The New York Continental Hotel stood in Lower Manhattan, positioned at the center of a Y-shaped intersection. It was a distinctive triangular building.
Its main entrance sat at the sharp point of the triangle, making the frontage relatively narrow.
A uniformed bellhop stood just inside the doorway. Given his imposing physique, he looked less like hotel staff and more like nightclub security.
The entrance had long since been upgraded to automatic doors, eliminating the need for a bellhop to constantly open and close them.
Though that removed one source of tips, such small money likely meant little to Continental personnel anyway.
Henry was an unfamiliar face at the New York Continental, but he walked in with complete composure.
He gave the bellhop a slight nod as he passed.
Everything about his manner appeared perfectly natural.
For a moment, the doorman found himself wondering whether this scruffy, heavily bearded man with absurdly long hair was actually an old acquaintance in disguise.
The Continental prohibited business transactions inside its walls, certainly.
But there were no rules against assassins wearing disguises.
Arriving at the front desk, Henry found himself greeted by a handsome Black concierge with a refined and scholarly demeanor.
Although Henry was clearly a new face, the concierge didn't immediately launch into explanations about the hotel's membership policies.
He seemed to already know who Henry was.
The concierge greeted him warmly.
"Good afternoon, sir. How may I assist you?"
Though he had likely guessed Henry's identity, he deliberately chose not to reveal that fact.
The subtlety of the approach was impeccably judged.
After all, if someone immediately addressed you by name upon your first meeting, any assassin operating in the world's shadows would naturally wonder what other information—or leverage—that person possessed.
Reducing that sense of threat was a very wise move.
Instead of leading with a gold coin this time, Henry placed the invitation on the counter and slid it forward.
"Earlier today, Mr. John Wick delivered this invitation to me. Where should I go to meet its sender?"
The concierge opened the invitation and verified its contents.
Then he said:
"Mr. Brown, we've been expecting you.
"Please follow me to the manager's office, where you'll meet the hotel's proprietor, Mr. Winston Scott."
"Lead the way."
The concierge handed desk duties to another employee and personally escorted Henry deeper into the New York Continental.
The old building still retained the architectural style of the first half of the twentieth century—a period when Americans lacked confidence in their own emerging culture and eagerly borrowed from European aristocratic traditions.
Ornate carvings.
Luxurious carpets adorned with beautiful patterns.
Paintings in the style of nineteenth-century Impressionism.
All of these elements were displayed in harmonious balance.
The place never felt like a nouveau riche display of wealth.
Instead, it gave the impression that beautiful things naturally belonged in a place like this—where they could be used and appreciated.
Ordinarily, the antiques and antique-style furnishings here would be extraordinarily valuable.
The overall style was only slightly more restrained than French Rococo.
Yet somehow, when everything was assembled together, the atmosphere felt understated.
The taste on display perfectly reflected the philosophy and temperament of the establishment's owner.
Compared to the Continental in Los Angeles, the New York branch was noticeably more reserved.
The manager's office was effectively the stronghold of the Continental's ruler.
It was a grand room with soaring ceilings.
The numerous bookshelves and their collections made the place resemble a private library.
Whether those books had actually been read or merely served as decoration was another question.
Yet despite its elegance, the room was not particularly comfortable.
It carried a subtle sense of pressure.
Especially because of the mezzanine level.
Every bookshelf stretched all the way to the ceiling, making visitors feel as though they stood surrounded by giants.
Compared to the owner of the room, one could not help but feel small.
Winston Scott was an elderly gentleman with the bearing of an English aristocrat.
He appeared to be in his fifties or sixties.
His neatly styled short curls and striking facial features made him difficult to forget.
As soon as he saw his guest enter, Winston rose to greet him.
After the two men had approached within proper conversational distance, the concierge made the introductions.
"Sir, this is Mr. Henry Brown, who has come at your invitation."
Then he turned toward Henry.
"This is Mr. Winston Scott, manager of the New York Continental Hotel and the gentleman who invited you here."
"Pleasure to meet you."
"The honor is mine."
The two men shook hands and exchanged polite greetings.
After leading his guest to the seating area, Winston asked:
"Wine? Or whisky?"
"Wine, thank you.
"To be honest, I'm not particularly fond of the taste of hard liquor."
The concierge immediately served them.
Whisky for Winston.
Wine for Henry.
Strictly speaking, stating what one disliked in response to a courteous offer was mildly impolite.
Yet Henry said it anyway.
It was a subtle way of establishing his position.
He was no longer a contract killer—a disposable tool the hotel could manipulate at will.
Whether Winston picked up on the implication or not, he merely swirled the whisky in his glass and asked naturally:
"Why don't you like hard liquor?
"The rich aroma and the intensity on the palate can be quite stimulating in moderation.
"As long as one doesn't drink to the point of unconsciousness or incoherent rambling, don't you think this is truly the water of life for a man, Mr. Brown?"
Henry lifted his wineglass.
He swirled it gently and inhaled the bouquet with the practiced ease of someone tasting fine wine.
His elegant manner was every bit as polished as Winston's.
Smiling faintly, he replied:
"In Russia, the water of life is vodka.
"And you yourself said that moderate drinking is a good thing.
"But once you cross the line, people start babbling nonsense—or pass out entirely.
"How many people truly understand where that line is?
"How many know when to stop?"
He paused.
"Although I'm not actually opposed to hard liquor.
"My issue is simply that it draws too much attention.
"To me, alcohol is merely a beverage.
"With a meal, it complements the food.
"In conversation, it enhances the atmosphere.
"On a hot day, it refreshes and cools.
"Wine should be a supporting character—not the protagonist.
"But once hard liquor appears, it tends to become the center of everything.
"Everything else fades into the background.
"And that feels like a waste."
Henry took another small sip.
"Besides, you called it the water of life for men.
"The moment liquor becomes a measure of pride or masculinity, drinking it loses its meaning.
"At that point, people are no longer drinking because they enjoy it.
"They're drinking merely to win an argument."
Winston's gaze sharpened.
The implication behind his question was no longer subtle.
In fact, it was nearly direct.
"Is that your attitude toward this world as well, Mr. Brown?"
Henry sampled the expensive wine again.
He hadn't seen the label, nor did he know the price.
But the richness and complexity expected from a truly exceptional vintage were unmistakable.
Only after considering the flavor did he respond.
"Charlie Fisher in Los Angeles—I don't know whether you've met him before.
"He once told me that if I ever had the chance to leave, I should leave.
"Because this isn't exactly a good place."
Henry leaned back slightly.
"The people who end up on this side of the stage usually do so because they couldn't shine on the front side.
"So they come to the shadows in search of an opportunity.
"As for me…"
He smiled.
"I managed to become the CEO of a mid-sized film studio.
"Granted, I've resigned now.
"But that's still preferable to conducting business in dark alleyways, isn't it?"
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