After thanking Smith, Winston quietly excused himself and found an empty booth in a corner. He settled in with a newspaper, pretending to read while keeping an ear tuned to the bar. The Financial Times—European edition—served as his perfect cover. Nobody at the Continental would question why the manager was reading yesterday's news; information was currency in their world, and Winston collected it meticulously.
The leather cushion beneath him creaked slightly as he adjusted his position. From this vantage point, he could observe the entire room without being obvious. His eyes, though seemingly fixed on market reports, tracked every movement in the lounge. The slight tension in his shoulders betrayed his concern—having both John Wick and Smith Doyle under the same roof was like mixing nitroglycerin and fire.
Smith, still sipping his bourbon at the bar, turned to Fox. The ice in his glass clinked softly as he set it down.
"So, who's the poor bastard with the new bounty?"
Fox glanced at the notification on her phone. The blue glow illuminated her face in the dim light, casting shadows that accentuated her sharp cheekbones.
"Name's John Wick."
She scrolled through the details, eyes widening slightly at the figure displayed.
Smith chuckled, a low rumble in his chest.
"He's the reason I brought you here tonight. Wanted you to watch him."
He gestured subtly toward the entrance with his glass, as if he'd sensed John's arrival before it happened.
Fox frowned, leaning in closer.
"Watch him? I thought maybe you were just planning to grab the bounty while we were here. I mean, he's retired, right? What's the big deal?"
Her fingers drummed an impatient rhythm on the polished wood. For someone with her skills, four million was tempting—retired legend or not.
Both Smith and Fox knew the name John Wick—the Boogeyman. Smith had introduced her to the legend early on, back when they first started investigating the Continental. Their first stakeout together, three years ago in Budapest, Smith had pointed out an unassuming man in a black suit exiting the European branch.
"That," he'd whispered, "is what perfection looks like."
Still, Fox never put much stock in the Continental's breed of killers. She'd seen them operate—efficient but predictable. Assassins for hire, nothing more.
To her, the League of Assassins were something else—more than just contract killers. They were vigilantes, Robin Hoods in a world that desperately needed them. They had purpose beyond money. Especially after learning that one of the League's failed missions indirectly led to the death of her family, she believed even more in their righteous mission.
The memory still burned—returning home at sixteen to find her family's brownstone ablaze, her parents and younger brother trapped inside. The fire was no accident, she later discovered. It was retaliation against her father, a prosecutor building a case against a human trafficking ring. A ring the League had tried—and failed—to dismantle months earlier.
The Continental's killers, on the other hand? Mercenaries. Vermin. Rats selling their bullets to the highest bidder. Many had even worked for the very criminals who should have been their targets.
And when it came to skill? The League's operatives were on another level. Especially sharpshooters like Mr. X and Cross—they were walking death sentences. Cross could hit a moving target at 1,200 meters in high winds. Mr. X once eliminated an entire security detail through a hotel window without breaking the glass.
Smith gave a small nod, not bothered by her tone. He ran his finger along the rim of his glass, his eyes reflecting the amber liquid.
"You'll understand in time. No need to rush."
There was something in his voice—not condescension, but certainty. As if he were watching pieces fall into place on a board only he could see.
"Some legends," he continued quietly, "earn their reputation."
Elsewhere in Manhattan...
Blood splattered across cracked concrete as John Wick slammed a Russian enforcer's head against a brick wall. The man's body crumpled to the ground, joining five others scattered across the empty parking garage.
John straightened, adjusting his tie with mechanical precision. Not a drop of blood on his suit, despite the carnage surrounding him. His knuckles were raw, but his breathing remained steady—controlled, even after dispatching Viggo's men in less than ninety seconds.
After wiping his hands clean with a handkerchief, John Wick pulled up to the Continental in his reclaimed Mustang, the engine's growl echoing through the night. The car—Helen's gift to him—purred beneath his touch as he eased it to a stop.
His eyes, sharp and calculating, surveyed the entrance. His expression cold and unreadable, masking the storm of grief and rage that drove him forward.
The doorman recognized him immediately, straightening to attention. No words needed to be exchanged—just a respectful nod as John handed over the keys for valet parking.
Left hand gripping a hard titanium case, a worn canvas bag slung over his shoulder, he made his way through the lobby. Every step measured. His eyes held a storm. Anyone paying attention could sense the air around him thick with tension, like a volcano on the verge of eruption.
The chandelier light caught the slight bruising on his face—souvenirs from his encounter with Iosef Tarasov's men. The cuts were fresh, barely beginning to heal. Yet he moved with the fluid grace of a predator, pain seemingly an afterthought.
Just as he neared the front desk, a female assassin turned, recognizing him. Perkins—known for her ruthless efficiency and complete lack of loyalty to anyone but herself. Her crimson lipstick curved into a smile that never reached her eyes.
"Nice to see you again, John," she said coolly, her gaze assessing him for weaknesses.
"Likewise, Perkins," he replied, voice calm but distant. They had history—not all of it pleasant.
After exchanging greetings, Perkins walked off, heels clicking on marble, while John checked in. Charon, impeccable as always, handled the process with quiet efficiency.
"Your usual accommodations, Mr. Wick?" he asked, already knowing the answer.
"Please."
"Room 818 is available. Will you be requiring... additional services?"
John caught the delicate emphasis. The Continental offered many services beyond accommodation—weapon procurement, tactical support, medical assistance without questions.
"Not at the moment."
Charon nodded, sliding a vintage key across the polished desk.
"Welcome back, Mr. Wick."
Inside the room—spacious but austere, exactly as he preferred—John sat on the edge of the bed. The mattress barely yielded beneath his weight. The room was silent save for the distant hum of Manhattan traffic below.
He pulled out his phone and tapped on a video—his wife, Helen, smiling. The warmth in her eyes contrasted the ice in his own. Her voice, preserved in digital memory, washed over him.
"Don't forget to water the plants, John. I know how you get when you're focused."
Her laughter—light, genuine—made his chest tighten. The video had been taken three months before her diagnosis. Before everything changed.
Then he reached into his coat and retrieved the small artifact: the one-star Dragon Ball he'd found beneath his house. He held it in his hand, thumb brushing over the glassy surface, feeling the star suspended within pulse with strange energy.
"If this thing's real, Helen," he murmured, "I'm bringing you back."
The orb seemed to warm at his words, though he couldn't be certain if it was responding or merely absorbing his body heat.
He tucked the Dragon Ball into a velvet pouch, tied it tight, and hung it around his neck.
It would stay close. Always.
John got dressed, buttoned up a fresh jacket—the previous one discarded due to microscopic blood spatter—and made his way back downstairs—this time, heading to the underground bar.
Another Continental coin dropped into the slot with a satisfying weight. Gold against brass, the sound of admission into a world most never knew existed.
The doors opened.
Inside, John paused just past the threshold. His eyes swept the room, cataloging faces, positions, potential threats—an automatic response ingrained through decades of survival.
Odd. Not a single Black assassin in sight. That wasn't normal. The Continental's usual crowd was always more... diverse. Black assassins—those who specialized in corporate espionage and political killings—usually congregated near the piano. Tonight, that area was conspicuously empty.
He nodded toward Perkins again in passing, then made his way to a booth in the back where Winston sat, flipping a page in his newspaper. The manager's presence in the lounge, rather than his office, was unusual—another indication that tonight was anything but ordinary.
"Winston."
The manager looked up, smiling as he removed his glasses. The gesture was practiced, welcoming—but John noted the slight tension around Winston's eyes.
"Jonathan."
Only his closest allies used his full name: Jonathan Wick. It was a small intimacy in a world where distance meant survival.
"Didn't expect to see you so soon," Winston added, folding the paper with methodical precision. "Remind me—weren't you the one who never left a mess behind?"
A subtle reference to the bodies already piling up across the city. News traveled fast in their world.
John gave a half-smile, barely a twitch at the corner of his mouth.
"Something like that."
Winston set the paper aside and leaned in, the leather seat creaking beneath him.
"What brings you back to my hotel, then?"
His tone was conversational, but both men understood the weight behind the question. John's retirement had been absolute—until now.
"Ruska Roma. Viggo Tarasov's son. I want a word with him," John said flatly.
The euphemism hung in the air between them. A word from John Wick typically meant last rites for whoever received it.
Winston blinked, then chuckled, swirling the amber liquid in his glass.
"A word, huh? You know I've heard that line before."
His eyes narrowed slightly, studying John's face—the fresh cuts, the barely contained fury.
"You ever really think about staying out? Walking away... for good?"
"I did," John answered calmly, hands resting on the table. Steady. Still. "Now I'm just visiting."
"Visiting," Winston repeated, dryly. "You realize no one believes that. Not really."
There was concern beneath the sarcasm—concern for John, perhaps, but more likely concern for the Continental's neutral status, which could be jeopardized by whatever war John was about to unleash.
"You got a location?" John asked, not missing a beat.
Winston gave him a long look. Then, without a word, he reached for his whiskey and took a sip, ice cubes clinking against crystal.
"You know the rules here, Jonathan," he finally said. "No business on Continental grounds. You break that, and the punishment's... steep."
"I know."
They both remembered the last assassin who violated that sacred rule—execution in the lobby, witnessed by all residents. A necessary example.
Winston pulled out a pen, about to jot down an address on a napkin, when John stood up.
"This is personal," he said.
The distinction was important. Business was a contract, a job. Personal was... something else entirely. Something even the High Table wouldn't interfere with, unless forced.
Winston raised an eyebrow but didn't press. He just watched John walk off, murmuring to himself:
"Once you're back in... you're never really out, are you?"
The question lingered, unanswered, as John moved toward the bar.
At the bar, Eddie the bartender did a double-take when he saw who had just walked in. His hands froze mid-pour, bourbon overflowing slightly before he caught himself.
"Holy hell. Jonathan?"
"Hey, Eddie," John greeted with a small nod. His voice was rough, like gravel against steel.
Eddie grinned and pulled him into a quick embrace—one of the few people who could touch John Wick without risking bodily harm. Eddie had been tending bar at the Continental since before John took his first contract. Some said he'd witnessed the rise and fall of every major player in their world.
"Man, it's been what—four years?"
"Five and change."
Eddie's tone dropped slightly, as he finished wiping down the spilled bourbon.
"So how's retirement treating you?"
"Better than I deserve."
The lie came easily, though both men knew the truth. The bruises on John's face told a different story—one of violence reclaimed, not peace maintained.
Eddie's face softened, crow's feet deepening around his eyes.
"Hey... I'm really sorry about Helen."
John nodded, a barely perceptible movement.
"Thanks."
Eddie studied him carefully, noting the new hardness in John's gaze, the tight set of his jaw.
"I've never seen you like this before."
"Like what?"
"Worn out."
It wasn't just physical exhaustion—it was something deeper, a soul-weariness that had settled into every line of John's face. The kind that came from losing your anchor to normalcy.
John exhaled slowly, fingers tapping once against the bar top.
"I'm retired."
Eddie smirked, reaching for a glass.
"If you're drinking in here, then no... you're not."
There was no judgment in his voice, only understanding. In their world, retirement came in one of two ways—by choice or by bullet. Those who chose it rarely returned. Those who did never truly left again.
He turned to the shelves behind him, selecting a bottle from a special reserve kept beneath the counter.
"Usual?"
John nodded.
"Yeah."
A double bourbon, neat. No ice, no water—nothing to dilute either the flavor or the effect.
As Eddie poured, he leaned closer.
"Word is," he said quietly, "Viggo's put a price on your head."
John took the glass, expression unchanged.
"I know."
Eddie's gaze flickered toward Smith and Fox's table, then back to John. A warning without words. John registered it with the slightest inclination of his head—message received.
Back at their booth, Fox glanced at her phone. The screen illuminated her face with cold blue light as a new notification appeared. Her eyes narrowed as she looked toward the bar, where John was now drinking in silence.
"Smith," she said, voice low and urgent. "They just raised his bounty."
Smith raised an eyebrow, curiosity rather than surprise. He'd expected this—planned for it, even.
"Four million," she continued, eyes widening slightly at the figure. "And they're tossing in four Continental coins, too."
Continental coins—harder to come by than cash, and infinitely more valuable in their world. Each one represented access, privilege, protection. Four coins could buy a new identity, safe passage through hostile territory, or a stay at the Continental during high alert.
Smith didn't even flinch. Instead, he watched John with what almost looked like admiration.
"Interesting choice of accessories," he murmured, nodding toward the velvet pouch hanging around John's neck.
Fox followed his gaze, understanding dawning.
"Is that—?"
"The One-Star Dragon Ball," Smith confirmed. "And if I'm right, he's already figured out what it does."
Fox swirled her drink, ice cubes clinking against glass.
"Does he know about the others?"
Smith shook his head slightly.
"Not yet. But he will."
He raised his glass toward John in a silent toast—one that went unacknowledged as the Boogeyman stared into his bourbon, lost in thoughts of vengeance and resurrection.
Across the room, Winston observed the exchange with growing concern. One legend was dangerous enough. Two in the same room, circling each other like wolves, was a disaster waiting to happen.
He reached for his phone, sending a quick text to Charon: Increase security. Tonight might get complicated.