The hum of the ventilation system was the only sound in the private gym. The air smelled faintly of steel, rubber mats, and faint disinfectant — but Jean could swear there was something else now, a heat radiating off Maki's body even as she sat quietly on the bench.
She wasn't the same girl from last night.
Maki's raven-black hair, still damp from her shower, clung to her jawline and neck. Her skin had taken on a faint, healthy glow, muscles subtly defined under the soft curve of her feminine frame. Her arms were toned, her legs powerful, and her waist narrow, but her chest and hips seemed even more pronounced than before. Every movement she made felt more… deliberate. Controlled. Dangerous.
Jean let out a slow breath, leaning against the wall and studying her.
She really does look like Tifa Lockhart now… only with a pair of eyes that look like they'd burn the world down if I told her to.
The Super Soldier Serum's effect was exactly as Jean had expected — it magnified everything already inside a person. For Steve Rogers, that meant honor, kindness, and idealism. For Maki, it meant her obsessive love and unquestionable loyalty to Jean had multiplied into something fierce, almost primal.
"Master…" Maki's voice was low, velvety, and her gaze never wavered from Jean's face. "You've been staring at me for three minutes without saying anything."
Jean smirked, pushing off the wall. "Just making sure the serum didn't give you a second head or something. You're fine."
Maki's lips curled into a smile — but it wasn't shy. It was confident, dangerous, the kind of smile that said you're mine, and I'm not letting anyone else breathe the same air you do without my permission.
Jean knew she'd never take the serum herself. I'm not a saint like Rogers. My personality's already… questionable. If it amplified what's already here, I might not even like the result. Besides… She smirked inwardly. Why bother when I've got the system? A single lucky pull could put me on par with gods. Superman's bloodline, Odin's powers, hell, even Lucifer's template. All it takes is a draw.
As if on cue, the system's chime rang in her mind.
Ping! Gacha ready.
Please draw.
Jean's grin widened. "Let's see what fortune's serving today." She swiped her finger through the interface only she could see.
Congratulations! You have obtained: John Wick's memories and combat experience.
Her breath hitched for a moment. Then — snap — her posture shifted without conscious thought. The weight of her stance, the awareness of exits, the instinctive mapping of the room, the catalog of every object that could be used as a weapon — it was all there. She could feel the precision, the lethal efficiency humming beneath her skin.
Maki tilted her head, studying her. "You're standing differently."
Jean stepped toward her, each move fluid and deliberate. "I just got better."
Maki rose, her eyes glinting with excitement. "Show me."
They faced each other in the center of the private sparring room. Rubber mats cushioned the floor, the mirrored wall reflecting their poised stances.
Jean made the first move — a feint left, then a lightning-fast right jab. Maki blocked with ease, her reflexes far sharper than before. The thud of impact vibrated up Jean's arm, but she only smirked, pivoting to sweep Maki's legs.
Maki didn't fall. Instead, she used the momentum to flip backward, landing with a catlike grace. "You're faster than yesterday," she said, circling Jean slowly. "But you'll have to do better to take me down, Master."
Their movements became a blur. The air filled with the dull whap of strikes meeting forearms, the low grunt of exertion, and the squeak of sneakers gripping the mat. Sweat began to bead on their skin, glistening under the overhead lights.
Jean's mind was a mix of calculation and something far less tactical. Every time Maki closed in, Jean caught a glimpse of the curve of her shoulder, the flash of her toned stomach, the heat in her eyes. And every time they locked hands, the pressure of Maki's grip lingered a second too long, fingers brushing against Jean's wrist like a promise.
She spun into a disarm maneuver — John Wick's precision guiding her every step — but Maki twisted with her, bodies pressing together for a heartbeat before breaking apart again.
"You're holding back," Maki said, breathing faster now.
Jean smirked. "Maybe I'm just enjoying the view."
The sparring shifted — less about strikes, more about proximity. Each dodge brought them closer, each grapple a fraction longer than necessary. Maki's breath fanned hot against Jean's neck as she caught her in a hold; Jean countered by twisting free and pinning Maki to the mat for a split second before the girl rolled them over, straddling her.
The mirror reflected them — two women flushed and gleaming with sweat, muscles taut, eyes locked. The air between them felt electric.
Maki leaned down, her voice a husky whisper. "I can't… stop wanting you like this."
Jean's chest rose and fell, heart pounding. "Then maybe you shouldn't."
The words were barely out before Maki's lips claimed hers in a kiss that was nothing like before — fierce, desperate, almost hungry. Jean's hands slid up her back, fingers digging in as she let Maki's obsession burn between them. The spar was forgotten; the gym was silent except for their ragged breathing and the sound of bodies pressing together.