The Continental Hotel's bar was a sanctuary of hushed conversations and discreet glances. Beneath the warm amber lighting, assassins and contractors mingled in an atmosphere of tense civility, bound by the hotel's sacred rules of conduct. In one corner booth, Fox watched the legendary figure at the bar with predatory interest, her perfectly manicured fingers drumming against the polished wooden table.
Fox said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper,
"If I'm not mistaken, that scar on his face... he's injured, isn't he?"
She leaned closer to Smith, eyes gleaming with opportunity.
"Guess that retired Boogeyman isn't all that tough after all."
Her lips curled into a calculating smile as she continued, "So he came back to the Continental—what, planning to unretire?"
She absently twirled a strand of hair around her finger, the movement at odds with the deadly calculations obviously running through her mind.
"Well, if that's the case, I wouldn't mind cashing in. After all…"
Smith gently grabbed Fox's hand mid-gesture, cutting her off. His touch was firm but careful, a reminder rather than a warning. His eyes, always observant, never left John Wick's silhouette at the bar.
"See? You're getting ahead of yourself again," he said, his voice carrying a hint of amusement mixed with caution.
He took a sip of his drink, savoring the burn before adding, "The real show hasn't even started yet."
Fox huffed slightly but didn't pull her hand away, her attention shifting back to their target.
Across the room, Eddie returned to his position behind the bar, moving with the practiced efficiency of someone who had witnessed decades of the underworld's comings and goings. In his hands were a crystal glass of whiskey—Blanton's, neat—and a napkin with crimson lipstick on it, alongside an address scribbled in elegant, flowing handwriting.
"Compliments of the hotel," he said, placing both items in front of John with practiced neutrality.
Hearing that, John Wick turned his head, his dark eyes scanning the room until they landed on Winston, seated in a plush leather booth nearby. The older man was impeccably dressed as always, his demeanor that of someone accustomed to power. Winston was holding his own glass of amber liquid, raising it in a silent toast that spoke volumes between two men who understood the weight of their shared history.
It was the first real clue John had received since returning. He paused for a moment, weighing his options, then reached into his tailored jacket pocket and pulled out his phone and a Continental gold coin—the universal currency of their shadowy world.
The coin caught the light as he brought up a photo on his phone—of the One-Star Dragon Ball, its crystalline surface gleaming with an inner fire, the single red star suspended within its depths like a frozen drop of blood.
"I'm looking for information on this item… or anything similar," he said calmly, his voice carrying the quiet authority that had made his name feared throughout the underworld.
As he spoke, he slid the gold coin across the polished mahogany counter with practiced precision.
Eddie picked up the phone, studied the image with professional interest, and looked a bit surprised—a rare expression for someone who prided himself on remaining unflappable in a world of killers.
Funny enough, the Continental's intelligence network had just kicked into gear earlier that day, thanks to a request from none other than Smith Doyle. The Continental's information brokers had been quietly asking questions in all the right places, but so far, there'd been no results—until now.
"Well," Eddie said, pocketing the coin with a subtle movement that bespoke years of such transactions, "any other day you might've come up empty."
John raised an eyebrow, the only indication of his surprise. "What do you mean?"
Eddie continued, polishing a glass as he spoke, maintaining the appearance of casual conversation to any observers,
"Today, someone else submitted a request involving that same kind of object. Gave us a picture almost identical to this one. Said if anyone else came asking, send 'em his way."
He tilted his head slightly toward Smith and Fox's booth, his movement so subtle that only someone of John's caliber would notice the direction.
"He's right over there."
John was stunned, though his face remained an impassive mask. This wasn't the vague legend or classified file he had expected—it was something else entirely. Something immediate and tangible.
After a moment's thought, he picked up the whiskey, downed it in one smooth motion, and turned, making his way across the room to Smith Doyle's table. His movements were fluid despite his injuries, each step precise and measured—the walk of a predator who never truly retired.
Fox nudged Smith with her shoulder, an impish smirk playing across her features.
"Four million dollars is walking right toward us," she whispered, referring to the bounty that had sent the underworld into a frenzy.
Smith smiled casually, as if money like that meant nothing to him—a gesture that wasn't merely affectation.
And truthfully, for the Brotherhood of Assassins—a secret order that had survived for over a thousand years, operating in the shadows of history—it didn't. Their resources went far beyond mere modern currency.
Hell, the United States was barely 250 years old, a mere child in the eyes of their ancient order. Some of the things they had in storage from their founding days were priceless artifacts now, treasures that museums would sacrifice everything to obtain.
John stopped in front of their table, his presence commanding attention without effort. He placed his phone on the polished surface and showed the image of the One-Star Dragon Ball once more.
"Eddie told me," he said, his voice low and controlled, "you're the one to talk to about this."
Fox glanced at the screen, genuine curiosity flickering in her calculating eyes. She had no idea what the crystal orb was, despite her years of training and access to the Brotherhood's archives.
Smith, however, gave it a quick look and smiled with the confidence of someone who held rare knowledge.
"Looks like you've got the One-Star Ball," he confirmed, watching John's reaction carefully.
John sat down, visibly rattled beneath his composed exterior. For someone who had faced down the worst the underworld had to offer without blinking, this momentary loss of composure was telling.
"The legends… are they real?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
Smith didn't lose the smile, but his eyes grew serious.
"They're real," he said plainly, the weight of certainty in his words.
John took a deep breath, steadying himself against what this confirmation meant.
"Thank you for telling me," he said with genuine gratitude. "May I ask your name?"
"I'm Jonathan—John Wick."
"Smith Doyle," the man replied with a slight nod of acknowledgment. "And this is Fox."
Fox gave John a measured smile that didn't reach her eyes, her assessment of him continuing beneath her cordial exterior.
John nodded politely in return, then carefully framed his next question, each word chosen deliberately:
"Mr. Smith… how much do you know about these things?"
His fingers twitched slightly, betraying his intensity.
"Do you have others?"
His gaze intensified as he asked the question that truly mattered to him:
"If I wanted one from you… what would it cost me?"
Smith studied him for a moment before responding, taking in everything from John's body language to the desperate hope hidden behind his stoic façade.
"We are members of the Brotherhood of Assassins. That object… is a sacred relic we protect."
The statement hung in the air between them, laden with implications.
"And John Wick… this isn't the right place to talk about it."
He gestured subtly toward the various patrons around them, some of whom were paying too little attention to be genuinely disinterested.
"You've got business to take care of first. And for the record, you're being observed."
John's eyes flickered around the room, noting the faces that looked away too quickly. He wanted to press further, to demand answers about the Dragon Ball that could change everything, but he held back. After a beat of tense silence, he asked:
"When can we talk more about the One-Star Ball?"
"When you've dealt with your current problem," Smith said with finality, "and you're ready, come see us at room 819 in the Continental."
John gave a short nod and stood to leave, decision crystallizing in his eyes. Time to deal with Viggo's son, Iosef Tarasov—to clear the board before pursuing the possibility that the Dragon Ball represented.
As he disappeared out the door, his coat flowing behind him like a shadow, Fox leaned in toward Smith, her curiosity finally overriding her professional detachment.
"What exactly is that One-Star thing?" she asked, her voice a mixture of intrigue and irritation at being kept in the dark.
"And since when is it one of our 'sacred relics'?"
Her eyes narrowed suspiciously as she added, "And why are we watching John Wick, of all people?"
Smith stood and adjusted his coat with meticulous care, every movement deliberate.
"I'll explain everything soon—just try not to look too shocked when you hear it."
His eyes followed John's retreating figure through the window.
"As for the observation part… we're going to follow him. Let's see what he's up to."
Fox stood as well, moving close enough that her body brushed against his, her lips nearly touching his ear as she whispered,
"This better be worth it."
The threat in her voice was velvet-wrapped steel.
"Otherwise... you're dead."
Then she pinched his waist, hard enough to leave a mark.
"Ah—hey!" Smith winced, feigning more pain than he actually felt.
"Come on, let's go. You don't want to lose him."
He dropped several gold coins on the table—far more than necessary for their drinks—and led the way toward the exit, Fox following with the graceful menace of a predator on the hunt.
At that moment, John Wick was behind the wheel of his sleek black Chevelle, the engine's rumble matching his dark mood as he headed for the Red Circle club. The city lights streaked past the windows, painting patterns across his scarred face as his mind replayed everything Smith had told him.
He'd heard whispers of the Brotherhood before—an organization operating outside the control of the High Table, answering to no one, bound by rules older than the Table itself. They never took contracts, never appeared at gatherings, yet their presence was felt throughout the shadow world.
Their fighters were known to be terrifyingly powerful—not just skilled, but possessing abilities that bordered on the supernatural.
But John had been out of the game for five years. A lot could've changed in the landscape of killers and kings, alliances formed and broken, new powers rising from the ashes of old regimes.
As he drove, one hand on the wheel, he used the other to touch the Dragon Ball hanging from a leather cord around his neck. The glass was warm against his skin, pulsing with what felt like its own heartbeat. His eyes hardened in the rearview mirror, resolve crystallizing into certainty.
"I'll bring you back, Helen," he muttered to the empty car, his wife's name both prayer and promise.
The Dragon Ball gleamed in response, the single star within seeming to flare brighter for just a moment—as if acknowledging his vow.
(End of Chapter)