After their brief, tense exchange, Winston offered Smith and Fox a polite, final nod and left them to their drinks. He found an empty, secluded booth away from the bar, unfolded a newspaper—a deliberate act of appearing unconnected—and began to read, all the while keeping a peripheral eye on the "God" and his shadow.
Smith turned back to Fox, taking a slow sip of the exquisite 1972 Macallan. "So," he asked, the rich whiskey warming his throat, "Which unlucky soul has a $200 million price tag on their head?"
Fox checked the secure message on her phone, confirming the details from the bar's intelligence feed. "It's a guy named John Wick."
A genuine, cold smile touched Smith's lips. "He is the target I brought you here to observe today."
Fox's brows furrowed in confusion. "Observe?" she questioned. "I thought you were going to fulfill the bounty yourself, or at least challenge him. What is there to observe about a retired assassin?"
Both Smith and Fox were familiar with John Wick's reputation, a history Smith had shared with Fox upon learning about the Continental Hotel. Fox, a loyal acolyte of the Assassin's League, harbored a profound disdain for the Continental's killers. In her eyes, the League members were righteous heroes, like a modern, uncompromising Robin Hood—an ideal she clung to even more fiercely after the destruction of the Loom and the subsequent tragedy of her own family, which the League had helped avenge.
In contrast, the Continental killers were nothing more than greedy "rats" who worked exclusively for money, devoid of any higher ideological purpose. She also held the conviction that the members of the Assassin's League operated on an overwhelmingly higher skill level, noting that the long-range marksmanship of Mr. X and Cross was legendary, surpassing anything the Continental boasted.
Hearing Fox's indifferent, almost dismissive tone, Smith simply replied: "Take your time to understand, Fox. Don't rush to judgment. The Night Demon is a legend for a reason."
John Wick: The Return
Meanwhile, across the city, John Wick had successfully dealt with the first, frantic wave of assassins sent by Viggo. His journey had been a trial by fire, confirming his skills were dormant, not gone.
He arrived at the Continental, a man resurrected. He carried an expensive leather suitcase in his left hand and a canvas duffel bag on his right shoulder, walking with a steady, deliberate gait toward the front desk. His face was set and grim, and a palpable aura of exhaustion and lethal intent surrounded him. He was a killer who had recently killed, a volcano freshly erupted.
As John walked through the lobby, he passed a beautiful assassin who had just checked in. She paused and turned.
"Nice to see you again, John!" she greeted, her tone familiar.
"Me too, Perkins," he replied, giving a short, hard nod.
After their brief exchange, John completed his check-in, receiving the key to Room 818, and Perkins departed the lobby.
Once safely inside his room, John placed his gear down and immediately pulled out his phone, replaying the last, treasured video of his wife before her death. The pain was still raw. Then, he took out the glowing One-Star Dragon Ball from his pocket, gazing at the single star inside.
"Helen," he murmured, his voice thick with a desperate vow. "If this is real, I swear I will wish to resurrect you."
He then took a small, leather drawstring pouch, carefully placed the Dragon Ball inside, sealed it, and hung it around his neck, concealing it beneath his shirt. Close to his heart was the safest place he could imagine.
After dressing in a freshly pressed suit, John Wick got up and headed directly toward the underground bar.
He exchanged a Continental gold coin at the bar entrance and stepped inside. He immediately scanned the crowd, a subtle frown creasing his brow. The bar felt unusually sparse of African American assassins. John knew the Continental's clientele, and the absence was noteworthy.
He exchanged a nod with Perkins, who was now sitting at a booth, and then made his way through the standing room, his eyes fixed on Winston, who was reading his paper in a secluded booth.
"Hello, Winston," John greeted, his voice low and gravelly.
Winston slowly lowered his newspaper, his eyes sharp behind his spectacles. "Jonathan."
Seeing John Wick sit down opposite him, Winston removed his glasses entirely. "As far as I recall, you're the man who never cleans up the mess. You walk away from it."
"More or less," John conceded with a weary half-smile.
Winston leaned forward, his gaze piercing. "What is your business here, Jonathan?"
"Rusev Tarasov," John stated simply.
Winston raised an eyebrow. "What is he up to now?"
"I want to talk to him," John clarified.
Winston took a sip from his glass, a dry amusement in his eyes. "Talk about it, ha. I'm intimately familiar with that kind of talk, Jonathan." He then turned serious. "I have to ask you, have you already become the prodigal son?"
When Winston questioned his return to the life he had so deliberately abandoned, John Wick remained calmly evasive. "Just visiting."
Hearing this, Winston pressed harder, his voice laced with genuine concern. "Have you ever truly thought about the life you left?"
"Completely," John affirmed.
"You dodged it once," Winston warned. "You were in too deep then. You might find a way out, but you will only get deeper into it now."
John Wick, focused only on his path of retribution, ignored the suggestive warning and interrupted directly: "Where can I find him?"
Seeing John's unwavering resolve, Winston conceded. "You know the rules here. Do not conduct business or shed blood on my grounds, or the penalty will be severe." He picked up his glass, took a slow sip of whiskey, and then said: "Have a drink first and relax. Now..."
Winston picked up a pen, preparing to write the address, but John Wick stood up and stopped him.
"This is a private matter," he insisted, refusing to involve the hotel's intelligence officially. He simply walked away.
Winston watched him go, shaking his head. "When you step back into this world, do you truly think others will believe you are completely retired?"
The Escalation
John Wick walked toward the main bar counter to obtain the necessary information in the shadows.
Eddie exclaimed upon seeing him: "Oh my God, Jonathan!"
"Hey Eddie," John greeted warmly, leaning over the counter.
Eddie reached out and gave John Wick a quick kiss on the cheek. "Oh my God, it's been four years since we last met."
John shook his head. "More than five years."
"Tell me," Eddie asked, curiosity softening his professional demeanor. "How is retirement life?"
"Very good, Eddie," John replied, the lie catching in his throat. "It's a much better life than I deserve."
Eddie's face grew serious. "Hey, I'm sorry about your wife..."
John Wick interrupted gently. "Thank you."
Eddie looked up at John Wick, his eyes piercing. "I've never seen you look like this."
John asked doubtfully: "What does that look like?"
Eddie leaned in, lowering his voice, and said slowly: "Haunted."
John Wick took a deep, steadying breath. "I'm retired."
Hearing the familiar deflection, Eddie smiled. "As long as you're drinking here, Jonathan, you're anything but." He pointed to the rows of liquor behind him. "The usual?"
"Okay."
At this very moment, in the secluded booth, Fox glanced at a fresh message on the scrolling intelligence ticker, then looked at the stoic figure of John Wick at the bar.
"Smith," she announced, her voice a mix of awe and renewed alarm. "The price on this guy's head has just risen to $400 million."
She paused, then added: "By the way, the High Table has also issued a separate payment of 4 extra Continental Hotel gold coins for anyone who can confirm his death."