The Continental Hotel. Elevator.
Cole Dawson pressed his thumb against the biometric scanner on the control panel.
Beep. Access Granted.
He pressed the button for Basement Level 2. As the elevator descended smoothly, Cole turned to Hunter.
"The Continental is an ancient institution," Cole began, his tone almost reverent. "Steeped in tradition."
"Every new member who passes the trial receives a complimentary starter package. This includes one to three weapons of your choice and a suit of body armor tailored specifically to your measurements."
"However," Cole's tone shifted to business, "membership comes with obligations. Unless injured or on approved leave, every member must accept at least one contract from the Hotel periodically."
"The frequency depends on your Contribution Rank. The higher your rank, the more autonomy you have over your schedule."
"But don't worry," Cole added with a smile. "Even mandatory contracts are paid in full. And the Hotel offers performance bonuses for exceptional work."
Hunter listened intently. "How does recruitment work? Is everyone introduced like I was?"
Cole shook his head. "I don't usually answer that, but given your trial score... I'll make an exception."
"There are two paths. First, we have partnerships with various freelance syndicates and private military firms. We monitor them. If a talent stands out, we extend an invitation."
"Second, like in your case, an existing member can sponsor a candidate. Perkins vouched for you."
The elevator doors slid open.
They were met by a heavy alloy security door with a reinforced viewport. Cole knocked twice in a specific rhythm. Eyes appeared at the slit, scanning them.
Click-clank.
The heavy bolts retracted, and the door swung open. Inside, a team of heavily armed tactical guards stood at attention. They looked like they could start a small war.
They walked past the checkpoint into a sleek, metallic corridor that looked more like a high-tech laboratory than a hotel basement.
"What about Jane Smith?" Hunter asked suddenly as they walked. "She was working with Perkins. Her skills are arguably superior. Yet, Perkins made it sound like Jane doesn't even know the Continental exists."
This had bothered Hunter. In this merged universe, Mr. and Mrs. Smith were top-tier operators. Why was Perkins, a relatively lower-tier assassin, a member, while Jane was in the dark?
Cole paused for a split second, his step faltering just barely.
"Perkins was recommended by her previous agency," Cole said smoothly. "As for Ms. Smith... we simply don't have enough data on her yet."
He's lying.
Hunter's high Intelligence and perception skills flared. He caught the micro-expression. Cole knew exactly who Jane was.
Is the Company planning to liquidate the Smiths? Hunter wondered. Or is she blacklisted for some reason?
They arrived at an unassuming office door. Cole knocked and entered.
"Processing for a new member," Cole announced to the staff inside.
For the next twenty minutes, Hunter went through the bureaucracy of death. Mugshots, fingerprints, retinal scans, and bank account setups.
Finally, Cole handed him a sleek, black ID card.
"Congratulations, Hunter. You are officially part of the family."
Hunter flipped the card open. It looked like a federal badge, but darker. His photo was there, along with his name and a designation code.
Contribution Rank: D+
"Contribution points determine your standing," Cole explained, tapping the card. "You earn them by completing contracts or resolving internal matters for the High Table."
"The D-tier is the entry level. D-minus, D, and D-plus. Because of your trial performance, you've started at the top of the rookie bracket."
"Above that are C, B, and A ranks. Higher rank means access to better intel, specialized armory requisitions, and higher-value contracts."
"Currently, as a D-plus, you are capped at accepting contracts worth up to $500,000."
Cole clapped him on the shoulder. "Don't look so serious. With your skills, you'll be hitting C-rank in no time. Now, follow me. Let's get you paid and geared up."
Hunter pocketed the ID and followed Cole down the hall to another room.
This room was sparser. It smelled of old paper and gun oil. Behind a heavy oak desk sat an elderly man. Behind him was a wall of standard safety deposit boxes.
"Hi, Porter," Cole greeted.
"Cole," the old man grunted, not looking up from his ledger.
"New blood. Here to collect his trial bounty."
The old man, Porter, finally looked up.
Hunter felt a chill.
Porter was missing an eye. The socket wasn't covered by a patch; it was just a hollow, scarred void staring back at him.
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