To say Ava was suspicious of John Wick would imply that she trusted anyone, especially in this creaky old manor. But she was perhaps partial to Richie, worn down by his frustrating attempts to be friends no matter how much she tried to warn him otherwise. Not that she’d admit to being in his debt for managing to undelete her, but maybe she’d be upset if he managed to get himself killed in a house that seemed pretty intent on doing just that. Even if her mind kept telling her that he knew too much. That didn’t give Wick the right to threaten him, threaten her.
To say Ava was on edge from fitful sleep and a rude awakening to geese would imply that Ava’s default state wasn’t (what she considered justified) paranoia. Paranoia that had her back pressed to a wall, listening to John Wick’s footsteps as he passed by around the corner. Toward the dining room? She peeked out from behind a dusty bust of what she could only assume was Carstairs. If blowing her cover wasn’t an issue, she’d have shoved it over. Stay on mission. Ava’s eyes narrowed sharply, making her way down the hallway, feet bare to silence carefully timed steps, a poker from one of the fireplaces swinging in her grasp.
Whatever she was expecting to walk in on, wasn’t this, Ava’s head tilting in annoyed confusion of the display at the dining room table. What sort of fucked up- But she only had one chance to get this right, take advantage of her target’s own distraction at examining the scene. Ava grit her teeth, charging at Wick’s back.