The Shiranui Agency passed the night in peaceful silence.
As the morning light touched the windows, Hayate opened his eyes.
"Check-in."
Ding! Check-in successful. You have received 200 Reputation points!
With 8,296 points now in his account, Hayate nodded with satisfaction. He was steadily closing in on the ten-thousand-point milestone. He grabbed a bottle of Bourbon and made his way toward the recovery room.
Inside, three newly constructed concrete tubs stood along the wall. In the leftmost tub, John Wick lay submerged in a thick, translucent wax bath, with only his face exposed.
At the sound of footsteps, John's eyes snapped open. He tried to speak, but the hardened wax around his jaw muffled his voice into a series of urgent grunts.
"John, how are you feeling?" Hayate asked, stepping closer.
Recognizing Hayate's voice, John relaxed. He strained against the wax, causing the shell around his mouth to crack and flake away.
"I feel much better... but I'm parched," John rasped.
Hayate cleared the loose wax from John's face and uncapped the Bourbon. He poured a small glass and held it to John's lips. After a long swallow, John exhaled slowly.
"Thank you. My favorite brand. This bath... what is it?"
Hayate sat on a stool nearby. "This wax bath stimulates white blood cell production and accelerates the body's natural healing. Here, bruises, deep lacerations, and even fractures can be mended in a matter of hours."
John stared at him, genuinely stunned. "This... this is impossible. With this, a man doesn't have to fear the common toll of combat."
To a man like John, who lived by the blade, the ability to recover from a major injury overnight was more valuable than gold. Not even Winston, nor the High Table itself, possessed medical technology that could rival this.
Hayate shook his head slightly. "It is powerful, but it isn't a miracle. It handles trauma well, but a bullet to the heart or the brain is still a final sentence."
Even so, John's confidence in Hayate's plan to seize a seat at the High Table surged. This technology alone could buy the loyalty of an army.
"It's more than enough, Hayate. It's perfect."
"Get some rest," Hayate said, standing up. "When the wax melts, clean yourself up. I'll be waiting for you in the training hall."
The Continental.
A sleek black Mercedes pulled up to the entrance. A tall woman stepped out, her presence radiating a cold, clinical authority. She wore a heavy black overcoat and boots, her hair cropped short, and her fingernails painted a sharp, obsidian black.
She walked into the lobby with a brisk, disciplined gait and approached the front desk. Charon looked up, his professional mask firmly in place.
"Welcome to the Continental. How may I assist you?"
Without a word, she reached into her coat and pulled out a heavy medallion. She slid it across the marble counter with two fingers, her eyes locked onto Charon's. It was the mark of an Adjudicator.
Charon picked up the coin, examined the intricate carvings, and set it back down. He picked up the house phone and dialed a private line.
"Sir, an Adjudicator is here to see you." He paused, listening. "Yes, sir."
He hung up and looked at the woman. "The Manager is in the lounge."
The Adjudicator reclaimed her coin and walked toward the lounge without a single word of thanks.
Winston was waiting for her. As she entered, he poured a drink. "I assume we are here to discuss John Wick. If that's the case, we can keep this brief. I told him to walk away; he refused. That is the sum of the events."
The Adjudicator stopped in front of him, her voice like ice. "Mr. Wick violated the ordinances of this house."
"He did," Winston agreed. "And I have no knowledge of his current whereabouts—"
"You misunderstand," she interrupted. "I am not here for Mr. Wick. I am here because a life was taken inside these walls. The sanctity of the Continental has been defiled. Is that correct?"
Winston's expression turned grim. "It is. The blood is still fresh."
"I wish to see it," she demanded.
Winston led her to the cold storage. They stood before the furnace where the body of Santino D'Antonio lay on a transport gurney.
"Santino D'Antonio," she recited, looking at the corpse. "A new member of the High Table. Murdered by Mr. Wick while under the protection of the Continental."
She leaned down, inspecting the hole in Santino's forehead. "Killed by a .45 ACP round. Point blank."
She straightened up and turned to Winston.
"I cannot control the actions of Mr. Wick," Winston explained smoothly.
"And yet," she countered, her eyes narrowing, "he is only alive because of your decision. Is that not so?"
Winston met her gaze. "Yes."
"You and Mr. Wick go back many years. One might even call you friends. He executed a member of the Table in front of you, and you chose to stand by. You allowed him to walk out of these doors."
"I excommunicated him," Winston defended.
"But you gave him an hour's head start," she replied sharply. "You gave the Boogeyman time to disappear. That, Winston, is a choice we find... concerning."