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The Adjudicator sat still in the back seat.
After several more gunshots, all of her subordinates collapsed to the ground.
Each one had been shot cleanly through the forehead.
A moment later.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
The Adjudicator turned her head.
Her cold gaze landed on the man knocking on the car window.
She recognized him immediately.
Morin.
The same man from the file she had reviewed on the way here.
Morin gestured for her to step out, then took a few steps back.
"Do you know what you've done?" the Adjudicator asked as she exited the car.
"I do."
"Do you know what you're facing?"
"I do."
"Then why?" Her voice carried clear disbelief. "There's no record of you taking a protection contract for Eric through the Continental."
"You accepted a private job and chose to oppose the High Table?"
"It seems you never considered why I would do this," Morin said calmly.
"Of course not," the Adjudicator shook her head. "According to your file, you had no prior connection to the High Table."
"You applied as an assassin. You passed the test. Everything was normal."
"I can't find your motive."
"That only means your files are incomplete," Morin smiled faintly.
"You know my name, so I'll be straightforward."
"I'll spare your life."
"Go back and deliver a message to the Elder of the High Table."
"The Templar Knights have returned."
"And wherever the rules are broken-"
Morin snapped his fingers.
Gunshots echoed from within the corporate building.
"-that is where the Templar Knights will appear."
The Knights arrive wherever the rules are broken.
"You're just letting her go?" Wick asked, watching the Adjudicator walk away.
"When armies clash, you don't kill the messenger," Morin said.
"Besides, this place is remote."
"Look at her. No money. No weapon. High heels."
"With all due respect, the walk back will be torture."
"In a situation like this, you're thinking about something that petty?" Wick stared at him.
"Can't abandon the character I've built," Morin chuckled.
"I can't kill her outright."
"But a little suffering to knock her down a peg is fine, right?"
"She tried to act tough in front of me. What did she expect?"
"Now that you've gone this far..." Wick sighed.
"Are we ready?"
"Relax," Morin replied. "Mobilization takes time."
"By the time they react, we'll have the capital to fight back."
"It's not a big issue."
"Even with the New York Continental and assassins turning into Templars," Wick said seriously, "this still feels far from enough."
"Morin, I trust you're not relying on just this."
"What's your real trump card?"
"Of course," Morin said. "It comes from-"
His phone rang.
Seeing the name, Morin smiled slightly.
"Speak of the devil."
-
Gilbreth was an ordinary police officer.
No one knew why he became one.
Or rather, those who knew chose not to speak.
Years ago, his family had been comfortably middle-class.
His father owned several factories.
Then came a business rivalry.
When his father's competitor failed through legal means, they chose another path.
They placed a bounty.
At the Continental Hotel.
What followed didn't need explanation.
Those competitors later became affiliates of the High Table.
They lost their autonomy.
But to Gilbreth, that was nowhere near enough.
His father was dead.
His family was destroyed.
And his enemies were still alive.
All they had paid was a bounty.
Then they became the High Table's dogs.
This was one reason the High Table terrified nations.
Bounties weren't free.
To place one, you first acknowledged the High Table's authority.
And then you submitted.
The High Table didn't rise on assassins alone.
Through this system, it bound nearly every major underground force together.
A massive network radiating outward.
Even inside governments, many had become puppets.
That was why no government had dared touch the High Table for so many years.
It wasn't just fear of death.
It was the unbearable cost.
Gilbreth only learned the truth after joining the police.
After he wanted revenge.
His superior discouraged him.
That was when Gilbreth understood how naĆÆve he had been.
Was he supposed to just accept it?
So he waited.
Hatred with nowhere to go slowly accumulated.
Especially as he saw more cases like his own.
He was smart.
He didn't burn himself like a moth.
That would achieve nothing.
Just a flicker swallowed by a storm.
He waited.
Because opportunities came eventually.
And now-
"What... what happened here?" Gilbreth asked his partner.
"This..." his partner hesitated.
Assassin incidents were normally handled by the Vulture organization.
But this time-
No one came.
The bodies were left behind.
Under pressure, the police were sent in.
When Gilbreth saw the scene, he froze.
Bodies everywhere wasn't an exaggeration.
More importantly-
Every assassin had been killed with a shot to the forehead.
And each body bore a cross.
"Is this some new trick by Continental assassins?" his partner scoffed. "What, feeling guilty? Using crosses to wash their sins?"
"No," Gilbreth shook his head. "They don't need that."
"And the Vultures didn't come."
"Doesn't that strike you as strange?"
"So what?" his partner snorted. "They're dead. That's all that matters."
"Come on. Help me load them."
"If the Vultures won't clean up, we will."
"...Alright," Gilbreth replied.
Together, they lifted a body into the rented truck.
"Hurry up! There's more!" his partner shouted.
"Coming!" Gilbreth answered.
But his eyes were still on the cross.
Something felt wrong.
"Gilbreth!" his partner called again.
"I'm coming!"
Gilbreth took a few steps.
Then turned back.
Ignoring the blood, he picked up the cross and slipped it into his pocket.
Then he walked toward his partner.
As his partner said-
There was still a lot of work to do.