Rain fell in sheets over New York City, washing the blood from the streets into gurgling storm drains. Inside the Red Circle nightclub, a massacre had just concluded. Bodies lay strewn across the once-pristine floors, blood seeping into expensive carpets and pooling on marble tiles. The pulsing club music had long since given way to the eerie silence that follows violence, broken only by the occasional moan of the dying.
John Wick had already finished most of the fighting by the time Smith and Fox had positioned themselves in a perfect vantage point to witness the carnage. They had watched everything unfold with professional detachment, analyzing every move, every shot, every kill with the practiced eyes of fellow predators.
Back in their sleek black sedan, parked half a block away, Smith turned to Fox, the blue glow of dashboard lights illuminating his thoughtful expression.
"He took out 31 people," he said, voice tinged with professional admiration. "Four of them with a pencil. What do you think?"
Fox's eyes tracked the escape route where Iosef Tarasov had fled moments earlier, her expression betraying a hint of regret at the missed opportunity to witness the conclusion.
"Efficient and ruthless," she observed clinically. "He used the Mozambique Drill—two shots to the chest, one to the head. No survivors once he pulls the trigger."
She brushed a strand of hair from her face, her gaze still fixed on the club's rear exit where emergency lights now flashed in the distance.
"Even though he killed a lot, it's clear his target was that brat who just escaped..."
Smith nodded, fingers drumming thoughtfully against the leather steering wheel. Fox's assessment aligned perfectly with his own—John Wick wasn't on a mindless rampage. This was targeted, purposeful violence.
"Let's go," he said, starting the engine with a low purr. "We've seen what he's capable of. Time to head back to the Continental."
Fox slid into the driver's seat as Smith moved over, her movements fluid and practiced. She hit the gas, and the car peeled away from the curb with controlled urgency, tires hissing on the wet asphalt. In the rearview mirror, they caught a glimpse of John Wick staggering out of the club, clutching his side where fresh blood stained his impeccable suit. Iosef Tarasov was already long gone, sheltered by his father's considerable resources and connections.
Room 819, Continental Hotel
The suite was opulent in the understated way that defined the Continental's aesthetic—dark woods, plush fabrics, and subdued lighting that created an atmosphere of discreet luxury. A bottle of Blanton's bourbon stood open on the antique writing desk, two crystal tumblers nearby catching the warm glow of table lamps.
Fox leaned against the wall near the window, arms crossed over her chest, her silhouette sharp against the city lights spread out beyond the glass. Her expression was thoughtful, almost troubled.
"You're not thinking about recruiting him into the Brotherhood of Assassins, are you?" she asked, breaking the contemplative silence that had settled between them since their return.
She pushed off from the wall and paced slowly across the thick carpet, her movements betraying the restless energy that always seemed to simmer just beneath her composed exterior.
"With that kind of skill, he'd qualify. A little training and he could definitely be one of us. But are you sure he'd accept our ideals?"
She stopped, turning to face Smith directly, her eyes searching his for answers.
"Honestly, he might even end up as someone we have to eliminate."
The unspoken question hung in the air: Is this a risk worth taking?
Smith considered her words, rolling them over in his mind as he poured himself another finger of bourbon. The amber liquid caught the light as it filled the glass, like liquid gold being cast into form.
"I haven't seriously considered recruiting him—yet," he admitted after a thoughtful pause, swirling the bourbon gently.
He took a measured sip before continuing, "But it's a solid idea. Might be worth thinking about."
Fox sighed, a sound caught between exasperation and resignation. She crossed the room in three quick strides, grabbed the bottle of bourbon from the table, and poured herself a generous measure. The liquid burned pleasantly as she took a long sip, savoring the complex notes of vanilla and caramel beneath the alcohol's bite.
"I just hope the ending of this story isn't boring," she said, raising her glass in a mock toast to whatever fate awaited John Wick—and by extension, themselves.
Time passed slowly in the Continental, the hours marked by the subtle shifts in the city's luminescence beyond their windows. Night deepened, then gradually began to yield to the first hints of pre-dawn gray.
John Wick had returned to the Continental hours ago. After being patched up by the hotel's discreet and highly skilled doctor—a man who asked no questions and expected no answers beyond payment—he had gone back to his room to rest and prepare for whatever came next in his vendetta.
The sound of the door opening in the adjacent room wasn't exactly quiet, and Smith, who had been sitting in meditative silence while Fox dozed fitfully on the bed, knew instantly it was John returning from his medical treatment.
Sure enough, mere minutes later, the unmistakable sounds of violent struggle erupted from next door—the dull thuds of bodies hitting furniture, the crash of breaking glass, and the muffled grunts of combatants locked in deadly struggle.
Fox, who had just gotten comfortable in bed, sat up instantly, fully alert despite her brief rest. She swung her legs over the side of the bed and quickly began dressing, pulling on her tactical gear with practiced efficiency.
"Looks like not everyone respects the hotel rules," she observed dryly, checking her weapon with quick, precise movements.
"If I remember correctly, that's Wick's room, right?"
Smith chuckled softly, a sound that contained genuine amusement rather than mockery. He already knew exactly what was going on. If John's friend Marcus hadn't fired a warning shot from his sniper perch outside the hotel, that assassin Perkins might've actually succeeded in her ambush attempt.
"Rules exist to be broken," he said philosophically, making no move to intervene.
His eyes met Fox's across the room, a silent communication passing between them. "But only if you can pay the price for breaking them."
Fox smiled, a dangerous curve of her lips that didn't reach her eyes. She moved to position herself near the door, ready to observe but not engage unless necessary.
"Someone's in trouble," she said, her voice a mixture of anticipation and professional assessment. "I'm guessing whoever broke the rules is about to get what they deserve."
"Pretty sure other guests have already called hotel security," Smith added, knowing the Continental's management would be swift in their response to any violation of their sacred neutrality.
Soon, as expected, the sounds of struggle diminished and then went quiet. John Wick had prevailed, as Smith had anticipated. The Brotherhood had access to detailed files on most significant players in their world, and John's capabilities had been thoroughly documented.
Smith opened the door to their suite and peered into the hallway, where Ms. Perkins was crawling along the carpet, clearly subdued but still conscious. Her usual composure had been thoroughly shattered, blood trickling from her nose and split lip.
He turned to Fox with a subtle smirk and said, "Looks like someone bit off more than they could chew."
Just then, John emerged from his room, moving with the controlled precision of someone managing pain through sheer willpower. He grabbed Perkins from behind, his pistol pressed firmly against her temple, and demanded information about Viggo's safe house location.
After extracting what he needed, John knocked her unconscious with a practiced strike from the butt of his gun. Looking up, he noticed Smith observing the scene and made a quick decision.
"Smith," he said, his voice rough from exertion, "can I count on you to watch this sleeping beauty for me?"
He gestured toward the unconscious form of Perkins with a tilt of his head.
"I'll pay with one coin," he added, the currency of their world always at the forefront of transactions. "Just turn her over to the Continental management in the morning."
His eyes, dark and intense, held Smith's gaze steadily. "You know the rules—no killing on hotel grounds."
Smith smirked, amused by John's adherence to rules even in the midst of his bloody crusade. "Continental rules… sure."
He stepped back from his doorway, creating space for John to enter. "Bring her in. There's something I need to tell you."
John nodded, his face betraying nothing of his thoughts. He disappeared back into his room momentarily, returning with a pair of handcuffs and a gold Continental coin that gleamed in the subdued hallway lighting. With efficient movements, he secured Perkins' wrists behind her back and hoisted her limp form, carrying her into Smith's suite.
After placing her unceremoniously on a chair and setting the gold coin on the table—a transaction completed—Smith gestured toward the bourbon.
"Fox, mind pouring our guest here a glass of bourbon?" he asked, his tone making it clear this was more courtesy than question.
Fox stepped forward from her position near the window, her movements graceful and controlled. She grabbed the bottle, poured a generous measure into a clean glass, and handed it to John. Then she positioned herself nearby, her posture relaxed but ready, her curiosity about the coming conversation evident in the slight tilt of her head.
John accepted the glass with a nod of thanks, then knocked back the bourbon in one smooth motion, barely wincing as the alcohol burned its way down.
"Not bad," he commented, setting the empty glass down with a soft clink. "Charon recommended this brand to me."
Smith smiled and nodded in acknowledgment, then shifted the conversation to the matter at hand, his voice taking on a more serious tone.
"John Wick, I know you're not done with your business yet."
He studied John's face—the cuts, the bruises, the determined set of his jaw that spoke of unfinished vengeance.
"But before that, I need to ask—what's your wish?"
The question hung in the air between them, seemingly disconnected from the night's events and yet somehow tied to everything.
John put the empty glass down on the table with deliberate care, his expression shifting from confused to serious as he realized the significance of the question.
"My wish…"
He paused, the words catching in his throat as if speaking them aloud might somehow diminish their power—or reveal too much of his vulnerability.
"…is to bring my wife back to life."
The raw honesty in his voice filled the room, momentarily stripping away the persona of the legendary assassin to reveal the grieving husband beneath.
Smith could tell he was being honest—the pain in John's eyes was too real, too profound to be fabricated. Still, he studied John's expression for a few seconds more, assessing not just the truth of his words but the purity of his motivation.
"Okay," he said finally. "I believe you're telling the truth."
Fox looked between the two men, confusion evident in her narrowed eyes. She didn't fully understand how the conversation had suddenly turned to resurrection, but she maintained her professional composure, keeping her questions to herself as she observed John with renewed interest.
"The Brotherhood of Assassins has been around for over a thousand years," Smith continued, settling into the role of historian and keeper of ancient secrets.
"The Dragon Balls are sacred relics of our organization."
He leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping as if sharing a secret that shouldn't travel beyond these walls.
"What you found is the One-Star Ball. If you collect all seven, you can summon the Eternal Dragon—and ask for one wish."
John nodded slowly, processing this information. It aligned with what he already knew—or had pieced together—when he first came into contact with the artifact that had been hidden among his wife's personal effects.
"Kinda sounds like Aladdin's magic lamp," he observed, a hint of skepticism coloring his words despite his desperate desire to believe.
Smith chuckled, a genuine sound of amusement.
"That story?" he said dismissively. "Just a bard who got ahold of our legends and twisted them into a fairytale for children and dreamers."
John raised an eyebrow, surprised by this revelation. That wasn't the answer he had expected—it suggested a lineage of power and knowledge far older and more extensive than he had imagined. After a moment's consideration, he asked the question that had been bothering him since his discovery.
"If these Dragon Balls are your sacred relics, why was one in my house?"
His tone was even, but the underlying question was clear: Why Helen? Why us?
Smith replied without hesitation, as if he had been waiting for precisely this question.
"Once a wish is granted, the Dragon Balls scatter across the world."
He made a spreading gesture with his hands, illustrating their dispersal.
"They turn into stones and go into hiding, eventually returning to their original form after a period of time."
Smith rose and walked to the window, looking out at the pre-dawn city as he continued.
"We don't lock them away in some vault. When someone stumbles upon one, we observe them, evaluate their character and their wish."
He turned back to face John, his expression serious but not unkind.
"If they pass, and their desire isn't selfish or destructive, the Brotherhood will guide them to the remaining Dragon Balls."
John nodded again, his posture straightening almost imperceptibly as hope—dangerous, fragile hope—began to take root. He still wasn't entirely convinced, still harbored doubts about whether these mystical artifacts could truly bring Helen back to him. But at least now he had a clearer picture, a path forward where before there had been only grief and rage.
"So what if the person's wish is evil or filled with greed?" he asked, the tactician in him needing to understand all angles, all possibilities.
Smith's eyes narrowed, and the temperature in the room seemed to drop by several degrees.
"What's the reputation of the Brotherhood of Assassins in your world of killers?" he countered, his question an answer in itself.
John thought about it, sifting through the whispers and rumors he had encountered during his years in the business. The Brotherhood didn't take assassination contracts like others in their profession. They operated by their own code, for their own purposes. But somehow, people and organizations just... ended up dead. Powerful figures, untouchable crime lords, corrupt officials—they simply disappeared or were found dead under mysterious circumstances.
A cold realization dawned on him: Was it because those people had failed the Brotherhood's test? Had they found a Dragon Ball, been evaluated, and been found wanting?
No wonder the Dragon Balls weren't common knowledge in the public consciousness or even within the underworld. Anyone who learned too much probably didn't live long enough to share that information with others.
As John processed this revelation, his gaze drifted to the unconscious form of Perkins. Her fate was now sealed by Continental law—but had his own fate been similarly decided by forces he was only beginning to understand?
He returned his attention to Smith, making a decision that would alter the course of his life far beyond his current vendetta.
"I want to find them," he said simply. "All of them."
Smith studied him for a long moment, then nodded once, a gesture of acknowledgment rather than agreement.
"Finish your business first," he advised. "Then we'll talk about the path ahead."
Outside, the first pale light of dawn began to seep into the sky, signaling the end of one night's violence—and the beginning of a quest that transcended the boundaries of the world John thought he knew.
(End of Chapter)