John Wick walked through the Continental Hotel's marble lobby with blood still drying under his fingernails. His revenge was complete. Iosef Tarasov was dead, along with everyone foolish enough to stand between John and his target.
The knot of rage that had lived in his chest since they'd killed Daisy—since they'd taken the last piece of Helen from him—had finally loosened.
But the work wasn't done yet.
He needed to see Winston. There was a debt to pay, and in this world, debts were serious business. Especially the kind written in blood.
John had barely made it three steps toward the elevator when a familiar voice called out behind him.
"Mr. Wick."
John stopped and turned. Charon stood behind the concierge desk, impeccable as always in his perfectly tailored suit. The man could make a funeral look like a fashion show.
"What is it, Charon?" John asked, walking over.
Charon reached beneath the desk and produced a set of car keys, placing them on the polished wood with the reverence usually reserved for religious artifacts.
"Mr. Wick, the Continental Hotel wishes to extend its deepest apologies for the incident that occurred on our premises last night." Charon's tone was professionally neutral, but John caught the genuine regret underneath. "Management has asked me to present this as compensation for our... lapse in security."
John looked down at the keys. Even without seeing the logo, he recognized the weight and styling.
He picked up the keys without hesitation. In this world, refusing an apology from the Continental was more insulting than the original offense.
"Thank you," John said simply. Then, "I need to schedule a meeting with Winston. As soon as possible."
"Of course, Mr. Wick. I'll arrange it immediately."
John nodded and headed for his room. He needed to clean up, change clothes, and prepare for what came next.
Twenty minutes later, John stood in Winston's office, freshly showered and wearing a clean suit. The office was exactly as he remembered—elegant, understated, and positioned to overlook the city like a king surveying his domain.
Winston sat behind his desk, a glass of whiskey untouched at his elbow, watching John with the patient attention of a man who'd seen everything twice.
"Winston," John began without preamble, "I need a Marker."
Winston's eyebrows rose slightly. In the world of the Continental, that was the equivalent of a shocked gasp.
"I also need you to witness a blood oath."
For a long moment, Winston said nothing. His fingers drummed once against the polished wood of his desk—a rare tell that John had surprised him.
"Jonathan," Winston said carefully, "you truly intend to come back into this life?"
John shook his head firmly. "No. This is personal gratitude, nothing more. But a debt like this deserves the weight of a blood oath. Only a Marker can convey how serious I am."
Winston leaned back in his chair, studying John like a particularly interesting chess problem.
"Jonathan, you're requesting a Marker. You're standing in the Continental Hotel again. People will talk. They won't believe you're retired—they'll think you're back in the game."
"I don't care what people think," John said, his voice hard with conviction. "I need the Marker to show the sincerity of my gratitude. That's all."
The silence stretched between them. Then, slowly, a smile spread across Winston's face—the kind of smile that suggested he knew far more than he was saying.
"It seems you owe someone a very significant debt this time." Winston stood, straightening his cuffs. "Very well. Let's go witness this blood oath of yours. I'm curious to see who's worth this much to you."
They stood outside Smith Doyle's room, Winston half a step behind John like a dignitary attending a state function. John knocked—three soft, measured taps.
The door opened, and Winston's expression shifted minutely. So this was the person John Wick was swearing a blood oath to.
Smith Doyle stood in the doorway, looking relaxed but alert. His gaze flicked between them.
"It seems you've taken care of your personal business?" Smith asked.
John nodded. "Yes. It's done."
"Good." Smith stepped aside, gesturing into the room. "Come in, both of you. Let's talk."
Inside, Fox sat on the edge of the bed, cleaning a disassembled pistol with the casual efficiency of long practice. She glanced up as they entered but didn't stop her work.
John didn't waste time with pleasantries. He reached into his jacket and withdrew a small case, opening it to reveal the Marker inside—a blood oath medallion, ornate and ancient, the kind of thing that carried centuries of deadly tradition in its design.
"Smith," John said, holding the Marker between them, "you saved my life. That's not something I take lightly, and words aren't enough to express my gratitude."
He pressed his thumb against the sharp edge of the Marker, drawing blood, and pressed his bloody thumbprint onto one side of the medallion.
"This blood oath is the only thing I have that might be worthy of what you've done for me. If you activate this Marker—if you call in this debt—I will complete whatever task you ask. Even if it costs me my life."
Winston stepped forward, his role as witness requiring his participation. His voice took on the formal cadence of ritual.
"This blood oath shall be signed under the authentication of the Continental Hotel. The bearer of this Marker may call upon the bound party for a single task of their choosing. Should the bound party fail to fulfill this obligation, or should they attempt to refuse, the Continental Hotel will enforce the contract through any means necessary."
In other words: if John broke his word, the entire Continental would hunt him down and kill him. No exceptions. No mercy.
Smith looked down at the Marker, at John's bloody thumbprint stark against the polished metal. Then he reached out and took it, closing the case with a soft click.
"I accept your thanks," Smith said. "This is indeed sincere."
The weight of the moment settled over the room like snow—quiet, cold, and absolute.
Fox set down the pistol spring she'd been examining. "John, what about Viggo? Did you deal with him?"
John turned to her, his expression neutral. "My business was with his son, not with him. After Viggo gave me Iosef's location and cancelled the contract on my head, I let him go. We're square."
Fox's eyes widened slightly, then she rolled them so hard John was surprised they didn't fall out of her head.
"Oh, good luck with that," she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "I'm sure Viggo won't mind at all that you killed his only son. I'm sure he'll be super reasonable about the whole thing."
Even Winston looked pained. "Jonathan," he said with the tone of a man watching a friend step on a rake, "this is... very much in character for you."
John's jaw tightened. "Viggo Tarasov is a man who understands this world. He knows the rules. He'll honor our agreement."
"Sure he will," Fox muttered, returning to her pistol maintenance. "Thank you for the reminder, by the way. We'll keep that in mind when his entire organization comes looking for revenge."
Before John could respond, Smith's phone rang. He glanced at the screen, and something in his expression shifted—became sharper, more focused.
"It's Cross," Smith said, answering the call. "What is it?"
John couldn't hear the other side of the conversation, but he watched Smith's face carefully.
"GOD, we've selected the mission parameters for you. You need to return to base and prepare for deployment."
Smith's voice was crisp and professional. "Understood. I'll be there within the hour."
He ended the call and looked at John and Winston.
"I have business to attend to. Feel free to finish your drinks—or whatever—before you leave." He glanced at Winston. "Manager Winston, please inform Charon that I'm checking out."
Then Smith turned to Fox, who was already reassembling her pistol with practiced speed. "Fox, let's move. We're going home."
Within moments, they were gone, the door clicking shut behind them.
John stood in the suddenly quiet room for a moment, then looked at Winston.
"I should go as well," John said. "I need to thank Marcus properly. He saved me at the Continental that night—the warning shots in my room gave me the chance to take down Perkins."
Winston nodded knowingly. "Marcus is a good man. One of the few left in this business with a conscience." He paused. "Though I wonder how much longer any of us can afford such luxuries."
John said nothing to that. He simply nodded to Winston and left.
The black Dodge Charger that the Continental had given him as an apology drove like a dream—powerful, responsive, predatory. John guided it through the city streets toward the old bridge where he and Marcus often met.
Marcus was already there, leaning against the railing and looking out over the water. He didn't turn as John approached, but his posture shifted slightly—acknowledgment without ceremony.
"Marcus," John said, coming to stand beside him. "Thank you. For the warning shots. For saving my life at the Continental."
Marcus finally turned to look at him, his weathered face showing a mix of exasperation and grudging fondness.
"How many more times are you going to make me save your life, John?" But there was no real heat in the words. Then his expression shifted, became more thoughtful. "Though I have to admit, you've made some very powerful friends this time."
John caught something in Marcus's tone—a carefully controlled note of disbelief.
Marcus shook his head slowly, as if trying to reconcile what he'd seen with reality. "I watched that man jump from the top of a ten-meter warehouse while carrying the woman. They landed like it was nothing. Like gravity was just a suggestion." He laughed, a short, sharp sound. "What is he, Captain America? That kind of thing shouldn't be possible."
John kept his expression neutral. He wasn't going to discuss Smith Doyle's capabilities, or the Assassin's League, or any of it. Some debts were private.
"Thank you again, Marcus. I mean it."
Marcus studied him for a long moment, then his expression softened slightly.
"You look good, John. Better than you've looked in a long time." There was genuine warmth in his voice. "I can see life in you again, instead of that dead look you had after Helen passed."
John felt something catch in his chest. Marcus was right. The grief was still there—would always be there—but it no longer consumed him. He could breathe again.
"I'm retired," John said firmly. "This time for good. This is what retired looks like for me."
Marcus's expression immediately soured. He let out a long, disappointed sigh.
"Retired," he repeated flatly. "You still believe that fairy tale?"
"Marcus—"
"John, listen to me." Marcus turned to face him fully, his voice hard with certainty. "The moment you walked back into the Continental Hotel, your retirement ended. Everyone in this world knows you're back. They saw you tear through Viggo's entire operation in one night. They know about the body count."
He stepped closer, his tone urgent now.
"You think your dispute with Viggo is private? Everyone with ears has heard about it. Every killer, every gang, every player in this city knows John Wick is active again."
Marcus gripped John's shoulder, his fingers tight.
"So whatever you're telling yourself about retirement—stop. Get your head ready for what's coming. Because your story isn't over, John. Not by a long shot."
With that, Marcus released him, shook his head one more time, and turned to leave.
The conversation left a bitter taste in John's mouth. Marcus didn't understand. This was retirement. He'd avenged Helen's memory—he'd honored Daisy. Now he could go back to his house, his solitude, his grief. He could be left alone.
Couldn't he?
What neither John nor Marcus noticed was the dark sedan parked two spaces down from John's Charger. Inside, one of Viggo's men sat with a camera, having recorded their entire conversation. His finger hovered over the send button on his phone, ready to transmit everything to Viggo Tarasov.
Ironic, really. The man had originally been sent to give Marcus a new contract—a routine job offer. Instead, he'd just captured intelligence worth far more than any contract.