Ballerina (John Wick) Ana de Armas.

Patron request

I don't know if you like the John Wick´s movies, but that's the next one coming out. But this one is in my style and just as one of my patrons asked me to do.

The Continental Hotel had never known fear, but tonight, its ancient walls trembled. The sound of shattered bones, the crash of bodies thrown through the air, and the gunfire echoing like thunder filled every corner. Kate Wick, John Wick's daughter, moved through the carnage like an unstoppable force. The price on her head was astronomical, but no one would be collecting tonight. Her father, John, was badly wounded and clinging to life. That was all that mattered.

Kate had heard the news—John had been ambushed, nearly killed, left for dead inside the Continental itself. As she stormed through the streets leading to the hotel, she had no idea who was responsible, but she would find them. They would pay. Every one of them.

In the grand lobby, chaos erupted as Kate burst through the doors. Her presence was like a storm; the assassins waiting in ambush barely had time to react. She moved faster than they could comprehend, faster than even her father had ever moved. Her hands were a blur, and the first wave of attackers barely had time to raise their guns before she was upon them.

Her first punch sent a man flying across the lobby, crashing into the marble wall with a sickening crunch. He didn't get up. Another assassin lunged at her with a blade, but she caught him by the throat, lifting him effortlessly into the air. His feet dangled a good two feet off the ground before she slammed him down, cracking the floor beneath them. The others watched in horror as she tore through their comrades, her rage fueling every brutal move.

Bullets flew, but none of them touched her. With a supernatural speed, she dodged them, twisting her body like liquid, moving with a grace that defied belief. Even when a few rounds managed to graze her, she didn’t slow. She barely noticed. One assassin, desperate, aimed a shotgun at her back, but before he could pull the trigger, Kate had already spun around, disarming him with a flick of her wrist. She crushed his hand as if it were paper, the bones snapping like twigs under her grip.

With terrifying strength, she hurled the man across the room, his body crashing through a stone column as if it were made of glass.

They kept coming, waves of killers, more than even her father had ever faced. But Kate was stronger. Faster. A hundred times deadlier. She moved like a vengeful shadow, one moment tearing through men with her bare hands, the next wielding guns with a speed and accuracy that seemed almost impossible. Her eyes were locked ahead, her mind focused on one thing: getting to John.

The elevator doors opened to reveal another dozen enemies. Kate stepped in, her face calm, eyes burning with cold rage. They opened fire, but her reflexes were untouchable. She used her momentum to slam the nearest assassin into the wall, his bones snapping like dry branches. The next man found himself crushed under her boot, and in one fluid motion, she grabbed another, hoisting him effortlessly into the air with one hand.

She hurled him against the metal doors, and the impact was so violent that the entire elevator shuddered.

By the time she reached the penthouse floor, the hallway was lined with more heavily armed assassins, all of them ready to take her down. They thought they were prepared. But they were wrong.

The first man barely saw her coming before she vaulted over him, snapping his neck mid-air. Another found his arm twisted backward, dislocated with a simple flick of her wrist. She spun with grace, grabbing two men by their collars and flinging them through the walls, their bodies leaving gaping holes in the concrete.

No one could stand against her. No one.

At the end of the hallway, she saw her father. John Wick, the Baba Yaga, slumped against the wall, blood pooling beneath him. He was conscious, barely, but his eyes were dimming. His body was battered, his wounds deep. For a moment, Kate faltered, her heart seizing in her chest at the sight of her father so broken.

But then her rage reignited, hotter than ever.

With terrifying ease, she lifted John onto her shoulders. His weight, so heavy to others, felt like nothing to her. She carried him as if he were no more than a child. Around her, the sounds of footsteps echoed—the entire hotel, the entire city, was hunting her now. Every assassin within miles had descended upon the Continental, hungry for the price on her head.

But they had no idea who they were dealing with.

As the next wave of attackers closed in, Kate didn’t slow down. She moved with lightning speed, carrying her father effortlessly while fighting off the hordes with the other hand. Her strikes shattered bones, her bullets never missed their mark. She was a blur of fury, a deadly force that even the most feared killers in the underworld couldn’t comprehend.

She slammed a man into a pillar so hard it crumbled, then fired a round that sent another assassin flying back through the window, glass raining down onto the streets below. More men rushed her, but Kate was tireless. Unstoppable. She grabbed a man twice her size by the throat, lifted him into the air, and threw him through a solid oak door as if it were made of paper.

Even as more enemies poured in, she didn’t waver. Her stamina was unrelenting, her strength unfathomable.

Through sheer power and will, Kate finally reached the rooftop. The night sky stretched endlessly above them, the lights of the city below twinkling like stars. But the fight wasn’t over. Dozens of assassins had gathered, circling her, weapons drawn, ready to take her down once and for all.

But Kate Wick, the Ballerina, was beyond human. She was a force of nature.

She set her father down gently, her eyes burning with cold fury. With a single breath, she launched herself into the final fight, her fists and feet moving faster than the human eye could follow. Every punch sent enemies flying across the rooftop, every kick shattered bones, every bullet found its target.

None could stand against her.

By the time the last assassin fell, the rooftop was littered with bodies. Kate stood tall, her chest heaving, her fists still clenched. John Wick, the Baba Yaga, looked at his daughter, pride shining in his eyes despite his pain.

“You’ve done it,” he whispered, his voice weak but filled with admiration.

Kate didn’t respond. She knew the war wasn’t over. The High Table would come for her next. They would all come. But she didn’t care.

She wasn’t just the daughter of John Wick. She was something more. Something far deadlier.

She would sit at the table. And she would burn it to the ground.

End.