Wesley escorted John Wick to the recovery room, leaving Smith alone with the dossier Fox had compiled.
Smith spread the documents across his desk, the pages fanning out like a map of the underworld. Each sheet detailed one of the twelve seats of the High Table, the secret council that governed the global network of assassins and crime syndicates. Mr.X's intelligence network had done its work well; every symbol, ledger, and codename was cross-referenced with surgical precision.
Camorra. The Russian Bratva. The Triads. The Yakuza. Names whispered in back alleys and bloodied boardrooms alike. Together with eight others, they formed the invisible spine of the criminal world, an empire older than most nations.
Yet for all the data spread before him, the heart of the machine remained hidden. Each lead circled back to ghost accounts, shell corporations, and decoy facilities. Every supposed headquarters was nothing more than another mirage, another layer of misdirection crafted to keep the High Table untouchable.
Destroying the High Table wouldn't be as simple as assassinating twelve old men. These weren't just leaders, they were dynasties. Kill one Elder, and the bloodline would simply produce another heir to take the seat. No, the entire structure had to come down. All twelve families needed to be eradicated simultaneously, root and branch.
Difficult, but not impossible.
The textile factory might appear modest, with only a handful of visible operatives, but this was merely the headquarters. The Fraternity had survived for over a millennium by maintaining branches across the globe, hidden cells, sleeper agents, entire networks of trained killers loyal to the Fraternity's ancient cause.
With his current combat power and the forces at his disposal, Smith could orchestrate a coordinated strike across multiple continents. Three main assault teams, perhaps. Surgical strikes against the families while John Wick made the pilgrimage to Casablanca to deal with the Elder hiding in the Moroccan desert.
But there was a more pressing concern.
Smith closed the folder and rubbed his temples. His training had hit a wall.
The next day, Smith spent hours on the training grounds, pushing himself through combat drills and meditation exercises. The results were frustrating.
Weeks had passed since he'd acquired Yamcha's abilities and bloodline from the system, yet he still couldn't sense ki. The energy that should flow naturally through a Dragon Ball Earth human's body remained completely beyond his perception. Without proper instruction, without someone like Master Roshi or Kami to guide him, awakening that potential would take years of trial and error.
He needed to get more draw. John Wick need to get his wish.
And beyond that, the Marvel universe's timeline was advancing. The big events were coming.
John Wick needed to move faster.
Smith grabbed a bottle of bourbon from his office and headed for the recovery room.
John Wick floated in the wax bath, his entire body encased except for his face. The moment Smith's footsteps echoed in the doorway, John's eyes snapped open, alert despite his immobilized state.
He tried to speak, but the wax around his jaw cracked and shifted, muffling his words into incoherent sounds. "Mmph, mmm!"
"Easy, John." Smith approached and began carefully clearing the hardened wax from John's face. "How are you feeling?"
John worked his jaw experimentally as more wax flaked away. "Better. Much better. The pain's almost gone." He swallowed, grimacing. "Thirsty, though."
Some of the wax had fallen into his mouth. Smith finished cleaning his face and uncapped the bourbon, pouring a small measure into a glass.
"Here. Drink."
He held the glass to John's lips. John drank gratefully, the whiskey burning down his throat.
"Thank you. Bourbon, good choice." He glanced at the amber liquid, then at the wax encasing his body. "What is this stuff, anyway? This wax bath?"
Smith set the bottle aside and settled into a chair next to the recovery tank. "It stimulates white blood cell production and accelerates tissue regeneration. Bruises, lacerations, even fractured bones, they heal in hours instead of weeks."
John's eyes widened. "That's... that's incredible." He shook his head in disbelief. "The Continental has nothing like this. Nothing even close."
The implications were staggering. This was the kind of resource that explained how an organization could survive for a thousand years, technology or techniques that gave them an insurmountable advantage over their enemies.
Smith shrugged. "Don't get too excited. It only works on external trauma. A bullet to the heart or brain? You're still dead. But eventually, if things go well, you'll see equipment that makes this look primitive."
He was thinking of Senzu Beans, mystical legumes that could heal any injury short of death in seconds. Or the healing pods used by Frieza's forces. Those were the real treasures hidden in the Dragon Ball universe.
John didn't look disappointed in the slightest. "This is already perfect. If word got out about wax baths like this, every killer and crime lord on the planet would go to war to possess it."
"Which is why it stays secret." Smith stood, finishing his own glass of bourbon. "When the wax melts, clean yourself up and meet me in the conference room. We need to discuss your next assignment."
He left John to his recovery.
Continental Hotel, New York
A black Mercedes pulled to a smooth stop outside the hotel's entrance. The rear door opened, and a woman stepped out.
She was tall with a severe crew cut and dressed entirely in black. Black coat, black boots, black gloves. Even her fingernails were lacquered black. She carried a sleek briefcase and moved with the cold precision of a surgeon approaching an operating table.
The doorman didn't greet her. Something about her presence made people instinctively step aside.
She walked directly to the front desk.
Charon looked up and offered his standard professional smile. "Welcome to the Continental. How may I assist you?"
Without a word, the woman withdrew a gold coin from her pocket, not the standard currency of the Continental, but something else. She placed it on the marble counter and slid it forward with two fingers.
Charon's smile vanished. He picked up the coin, examined both sides carefully, and set it back down. His hand moved to the telephone.
"Sir," he said when the line connected, "an Adjudicator wishes to see you."
He replaced the receiver and addressed the woman with newfound formality. "The manager is in the lounge."
The Adjudicator reclaimed her coin without comment and strode toward the lounge, her boot heels clicking against the polished floor.
Winston stood when she entered, hands clasped behind his back.
"I assume you're here about John Wick. If so, we can keep this brief." He gestured dismissively. "I told him to leave. He refused. That's the situation in its entirety."
The Adjudicator stopped three feet away, her expression unreadable.
"Mr. Wick broke the rules."
"Yes," Winston agreed.
"I have no idea where he, "
"You misunderstand." Her voice was cold, clipped. "I'm not here for Mr. Wick. I'm here because Mr. Wick broke the rules inside this hotel. His blood was spilled on Continental grounds."
Winston's jaw tightened. "Yes."
The weight of that single word hung in the air between them.