New York. The Continental.
Two gold coins slid across the palm of the doorman, their signature clink unmistakable—the sound of death's currency changing hands.
The doorman's eyes flicked from the coins to Smith's face, then to Fox trailing behind him. A barely perceptible nod, and the massive oak doors with brass fixtures swung open silently on well-oiled hinges.
Smith and Fox stepped through the towering front doors of the Continental Hotel without a word. The lobby, rich with history and danger, pulsed with quiet energy. The chandelier above cast diamond patterns across the marble floor—light refracting like blood spatter through crystal. No pauses, no small talk—they made a beeline for the bar below.
Their footsteps echoed off the polished stone, drawing subtle glances from the scattered patrons lounging in leather chairs. A woman in a crimson dress sipping champagne. A silver-haired man reading yesterday's financial section. A cluster of three men in matching gray suits, conversation dying as Smith passed.
All killers. All professionals.
Behind the front desk, Charon lifted his gaze. He'd been watching. His immaculate uniform—pressed so sharply it could draw blood—contrasted with the calculating look in his eyes. As the two figures disappeared down the stairwell, he calmly picked up the desk phone and dialed a familiar number.
"Mr. Winston," he said quietly, voice like velvet over steel. "The guests you told me to watch for—Smith and Fox—just arrived. They're heading into the lounge."
A pause as he listened.
"Understood," came the reply.
Charon hung up and exhaled, straightening his already-perfect tie before muttering to himself:
"Good thing I live here. No need to leave the building."
His eyes drifted to the security monitor beneath the desk, where he could see Smith and Fox descending the carpeted stairs, her hand resting casually near her concealed holster, his posture relaxed but alert.
Upstairs, in his private office overlooking Central Park, Winston, the ever-elegant manager of the New York Continental, rubbed his temples. Early evening light filtered through bulletproof windows, casting long shadows across antique furniture and rare first editions.
"What the hell are they doing here?"
He stood, bourbon abandoned on a side table as he moved toward the hidden elevator that would take him to the bar.
"Please don't tell me the Assassin Syndicate wants to start something inside my hotel…"
The wood-paneled elevator descended smoothly as Winston straightened his waistcoat.
"Or maybe some poor bastard pissed off Smith again."
As far as Winston was concerned, the Assassin Syndicate was one of the strangest players in the underworld. Eighteen years ago, they were unpredictable—killing targets for reasons no one understood. Messy. Chaotic. Bodies left in public, message unclear.
Then, suddenly, they changed. They got… selective. Organized. Efficient. Now, they only targeted the worst of the worst—warlords, sadists, crime bosses. And they never missed.
Their kills became surgical. Perfect. Bodies arranged like art pieces—warnings to those who might follow similar paths.
Plenty of local gangs had complained. Even reported it to the High Table. But the Table did nothing, aside from sending one Adjudicator to "discuss terms" before vanishing back into the shadows.
Winston had his suspicions. Rumor had it, the Table once offered the Syndicate a seat—a place among the Elders. A spot they declined. Some whispered it was because the Syndicate knew something the Table didn't want revealed. Others said they simply valued their independence too much.
But Smith? Smith was notorious. Especially for one thing.
He hunted Black assassins like a man on a mission.
They'd all seen the pattern—whenever a Black-clad killer took a contract that crossed Smith's path, they ended up dead within days. Sometimes hours. Three years ago, five Black assassins were found in a warehouse, arranged in a perfect star pattern, each one executed with a single shot through the left eye.
And while Winston didn't ask why, he knew the score. The moment Smith walked through the door, certain guests either hit the bathroom, ducked behind their hats, or simply vanished.
"As long as no blood gets spilled on my floors," Winston muttered, picking up the pace as the elevator doors slid open to reveal the mezzanine overlooking the lounge.
Downstairs, after paying two more coins to the attendant—a towering Samoan with scars across his knuckles—Smith and Fox walked into the underground lounge.
The room was all old-world elegance—leather and mahogany, Tiffany lamps casting pools of amber light across intimate tables. Smoke from rare cigars curled toward the ornate ceiling. Jazz from a trio in the corner—piano, bass, drums—provided cover for hushed conversations about kills, contracts, and scores.
Conversations slowed. Heads turned—some subtly, some not.
No one wanted trouble.
But everyone recognized it.
A few assassins, unfazed, raised their glasses at Smith. A woman with a platinum bob and a scar bisecting her left eyebrow. A Japanese man in a tailored suit, his artificial hand glinting in the low light. An old timer with a face like crumpled parchment, who'd survived long enough to earn Smith's respect.
Others, specifically the Black assassins?
Gone.
One ducked into the restroom, nearly knocking over his whiskey in his haste.
Another pulled his fedora low over his face, suddenly fascinated by the ice melting in his glass.
A third all but bolted for the exit, leaving a stack of coins on the table to cover his tab.
Fox chuckled and leaned in close, her breath warm against Smith's ear.
"You're practically a myth at this point."
Her fingers brushed his arm—a gesture too familiar for mere colleagues.
"Scared those guys half to death."
Smith grinned, though it never quite reached his eyes.
"Our job is to clean up the filth, remember?"
His voice dropped lower, a rumble only she could hear.
"Every last one of them earned their fate."
Fox nodded, serious again. In this world, there were no innocents behind a silencer. Only contracts, choices, and consequences.
But even she couldn't deny it—Smith really had a thing about the Black ones.
So much so, the Syndicate had quietly stopped recruiting them altogether. Too much risk, not enough reward. And whatever drove Smith's vendetta, no one dared ask. Not even Fox, who'd shared his bed on three continents.
They reached the bar—a massive slab of polished mahogany, glowing like honey under the vintage Edison bulbs. Smith tapped the counter with two fingers—a ritual, almost.
"Two Thunder Bourbons."
Eddie, the bartender, a retired cleaner with a Glasgow smile partially hidden by a salt-and-pepper beard, poured the whiskey with practiced precision and gave a crooked smile.
"You know, Smith, every time you show up, business dips for a week."
Ice clinked against crystal as he slid the drinks forward.
"I guarantee someone's texting right now: 'Don't come in, the Black Reaper's here.'"
Smith shrugged, the ghost of a smile playing at the corner of his mouth.
"Honestly? I want them to come in."
He took a slow sip, savoring the burn.
"It's safer here. No killing allowed, remember?"
Eddie gave a dry laugh that pulled at his scars. Yeah, right. Come hide out at the Continental—only to get followed and dropped in an alley two days later. He'd seen it happen. Hell, he'd done it himself, back when his knees worked better.
"What can I do for you?"
Smith pulled out a scrap of paper—expensive stationery, folded precisely. On it, a small drawing: a crystal orb with four stars.
"If anyone comes asking about this—or anything that looks like it—tell them to find me."
Eddie studied it, rolling a coin across his knuckles absently—an old habit from when he needed to keep his hands nimble.
"Looks like a starry dragon marble."
He tucked the drawing away in his breast pocket, patting it once.
"Got it."
Fox raised an eyebrow, her curiosity piqued. Smith rarely shared his personal interests—especially not with bartenders.
"What's that about?"
She leaned closer, her thigh pressed against his.
"And where's this show you promised me?"
Smith opened his mouth, but before he could reply, a familiar voice cut in—
"Mr. Smith. Ms. Fox."
Winston, smiling like a shark, approached with open arms. His three-piece suit probably cost more than what most killers made in a month, each thread a testament to old money and older power.
Smith lifted his glass in subtle acknowledgment.
"Winston. Been a while."
Fox nodded respectfully, straightening her posture almost imperceptibly.
"Good to see you, sir."
Winston snapped his fingers. Eddie returned immediately, like a soldier called to attention.
"Bring out my 1972 Macallan. The real one."
The emphasis wasn't lost on anyone. In a world of counterfeits and knockoffs, Winston's cellars contained only authentic treasures.
Smith blinked, genuine surprise flickering across his usually impassive face.
"You sure? That bottle's worth a fortune."
Winston waved it off, gold cufflinks catching the light.
"Great men deserve great whiskey."
A pause as his gaze swept over Smith, measuring him.
"Besides, good booze is meant to be shared."
Moments later, Eddie returned with three glasses of vintage Macallan on a silver tray. The amber liquid caught the light like trapped sunlight. Smith swirled the glass, savoring the aroma before sipping—notes of oak, vanilla, and something older, something that spoke of time itself.
"Smooth. But they say the 1926 is the real legend."
Winston chuckled, a sound like old leather creaking.
"Try finding one without auctioning your soul."
The joke hung in the air between them—in their world, souls were cheap currency.
Smith smirked but said nothing, eyes scanning the room over the rim of his glass. Always watching. Always assessing.
Then Winston's tone shifted—subtle, cautious. The change was almost imperceptible, but in a room full of predators, everyone noticed.
"Now, I know your organization targets the wicked."
He adjusted his platinum cufflinks—a nervous tell, perhaps.
"And technically, the Continental's just a safe haven. A neutral ground."
His smile tightened ever so slightly.
"So I assume you're not here to burn the place down?"
Smith shrugged, the movement smooth under his expensively tailored jacket.
"You think we'd walk in through the front door if we were?"
A sip of Macallan, savored deliberately.
"I like your rules, Winston. Nice and clean."
Winston smiled, relieved but not entirely convinced. The Continental had stood for decades—survived wars, gang conflicts, and High Table purges. He intended to keep it that way.
"Then we're all friends here."
But the moment passed as Fox glanced at her phone—a subtle vibration that would have gone unnoticed by anyone not trained to detect the slightest movements.
"A new contract just dropped."
Her voice dropped to a whisper as she tilted the screen toward Smith.
"Two million. Fresh."
She turned to Smith, eyes gleaming with anticipation—a hunter scenting blood.
"This the 'show' you were talking about?"
Smith grinned, a rare genuine expression that transformed his face.
"Popcorn's ready."
Winston's eyes narrowed slightly, catching the exchange but not its meaning. His hand instinctively went to his pocket—where a special coin, heavier than the rest, always remained. The one that could summon Continental security in seconds.
Just then, the lounge door swung open.
A man stepped through—tall, lean, dressed in an immaculate black suit that seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it. His hair, once slicked back, now hung in disheveled strands around a face marked by recent violence. A fresh cut above his left eye. Bruising along the jawline.
Every assassin in the room recognized him immediately.
John Wick.
The Boogeyman.
Baba Yaga.
Winston's expression shifted instantly from concern to carefully composed welcome.
"Jonathan!" he called across the room. "What an unexpected pleasure."
But John's gaze had already locked with Smith's. Something passed between them—recognition, perhaps. Or something deeper. Something primal.
Fox's hand slid toward her concealed weapon—an instinct quickly suppressed as she remembered the Continental's rules.
Smith merely smiled and raised his glass in silent salute.
The stage was set. The players assembled. And somewhere in New York, a Russian crime family was preparing for war.
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