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"How do you plan to make sure you won't die?"
"You wouldn't believe me if I just told you," Morin said calmly.
"So I'll let time prove it instead."
"So, Mr. Wick," Morin continued, "why do you want to quit?"
"I..." Wick hesitated. "Because of someone."
"A man, or a woman?" Morin smiled.
"Alright. A woman. Love. Not bad. That's one of the few emotions powerful enough to make people face death. I'll drink to that."
"Are you really a psychologist?" Wick asked, suspicious.
He hadn't answered Morin directly, but Morin had already drawn a conclusion.
Wick, of course, had no idea Morin was cheating.
"A little," Morin said. "Just a hobby. Looks like I guessed right again."
"You did," Wick admitted.
"Meeting her made me realize there were other... more meaningful things in this world."
"Then for now, our goals overlap," Morin concluded.
"We both want to oppose the hotel."
"What I want isn't as hard as what you want," Wick said, shaking his head.
"I just want out."
"That's enough," Morin chuckled.
"What kind of conditions do you think they'll give you?"
"If it were me," Morin continued, "I'd give you an impossible mission. One that gets you killed."
"That way it's justified, and the Continental Hotel keeps its dignity. So do I."
"...So what do you want to do?" Wick asked.
Morin's reasoning was solid.
Based on Wick's understanding of those people, it was exactly something they'd do.
"I think you already know," Morin raised his glass toward him.
"I want to invite you to join the Templars."
"I don't see a reason to," Wick replied, unmoving.
"You're strong, but compared to what you're trying to do, it's still not enough. Not even close."
"This is just a preliminary agreement," Morin said, his hand still extended.
"A sign that you're willing to consider it."
"You can decide after I show you enough strength," he continued.
"But for now, I need an answer. Otherwise, you're not worth my time."
"...You're very confident," Wick said. "Why?"
"Because when something reaches its extreme, it reverses," Morin replied evenly.
"When darkness peaks, light follows."
"I'm the Templar who will bring that light back."
"You sound like a religious fanatic," Wick sighed.
"But..." he paused.
"Who says I'm not about to do something only a madman would try?"
The glasses clinked, sharp and clear.
...
The Fraternity of Assassins.
Carlos stepped into a hidden chamber.
He wasn't supposed to be here.
Only Sloan, the leader of the Fraternity, was permitted entry.
But rules meant little to an Assassin Master.
To Cross Carlos, this was trivial.
He came here looking for an answer.
"Fate..." Carlos murmured, staring at the massive loom at the center of the room.
The Loom of Fate.
The Fraternity's inheritance for thousands of years.
Kill one to save a thousand.
The creed every assassin believed in.
They believed in fate.
In the list the loom provided.
In the righteousness of their actions.
"But when fate is controlled by humans..." Carlos stepped closer, gently brushing the threads.
The hand that once held a gun moved carefully, reverently.
"Are you still Fate?" he asked softly.
"Or have you become a tool for selfish desires?"
He stopped.
After a long silence, Carlos spoke again.
"If you are still Fate, then guide me."
"Tell me-who is the true enemy of the Fraternity of Assassins?"
His words faded like a breeze across the threads.
Nothing happened.
Disappointed, Carlos turned to leave.
Click.
The faint sound froze him in place.
Slowly, trembling, he turned back.
Click. Click.
The sound continued.
The bobbin.
The shaft.
The rollers.
All of them began moving.
No power source.
Under Carlos's gaze, the Loom of Fate activated itself, weaving a strip of fabric.
He approached carefully, cut the thread, and placed it beneath a microscope.
1, 0, 1, 0...
The binary patterns aligned in his mind, assembling into meaning.
Finally-
"Sloan..."
A sigh echoed through the room, then vanished.
Anger.
Regret.
And relief.
...
"So," Morin said slowly, "my words reminded you of certain details, you went to the Loom, and it answered you?"
He was genuinely baffled.
Morin had always known the Loom of Fate was special.
Anything passed down for thousands of years by assassins had to be.
But weaving on its own?
Without power?
Magic?
Or something closer to actual fate?
Ideas surfaced rapidly in his mind.
Still, he didn't lose composure.
At most, it was surprising.
He had seen plenty of things that defied science.
What people called unscientific was often just science beyond current understanding.
The idea that the end of science resembles theology wasn't wrong.
At that level, it naturally appeared godlike.
"Yes," Carlos said, unaware of Morin's thoughts.
"I deciphered the code."
"It gave me Sloan's name."