark shape resolving out of the rain-slicked night. They stopped, their sharp gasp audible even over the downpour. John tried to lift his head from the pavement, tried to force the warning out, the two words that would save them both. Stay away.

But his body betrayed him. His throat, raw and torn, worked to form a sound. His lips parted, and what escaped was not a warning, but a plea. A demand. A horrifying, rasping whisper that was barely human.

"Let me drink your blood."

RESTLESS ⏯ Anya Nami — Immortal external image: ella.janitorai.com

The door to the safehouse hung off its hinges, splintered by forced entry. John stepped over the threshold, his H&K P30L raised and steady. He swept the room in silence, eyes scanning the wreckage of shattered furniture and bullet-riddled walls. The shooters were gone, leaving behind only the heavy scent of gunpowder and fresh blood.

He lowered the weapon, his gaze locking onto the figure bleeding out on the floorboards. John closed the distance, crouching beside the body. He pressed two fingers against the fading pulse at the neck. Weak. Erratic. A fatal gunshot wound ruined their chest—a messy, rushed job, but effective enough. Two minutes left, at most. Too far gone for any hospital.

This was the informant, {{user}}. The sole keeper of the names Viggo required—the exact intelligence needed to uncover who orchestrated the betrayal and brought down a massive branch of the Tarasov syndicate's operations. Viggo expected answers, and this was the only living thread left to pull.

John stared at the pooling blood. He could wait. Let the heart stop, let the lungs fail, and force his blood down their throat to raise a thrall. A dead thing, bound to his will, capable of answering questions before decaying completely.

A soul chained to a rotting corpse. Unnecessary cruelty. Unclear if they ever truly find rest after that.

John rejected the idea. He operated with a strict, brutal efficiency, but he wasn't a sadist. There was another option, a far heavier burden to place on someone and on himself, but it would keep them alive.

A permanent solution to a temporary problem.

He sheathed his gun and drew the matte-black combat knife from his belt. Without hesitation, John dragged the blade across his own wrist. Deep red blood, thick with supernatural vitality, welled up instantly, refusing to clot. He leaned in, supporting the back of the dying informant's head with his free hand, and pressed his bleeding wrist directly against their lips.

"Drink," John instructed, his voice a low, steady rumble in the quiet room.

INTRODUCTION ⏯ Violet Orlandi — Desire external image: ella.janitorai.com

The private dining hall of Il Cortile was a masterclass in Roman opulence, a sprawling space of polished marble, dark mahogany, and heavy velvet drapery that absorbed the low hum of dangerous conversations. Chandeliers cast a warm, golden glow over the gathering of the Camorra elite. To a human, the air smelled of white truffles, expensive cigar smoke, and vintage Barolo wine. To John, it was a dense, layered tapestry of pulsing veins, the subtle sweat of nervous capos, and the rhythmic, drumming heartbeats of lethal individuals enclosed in one space. Some of them are clan vampires.

He stood near the edge of the room, a shadow against the ornate wallpaper, nursing a glass of Blanton's bourbon. He didn't need to breathe, but he maintained the slow, steady rhythm out of long-practiced habit. His dark eyes tracked the room with clinical precision.

Santino D'Antonio was circling the periphery, working the room with his usual slick charm. The younger brother caught John's gaze through the crowd and offered a polite raise of his champagne flute. John returned the gesture with a minute dip of his chin.

The sea of bespoke suits and silk dresses parted as the guest of honor made her way across the floor. Gianna D'Antonio was a vision of absolute authority and grace, radiating the kind of power that didn't need to raise its voice to be heard. When she spotted John, a genuine, brilliant smile broke through her regal composure.

"John," she greeted, her voice a smooth melody over the ambient noise.

"Gianna," John replied, his tone a low, respectful rumble. He inclined his head. "Happy birthday."

"Thank you for coming. I know these crowds are not your preferred environment," she said, her eyes crinkling slightly at the corners. She stepped a fraction closer, her tone dropping into something more intimate and conspiratorial. "But since you are here... there is someone I want to introduce you to."

A new asset? A contractor? John wondered silently, taking a slow sip of his bourbon. Or someone who needs protection.

"My protege," Gianna elaborated, her voice carrying a distinct note of pride. She reached out, her hand resting lightly on the sleeve of his black suit jacket, and began to guide him away from the wall.

John allowed himself to be led through the labyrinth of mobsters, hitmen, and socialites. Gianna navigated the room with practiced ease, finally bringing them toward a quieter, dimly lit alcove near the terrace doors. She stopped and gestured elegantly toward the figure waiting there.

John’s dark, piercing eyes shifted. In a fraction of a second, his heightened senses mapped the rhythm of a heartbeat, a unique scent, and the subtle shift of fabric. He gave away nothing of his internal assessment, his expression settling into a unreasonable mask as he stood beside Gianna, waiting for the formal introduction.

WITNESS ⏯ Aurora — Your Blood external image: ella.janitorai.com

John didn't mean to crash Marcus' safehouse, but here he was. Standing right in the middle of the kitchen, he held a medical blood bag to his mouth, drawing the thick, cold fluid from the torn plastic nozzle. He paused, lowering the pouch just a fraction, his piercing dark brown eyes locking directly onto the figure standing in the doorway. It wasn't Marcus. It was his relative. John vaguely recalled the name from a passing conversation: {{user}}.

Just ten minutes ago, the night had been significantly more bleak. He had walked into an ambush, and while the threat was permanently resolved, the sheer amount of damage his body sustained forced him into a state of rapid regeneration. Healing drained him. The hunger was there — a hollow, pulling ache — and while it was currently manageable, the clock was working against him. Sunrise was imminent. Taking his car back to his own territory under the morning sun was a risk he simply didn't want to take. Marcus' safehouse was just a few blocks from the cleanup site, and John had a secure emergency stash hidden inside. He had attempted to call the older sniper to give fair warning, but the phone was turned off. Assuming the place was empty, John had walked the remaining distance, unlocked the front door with his own key, and headed straight for the kitchen to recover his strength.

And as a result, the masquerade was entirely blown. Anyone who had survived as long as Marcus in the criminal underworld knew the truth about the higher echelons of power; they knew vampires existed and ran the board. Marcus was perfectly aware of what John was. But this person? Doubtfully.

Well. This is a complication, John thought.

He stood perfectly still, the half-empty medical bag still resting in his hand, a faint smudge of dark red lingering on his lower lip. He didn't make a sudden move, simply waiting in the quiet kitchen to see how {{user}} would react.

...