The heavy doors of the Continental Hotel swung open as Smith handed over two gold coins to the concierge.
"Smith, I don't have many of these left," Fox muttered beside him, pocketing her own coins with visible reluctance. "Two gold coins just to walk through a door. The price adds up."
Smith glanced at her, suppressing a smirk. Fox was one of the Fraternity's best—a woman who could curve bullets and had killed more targets than most assassins saw in a lifetime. Yet here she was, complaining about cover charges like they were at an overpriced nightclub.
"Maybe it won't be long before you no longer have that problem," Smith said.
Fox's eyes lit up with sudden understanding.
Smith understood the contradiction. The Continental Hotel system was brilliant in its simplicity—and its exploitation.
The gold coins themselves were minted, issued, and promoted entirely by the Continental. Sure, they used quality materials, but the actual production cost was negligible compared to their assigned value. That value fluctuated wildly depending on context, yet the coins remained maddeningly difficult to obtain while being dangerously easy to spend.
The pricing structure was elegantly simple:
One gold coin to enter the Continental Hotel and guarantee your safety within its walls.
One gold coin for lodging—anywhere from a single night to a full week, dealer's choice.
One gold coin to access the hotel bar and the information network that came with it.
One gold coin for medical treatment, no questions asked.
One gold coin to dispose of a body—scene cleaned, evidence eliminated, corpse vanished.
One gold coin for weapons, body armor, equipment.
Every service started at one coin minimum. Of course, if you wanted to hire a killer through the Continental's network, you'd need to add the appropriate bounty on top of that baseline fee. But the principle remained: the hotel took its cut, always.
Through aggressive expansion and careful cultivation of its reputation, the Continental had turned these coins into the hard currency of the entire underworld. Killers across the globe had registered as members.
They posted contracts through the Continental's network, accepted jobs through its channels, and relied on its services. US dollars were still useful, sure—but gold coins were what bought you loyalty, discretion, and a surgeon who wouldn't report your gunshot wound.
The Continental wasn't just a hotel chain. It was a killer platform, complete with its own enforcement division—the Adjudicators and their High Table enforcers who punished rule-breakers with brutal efficiency. Each Continental manager commanded their own private army, ready to defend the hotel's neutrality with lethal force.
And behind it all loomed an even more powerful shadow: the High Table itself.
Smith's mental database—courtesy of his transmigrator knowledge and the intelligence gathered by the Fraternity—painted a clear picture. The High Table was an alliance of the world's most powerful criminal organizations. Twelve seats, twelve power blocs, all headquartered somewhere in the desert near Casablanca. The Camorra, the Mafia, the 'Ndrangheta, the Triads—every major syndicate had a voice at that table.
Where there was power, there was conflict. Smith knew the High Table was riddled with internal politics, backdoor deals, and assassination plots that would make a soap opera look tame. Undercurrents of ambition and betrayal ran beneath every handshake and alliance.
But from the perspective of the Assassin's League, the High Table was nothing more than organized rot. They were exactly the kind of corrupt power structure that the Fraternity had spent centuries culling from the shadows.
Slavers, drug lords, human traffickers, all hiding behind expensive suits and codes of conduct. They were the filth that needed to be cleaned from the world, the cancer that needed to be cut out before it metastasized further.
Smith's eyes narrowed slightly as he considered another angle. This was the Marvel universe, or at least a version of it. Which meant SHIELD existed. Which meant Hydra existed, buried deep within SHIELD like a parasite.
Had Hydra already infiltrated the High Table? It would be the logical move. An organization controlling the world's assassins and criminals would be too valuable a resource for Hydra to ignore. Smith would bet money that at least one or two of those twelve seats were occupied by Hydra operatives or SHIELD plants, each thinking they were playing the other.
The thought brought a cold smile to his face. He'd need to look into that eventually.
But first things first. The Continental, the High Table, the entire corrupt system—it all needed to be dismantled before the real threats emerged. Before Loki invaded New York. Before Ultron rose. Before Thanos made his play. Smith Doyle, man of justice and GOD, had decided to clean house early.
And John Wick? John Wick would make an excellent executioner for that particular crusade.
Smith's gaze swept across the Continental's lobby again, taking in every detail, every exit, every face. His expression remained neutral, but inside, his mind was already working through angles and possibilities.
This place wouldn't stand forever. Not if he had anything to say about it.
Meanwhile, across the city, Viggo Tarasov sat in his car outside the place where he'd ordered John Wick executed.
He hadn't driven away immediately after giving John the information he'd wanted. Something gnawed at him—a splinter of doubt lodged deep in his mind. How had John escaped? Viggo had given explicit orders. John had been beaten, bound, helpless. A fish on a chopping board, ready to be gutted.
So how?
Viggo threw the car into gear and drove back to the warehouse, his hands tight on the wheel.
When he arrived, he found exactly what he'd feared: two of his men, both shot clean through the head. Professional work. Precise. This wasn't John Wick's doing—he'd been the prisoner. Someone else had intervened.
Viggo's jaw clenched. He remembered the hidden cameras he'd installed throughout the warehouse for exactly this kind of situation. Security footage. He needed to see who had ruined everything.
Inside the warehouse's cramped office, Viggo pulled up the surveillance video and hit play.
The footage showed everything. Two figures entering the warehouse—a man and a woman, both moving with the fluid confidence of apex predators.
Viggo's hands curled into fists as he freeze-framed on their faces.
"It's you," he growled through clenched teeth.
Smith Doyle and Fox.
He knew of them, of course. You didn't operate in this world without hearing whispers. The pair wasn't registered with the Continental as official killers, yet they frequented the hotel with impunity. Viggo had heard the rumors, had even quietly gathered intelligence on them. He'd considered approaching them, maybe recruiting them to replace the hole John Wick had left in his organization when he'd retired.
But before he could make a move, Winston himself had delivered a warning: Do not provoke them.
Coming from the Continental's New York manager, that wasn't advice—it was a command. Viggo had backed off immediately, and when he'd tried to dig deeper into their backgrounds, he'd hit a wall. The Assassin's League—whatever that was—remained completely beyond his reach.
"Smith Doyle. Fox."
Viggo's voice was low and venomous as he stared at their images on the screen.
"I don't care who's standing behind you. You're going to pay for this."
He snapped the laptop shut and stormed out of the warehouse, climbing back into his car. His hands shook slightly as he gripped the steering wheel—not from fear, but from rage.
The drive back to his estate was a blur of dark thoughts and bitter recriminations.
If he'd known his son Iosef was such a monumental idiot, Viggo would have strangled him in the crib. Or at least beaten some sense into him before it was too late.
The Russian mob controlled a massive criminal empire in New York. They had money, resources, connections. If Iosef had wanted a classic car, Viggo could have bought him a fleet of them. But no—the stupid boy had decided to steal one. And not just any car. He'd stolen from John Wick. The Baba Yaga. The man you called to kill the boogeyman.
And then, as if that wasn't catastrophically stupid enough, Iosef had killed John's dog and had the arrogance to simply... leave. He'd beaten John and walked away, leaving him alive.
No ruthlessness. No follow-through. No survival instinct whatsoever.
The boy was worthless.
The truly bitter part was that Iosef was Viggo's only son. Despite everything—despite the stupidity, the arrogance, the waste—Viggo had still tried to protect him. He'd told John where Iosef was hiding, yes, but he'd also sent a small army to guard the location. Assault rifles, defensive positions, everything he could muster.
Maybe, just maybe, his men could kill John Wick. They'd captured him once before, after all.
It was a slim hope. Viggo knew that. But it was all he had left.
Back in his private study, Viggo chain-smoked while he waited for news. The ashtray on his desk overflowed with crushed cigarette butts, a graveyard of nervous energy. Each minute that passed felt like an hour. Each hour felt like a year.
When his phone finally rang, Viggo closed his eyes and took a long, steadying breath before answering.
The voice on the other end delivered the news quickly and without ceremony.
Viggo's hand froze halfway to his mouth, cigarette burning forgotten between his fingers. He lowered the phone slowly and ended the call without a word.
He took several deep drags from the cigarette, the smoke burning his lungs.
"Of course it failed," he muttered to the empty room.
He'd known, really. Deep down, he'd known his son was already dead from the moment John Wick had come knocking. But knowing and accepting were two different things. The grief sat heavy in his chest, a lead weight pressing against his ribs.
But grief was a luxury, and Viggo Tarasov hadn't built his empire by indulging in luxuries.
His feud with John Wick was over. Iosef was dead, the debt was paid in blood. If Viggo was smart—and he was—he'd leave it there. Let John Wick return to his grief and his retirement, and both of them could move on with their lives.
But Smith Doyle and Fox? They had interfered. They had freed John, killed his men, and ultimately caused his son's death.
That debt remained unpaid.