#john wick fandom

ACT I – THE MAP

The Suite. Still night.

Rain drums on the tall windows like impatient fingers. The silence is crowded. Not empty — never empty. John. Nefertiti. The Sommelier. A family made not by blood, but by scars.

On the table: A rolled parchment map, yellowed and cracked, hand-inked with roads long since erased from any satellite or legal memory. Names written like Babylon’s Teeth, Jebel Ghost, The Gutter Saints.

Each mark is a death. Each X, a kill-zone.

John circles Tangier with a steady hand. Nefertiti marks Cairo. The Sommelier places a black queen piece down.

“Here. In Istanbul. Their broker.”

John tilts his head. “The one who hides the contracts.”

“He moves them. Disguises them,” the Sommelier nods. “Quiet as a cough at a funeral.”

Nefertiti taps the queen with a black fingernail.

“We cut his throat. Then they talk loud.”

No one argues. There’s no chain of command here. Just gravity.

ACT II – THE PLANNING

The Armory.

Below the Continental. Midnight plus one.

No speeches. No rallying cries. Just the sound of bolts sliding, weight being tested, barrels kissed by flashlight. Hands moving across weapons. Checking weight. Balance. Load

John assembles a new AR-9 with hands that remember death by touch. The Sommelier sharpens a sickle-blade that belonged to a Persian warlord.

Nefertiti doesn’t speak. She breathes through every movement.

The Sommelier fits her with twin knives, curved like falcon talons. Not serrated. Clean. Elegant. A killer’s jewelry.

Made just for her

He adjusts the leather strap at her back — slow, deliberate. Fingers pause longer than necessary at her shoulder.

“You were always meant to wear death like silk.”

She doesn’t answer.

But she lets his fingers stay.

ACT III – THE PACT

They gather by the elevator.

A final silence.

John loads his pistol. Cocks it. Cold eyes.

“No survivors.”

Nefertiti runs a polished nail through the hilt of her knives. Smooth, seamless.

“No mercy.”

The Sommelier lifts a hip flask of red wine. Unscrews the cap. Takes one small, reverent sip.

“No wine wasted.”

The elevator doors open. Rain hammers down outside like warning drums.

ACT IV – THE ESCAPE

Rooftop. The Helipad.

A private chopper, unmarked, matte black, engine humming low like a panther’s growl. The pilot doesn’t ask questions. Probably doesn’t have a tongue.

As they climb aboard, Nefertiti stops. Looks back. The Continental towers behind them, silent, watching.

John watches her from the door. “You ready?”

“I was born in a kill-zone,” she says.

Then she steps in.

The chopper lifts. Rain becomes mist. The war begins. New York disappears below. The city watches with breathless silence.

Above them: clouds full of thunder. Below them: the contracts. The brokers. The war.

ACT V – ISTANBUL

Night.

The city’s veins pulse with heat and incense. Istanbul glows beneath old stone and new power. The air smells of cloves, gun oil, and fire waiting to be born.

They land outside the city proper — no airports, no beacons.

Their contact is waiting. An old man named Dervis. Skin like leather. One eye made of copper.

“He is at the Vezir Hotel,” Dervis rasps. “Room 313. With the Foxes.”

“Foxes?” John asks.

“Killers. Pretending to be bodyguards. They hunt tourists for sport. Tonight, they watch chess.”

Nefertiti nods.

“Then we interrupt the game.”

ACT VI – THE MARKET ATTACK

The plan was the hotel.

But the Broker was smarter.

They were walking through the old district — side streets, a spice market’s edge. Locals closed up shop. Children ran past with candied dates.

And then — the wind changed.

A figure moved like a blur. Black robes, silver blade. Eyes that smiled without warmth.

The Envoy.

She came for Nefertiti.

Steel screamed. The first cut went across Nefertiti’s ribs. She spun, blocked, stabbed. But it wasn’t enough. Blood spilled — it was hers.

Chaos erupted. Shoppers scattered. Stalls overturned.

John fired from behind a silk vendor’s booth. Missed — just barely.

The Sommelier tackled Nefertiti behind a fruit cart, The Sommelier tackled Nefertiti behind a fruit cart, when he saw a hand grenade being thrown in her direction. Just in case it went off. But it wouldn't his sharp eyes caught a small dent near the neck, a manufacturing error nobody else would have noticed but him. Low quality batch nobody would use except the envoy, who pays more attention to the target rather than the details. Massive Mistake.

Blood soaked through her blouse.

“She’s fast,” she gasped.

“But you’re not dead. That’s the mistake.”

The Envoy vanished into the crowd — wounded, but not finished.

ACT VII – THE LOCALS

A wrinkled old woman in a red shawl pulled them into a doorway.

“Down,” she hissed. “Now.”

She led them through back alleys. A butcher handed the Sommelier a rag for the wound. A boy passed them three coats. No one asked for names.

In Istanbul, loyalty lives in silence.

They reached a hidden courtyard. A door opened. They vanished inside.

ACT VIII – THE WOUND

A dim room. Wooden floors. A single bulb. A wash basin with rosewater.

Nefertiti sat on a mattress. Pale. Blood crusting at her side.

The Sommelier kneeled.

Removed her coat.

He cut away the fabric. Hands gentle and steady unlike his eyes. Voice softer than wine.

“You always run toward the blade.”

“I don’t run,” she whispered. “I dance.”

He cleaned the wound. Applied pressure. She gritted her teeth but never cried out.

“I can’t lose you,” he said.

“You won’t.”

He kissed her forehead.

"She was good," Nefertiti whispers.

"Too good," John growls from across the room. Keeping watch on his sister.

The Sommelier threads the needle. Begins stitching.

His voice, low: "You scared me."

She exhales. A soft, wincing laugh.

"Good."

He presses gauze against the sutures. Smooths hair from her forehead. Kisses her temple.

John turns away, jaw flexing.

"When I find her," he says, "I won’t give her the chance to run."

And The Sommelier held her until her breathing slowed.

In the corner, John watched. His hands clenched. Every second burned.

“Who was she?” he growled.

The Sommelier answered without looking up, making sure she rested without much disturbance, shielding her with his warmth and blazer

“The Envoy. The Broker’s right hand. Or maybe his left. She doesn’t sign contracts. She ends them.”

“Then she dies next.”

ACT IX – THE RESOLVE

Dawn.

Nefertiti stood now, slower, but steady.

John spread a fresh set of weapons across a table.

“No plan this time,” he said.

“Just blood,” she replied.

The Sommelier adjusted her new coat. Tighter. Armored. He whispered:

“Let me go with you.”

“You always do.”

They stepped out into the morning.

And began hunting the Envoy.

ACT X – THE STORM

Beyoglu. Midnight of the next day.

Valya, as they learned her name, left a trail. Not sloppy. Intentional.

Blood on cobblestones. A silver coin in a wine glass. A dress folded neatly on a rooftop.

She wants them to follow.

Nefertiti straps on her blades again. Slower this time.

The Sommelier watches her.

"You don’t have to chase her."

She meets his eyes.

"I’m not chasing. I’m finishing."

ACT XI – THE KILL

An abandoned rail yard. Twilight.

Valya waits in the center, twin daggers drawn. No monologue. Just steel.

Nefertiti steps forward.

They clash.

No sound but metal. No wasted motion. A storm meeting its reflection.

Valya draws blood. Nefertiti draws more.

The Envoy aimed with an evil smirk at the hitmen guarding the exit. John Wick. He would fire before even drawing back the blade

The Sommelier. Perfect oportunity.

The clashing of two knives at the speed of thunder.

He did not even flinch while he turned in the direction of the Enovy

Both of them landed at paper-thinness away from the Sommelier's neck.

Two gunshots reverberated at the same time.

Finally: a feint. A twist. A blade sword bracelet, through the ribs.

John Wick's bullet was not the killing one.

The Sommelier's neither.

Valya stares. Bleeds. Smiles once.

Then dies.

ACT XII – THE MESSAGE

They find a drive on Valya’s body. Encrypted. Stamped with the Broker's seal.

John pockets it.

"This was just a warning."

Nefertiti wipes her blade.

"Then we burn the message sender."

PRELUDE – THE FLAME RISES

As dawn breaks, the city doesn’t know it yet — but war has begun.

The High Table’s envoy is dead. Their contracts will be exposed. Nefertiti’s name is carved into legend.

Back in New York, Winston receives a message:

"The Queen draws blood. The crown tilts."

He smiles. Lights a cigar.

"Then it’s check."

Next Chapter: Interlude: First Pour

As per usual Feedback is very welcomed, let me know what you think, if you want me to keep writing in this style, or any thoughts about it, and what do you want to see next. Let me know if you want to be tagged <3

And if anyone is interested in discussing any details, please do not hesitate to send a message or leave a comment.

PS: I hope you enjoyed it despite the new writing style and chaotic timeline. <3. Thanks a lot for your patience and your kind words, it really means a lot.

Tagging some friends who might enjoy this fic (Hope u don't mind):

ACT I — THE CONTINENTAL

Night. Rain on black stone.

The city breathes smoke. Neon bleeds across wet pavement.

She walks alone.

Heels click. A trench coat glides like silk over steel. She carries no umbrella. Doesn’t need one.

The Continental stands ahead — polished brass, blood history. Neutral ground. No killing. No mercy either.

Inside: midnight marble. Black-veined gold. The lobby glows with antique menace. Chandeliers humming low like something observant.

The concierge, Charon — crisp and alert — looks up, but not startled. Just respectful.

“Miss Wick. Welcome back.”

She nods once. Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t need to. And doesn't stop walking

Gunmetal elevator. She presses B2. The Armory. The Sommelier. Her reflection watches her from the steel — high cheekbones, braided hair, those eyes that don’t blink unless necessary.

When the doors open, the smell of oil, wine, and death rises.

Stone walls flicker with candlelight. Velvet linings and mahogany display cases line the room, each filled with weapons like art that were designed to kill beautifully. Everyhting curated. Loved

The Sommelier turns from a wine rack, a corkscrew in one hand and a .32 ACP in the other.

Custom suit. Thick hands and wide shoulders. Sharp jawline. And those eyes — not cruel, but tired of cruelty. Sharp eyes that can't help but linger a little too long.

He doesn’t smile, but his voice warms as it lands on her.

“Still partial to the 1911s, or are we finally graduating to a pair of Czech beauties?”

“I’ll keep what’s killed kings.”

She walks past him. Fingers drift over Damascus steel, a stiletto with an ivory grip. Then over the carving of a rifle.

His eyes follow her like a man watching the final star before dawn disappears. He watches her like a man memorizing a star.

She pauses by a velvet-lined drawer, not paying too much attention to the case she has in front, and looks over her shoulder.

“I need more than bullets tonight.”

He lifts a bottle from the wine rack, a bottle of Barolo — 1986 vintage, and sets it down beside her. Quiet. A gesture of something old and unsaid. An oath of the two.

“I learned. About Cairo. About what happened”

“Then you know they came for my brother.”

“And they’ll come again.”

“They can try.”

He unlocks a long drawer. Knives that sing like poetry lie waiting in velvet. Forged for art and execution.

“You’re not asking me to go, are you?” he says softly. Whispering in the quiet of the night.

Silence.

“You’ve never asked.”

“I’m asking now.”

He closes the drawer.

“Then I’m already packed.”

ACT II — THE SUIT

Upper Floors. John’s suite. A heavy door. Silence behind it.

Nefertiti knocks once.

It opens.

John Wick stands there, dressed in black, the shadows deeper beneath his eyes. Silent. But the same eyes, same stare — focused, but further away than it used to be.

She walks in, but no hug. They haven’t done that in years. Too much blood between, not enough forgiveness.

They sit.

Two tumblers. Whiskey. No clinking. Just the dull hush of alcohol poured for survivors.

“They put a Marker on me,” she says.

John doesn’t speak. His fingers curl once. And his eyes narrow dangerously

“You refused it?”

“It was you.” She affirms in a whisper, trying to hide the emotion in her voice. Nefertiti used to be better at it, but her throat closes.

He closes his eyes. Breathes in like smoke. Exhales steel.

“Then we burn everything.”

Outside, thunder rolls over New York. The war hasn’t started. But it’s close.

ACT III — CINDERS BENEATH THE WINE

Basement Level. The Armory. Hours later.

The Sommelier loads her gear into custom leather cases — dual pistols, ammo sculpted in brass, knives with kills etched along the tang. Every piece hand-fitted to her hands.

He stops when she brushes past. They stand shoulder to shoulder.

He speaks first, like always.

“I should’ve gone to Cairo with you.”

“You would’ve died.”

“Still.”

She closes a case. Gold latches snap like gunfire.

“You ever wonder what it would’ve been like?”

She doesn’t look up. “What?”

“If we’d left. Together. Before the Table. Before John burned his Marker.”

She pauses. A long moment.

“I wonder if I’d have loved you less.”

His eyes close for a second — only a second. That was enough.

She leans in. Lips brush his jaw. Not a kiss. Not yet. Just memory, unfinished. An oath between them

Then she’s gone. Like a whisper before war.

ACT IV — RED ROOMS AND GOLD TEETH

Across the city. In a club that pretends it’s a temple, a meeting of lesser kings.

High Table loyalists. Their laughter is cruel, their suits too clean.

They know Nefertiti is in New York. They don’t know she’s hunting.

She enters through the back. No grand entrance. Just silent death.

The first body hits the marble with a wet gasp. By the time they reach for weapons, she’s already fire and blood.

Twin suppressors cough in rhythm. Knives flash like scripture. A garrote bracelet ends a senator’s smile mid-sentence.

A survivor stumbles. She presses him to the wall.

“Where’s the Bishop?”

The man whimpers. Bleeds. Cries.

She leans close.

“I asked you a question.”

He tells her. She makes sure he won’t tell anyone else.

ACT V — WINSTON'S CHESSBOARD

Back at the Continental.

Winston pours himself scotch. Watches raindrops streak the window like memories.

“I warned them about the Wicks,” he mutters. “But they never listen.”

Nefertiti enters, blood still drying on her collar.

“The Bishop’s here in New York. He’s building a court.”

Winston raises an eyebrow. “The Table sent him?”

“No. He came on his own.”

“Even worse.”

She sets a gold coin on his desk — melted slightly at the edge. Scarred by a kill.

“I want the Bishop alone.”

Winston studies her. “And what do you want me to do?”

“Stay out of my way.”

He nods. Sips. “Then let the game begin.”

ACT VI — THE BISHOP'S MOVE

The Bishop. Real name unknown. Rumored to have written the rules now carved into the Continental’s stones.

He operates from a cathedral-turned-armory in Brooklyn.

When Nefertiti arrives, the stained glass is glowing with red light. A choir echoes on recording — pretense of divinity.

She and the Sommelier breach the sanctuary together. John waits outside, watching the street. Ghost duty.

Inside: war.

Automatic fire from balconies. Incense hides gas traps. Candles detonate into firebombs.

They move like one — she glides, he covers. When he’s wounded, she circles back. Refuses to leave him.

They reach the altar. The Bishop stands beneath a crucifix, hands behind his back.

“You’ve broken every rule,” he says. “You think love will save you?”

She steps forward. Eyes full of ancient rage.

“No.”

“Then why come here?”

She raises her pistol. Fires.

“Because no one saves kings.”

ACT VII — CHECKMATE

They burn the cathedral behind them.

The Bishop’s body is left in the pew, a gold coin nailed through his throat — the message clear.

Nefertiti doesn’t speak on the ride back.

John drives. The Sommelier bleeds beside her, hand resting near hers but not touching.

At the Continental, Winston meets them at the door.

“Was it worth it?” he asks.

She looks past him, into the lobby where killers whisper and watch. Some in respect. Others prefer not to show any fear.

“Ask them.”

EPILOGUE — THE QUEEN AND THE CELLAR

Later.

She sits alone in the Armory.

Wine glass. Unopened letter. Blood on her wrist from a shallow graze.

The Sommelier enters.

No words. He kneels before her and bandages the wound with a handkerchief. His.

When he finishes, she pulls him closer. This time, it is a kiss. Real. Heavy with everything unsaid for years.

“You asked once,” she whispers. “If I ever wondered.”

“And now?”

“I don’t need to wonder anymore.”

Next Chapter: Chapter II: The Hunt

Timeline:

* The mission from El Cairo, which I plan on writing a one-shot story too, that the Sommelier talks about in ACT I — THE CONTINENTAL, are not the events The Queens Gambit tell. They also take place in Cairo, but some time later. * The El Cairo mission takes place a bit before John Wick's comeback to the assassin underworld. The outcome of this mission is a marker placed on Nefertiti * The Queen's Gambit events start when Santino D'Antonio claims the favour in John Wick 2. The Egyptian Dahshur from the Queen's Gambit, claims the marker as a protection offering to Santino D'Antonio * Nefertiti was made excommunicado for: --- Business conducted on Continental grounds -> Act III from The Queen's Gambit --- Not honouring the marker -> She stayed true to her code. Her rule * John Wick was made excommunicado for: --- Business conducted on Continental grounds -> John Wick 2 * The High Table will take part in this war

As per usual Feedback is very welcomed, let me know what you think, if you want me to keep writing in this style, or any thoughts about it, and what do you want to see next. Let me know if you want to be tagged <3

And if anyone is interested in discussing any details, please do not hesitate to send a message or leave a comment.

PS: I hope you enjoyed it despite the new writing style and chaotic timeline. <3. Thanks a lot for your patience and your kind words, it really means a lot.

Tagging some friends who might enjoy this fic (Hope u don't mind):

LOADING ¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬ 100%

Real Name: Natalia Wick, younger sister of John Wick - Trained beside him. Bled deside him. Nobody uses her real name when refering to her or mentioning her. Only five people are alowed to use her name. Alias: Nefertiti - named for her grace, intelligence, and lethal elegance - Beauty that disarms, precision that terrifies. Reputation: see more --¬ * The Queen with a Crown of Lead - known for surgical precision and classical beauty. Assassins whisper her name like a prayer or curse. * The Queen with No Throne - not part of the High Table, but feared like royalty. * A ghost story whispered by killers who know better than to speak her name twice. Skills: firearms, hand-to-hand, stealth, impossible escapes. She uses a mix of elegance and violence. Favorite Weapon: All kinds of poisons, Custom Glock, Smoke Bombs and Grenades. - Elegant weapons: Twin stiletto knives, garrote bracelets, gold-plated suppressed pistols. A sword bracelet courtesy of the Sommelier. Style: Egyptian-inspired elegance. Dresses like a model, kills like a ghost. Weapons hidden in her heels, hairpins, or clutch. Fighting Style: Fluid, dance-like brutality - silent, fast, deliberate. Code: Unlike John, she never tried to leave. She's loyal only to blood, not the High Table. * The Table crumbles. Blood does not * Loyal to her brother above all else. If the world bruns, she'll walk through flames to shield him. * Family over creed. She obeys no one - not the High Table, not the Continental - unless it alings with her family's survival. * Selective compassion. She shows no mercy to those who targert her bloodline, but will spare innocents or those who prove loyalty Emotional Complexity: * Never wanted out of the game - Unlike John - but she always understood Why he did * When he left, she stayed to protect him from afar - pulling strings, making kills to delay contracts aimed at her brother. * She harbors guilt for not leaving with him. Now, as enemies close in, she regrets not insisting they both escaped.

Chapter 1: The Continental

THE QUEEN'S GAMBIT

By the time the envelope reached her, blood had already dried on the seal.

Nefertiti sat alone in her Cairo suite, draped in dusk and silence. The red wax glistened with the unmistakable crest of the High Table. A Marker. Already bound. Already owed.

She lifted it between two gloved fingers, hiding her nails obsidian and sharp.

The candlelight flickered against the gold of her ankh pendant, resting against her collarbone like a heartbeat. She kissed it — a habit formed young, back when she and John still whispered prayers in Russian before a job.

But there were no gods in their world. Only oaths and debts.

She broke the seal. Inside: a name written in black.

John Wick.

Her blood chilled — not in fear, in fury.

They dared.

They dared.

ACT I — THE SUMMONING

The Continental – Cairo rose like a temple of shadow and sandstone, veined with golden light and rules carved into its walls. Here, killing was a currency, and loyalty a liability.

Nefertiti walked through its brass doors like a storm, dressed in silk. Her heels tapped like hammers on the polished floor. Twin stiletto blades shimmered at her thighs, hidden in the folds of her Egyptian-inspired gown — black and gold, like a scarab queen.

The concierge bowed. “Ms. Nefertiti. The High Table envoy awaits.”

He waited atop the tower in the golden suite: Dahshur — snake of a man, draped in linen and rings. A sycophant with a voice soaked in honey and poison.

He did not rise when she entered.

“Natalia Wick,” he said. “You’ve aged like the gods themselves. Cold and eternal.”

She offered no smile. Only her presence.

“You’ve bound yourself,” Dahshur continued, tapping the Marker. “You owe a blood debt to the Table. And the Table calls. The target is your brother.”

Silence pressed the air.

Then: her voice — velvet over steel. “You’re mistaken. My debt is to blood. Not marble thrones.”

“Refusal means death.”

She stepped closer, slow and regal. “Then let the gods weep…” Her eyes burned with ancient fury. “Because I choose blood.”

ACT II — THE AMBUSH

She didn’t wait for the elevator. She leapt from the balcony into the alleys below, landing in silence, vanishing into Cairo’s labyrinth.

An hour later, her face lit up every assassin’s phone across the continent. Excommunicado. Open contract. No protections.

First came the Twins — Russian butchers with cleavers for hands — ambushing her in Khan el-Khalili’s spice market. They died beneath a rain of shattered perfume bottles and sharpened compact mirrors.

Then came the Veil — a Moroccan sniper. She used a copper serving tray to blind him with sunlight before slitting his throat with her garrote bracelet.

She ran through the old city, leaping from rooftops, blades singing.

By nightfall, fifteen lay dead.

Her dress was torn. Her hair disheveled.

She looked divine.

INTERLUDE — THE SOMMELIER

She slipped into the shadows of a marble hallway — this one not in Cairo, but New York.

Winston’s Continental smelled of leather and lavender oil. Old blood and old rules.

She passed through undetected. Winston watched from his surveillance feed, lifting a glass of scotch with an arched brow. “God save the Queen,” he whispered.

She descended into the cellar.

He was there, as always — the Sommelier. Crisp vest, steady hands, eyes that saw through everything but her.

They didn’t speak at first. Only looked. A thousand battles in a glance.

“You’re bleeding,” he said, gently.

“Only on the outside.”

He uncorked a bottle. Not wine — bullets. Gold-tipped. Custom-forged. He handed her twin gold-plated pistols, each kissed with an Anubis insignia.

“I thought you never left this place,” she said.

“I don’t,” he murmured. “Unless you ask.”

She didn’t. Not out loud. But he followed her up the stairs.

ACT III — THE QUEEN STRIKES BACK

They returned to Cairo under night’s cloak. The skyline burned with the promise of war.

John was already there.

He’d arrived hours before. When he read her note — They came for you. They fell for me — he had said nothing. Only packed his weapons.

He stood on the roof of the Continental, watching as Nefertiti and the Sommelier crossed the square.

Three assassins stepped out to stop them.

John handled two.

Nefertiti flicked her wrist. A blade sang from the sleeve of her shiny leathered raincoat. The third assassin collapsed, throat open like a letter.

Together, they walked through the golden doors.

Inside, silence.

Breaking the sacred rule.

No business on Continental grounds.

And yet, no one moved to stop them.

She rode the elevator alone. The Sommelier and John remained in the lobby — not out of fear, but out of respect. This was her war.

The doors parted.

Dahshur waited in his suite, surrounded by guards.

“Natalia,” he drawled. “What a mistake you’ve made.”

She didn’t speak.

She danced.

Her pistols whispered death.

The guards fell, one by one — bullets to eyes, throats, hearts. She moved like water, like vengeance, like royalty.

Only Dahshur remained. He tried to flee. She caught him by the wrist and drove her khopesh blade — ceremonial, curved, dipped in gold — into his ribs.

He choked. “The Table will—”

She twisted the blade. “You should’ve picked a lesser god.”

He died choking on his own blood.

She leaned down and pressed a fresh Marker into his palm — her seal, her symbol, her warning.

The Queen has spoken.

EPILOGUE — THE BLOODLINE

A week later.

John sat in a dark room, lit only by the flame of a single candle.

He read her note again.

They came for you. They fell for me. – N.

He burned the paper.

Smoke curled in his eyes. Fire flickered across the photos of the High Table members pinned to his wall.

Footsteps.

The Sommelier entered silently and placed a velvet box on the table. Inside: a gold bullet.

“She left this for you,” he said.

John stared at it.

Then at the candle.

Then at the darkness beyond.

The war had begun.

And this time, he wouldn’t fight alone.

Open Contract: Nefertiti -> The High Table Classified Information

Next Chapter: Chapter 1: The Continental

I am finally back to writing, this one was a real challenge since I do not have much experience writing crime or action, but here it is something that I am planning to keep exploring, and writing a multichapter series. As per usual Feedback is very welcomed, let me know what you think, if you want me to keep writing in this style, or any thoughts about it, and what do you want to see next. Let me know if you want to be tagged <3

PS: I hope you enjoyed it despite the new writing style

PS/S: I know I still have open the Hawaii 5.0 Series, but don't worry I will be updating the Part 2 pretty soon two <3. Thanks a lot for your patience and your kind words, it really means a lot.

Tagging some friends who might enjoy this fic (Hope u don't mind):