Sofia stared at the marker for a long moment, then pushed it back across the table toward John.
"No."
Her meaning was clear: she didn't want to be even with John Wick. She wanted all debts canceled, all connections severed. No more ties. No more obligations. No more chances for him to pull her back into the violence she'd tried to escape.
John was silent for two long seconds. He understood. He didn't have many friends, even fewer who'd risk their lives for him. He'd just lost another one.
Sofia reached for an ornate wooden box on the side table. She opened it, revealing a two-star Dragon Ball nestled on yellow silk.
She turned the box to face him. "This what you're after?"
John studied the sphere. "The Two-Star Ball."
"I didn't even know it was called until recently. Figured out the naming convention from the stars inside." Sofia's eyes narrowed. "You're willing to burn a blood oath marker for this thing. That tells me it's not just some collector's item. What's the secret?"
John remained silent.
Sofia pushed the box closer. "Take it."
John lifted the Dragon Ball from its case, turning it over in his palm. The two red stars seemed to float inside the orange crystalline sphere, catching the lamplight. It felt identical to the others he'd collected, perfectly smooth, slightly warm to the touch, impossibly light for its size.
"Yes. This is what I need."
"Then satisfy my curiosity." Sofia leaned back, arms crossed. "What does it actually do?"
John met her eyes, his expression grave. "Sofia, it's not that I won't tell you. It's that knowing the truth will bring you trouble. Dangerous trouble. The kind that gets people killed."
Sofia studied his face. She'd known John long enough to read his tells. He wasn't exaggerating for effect. Whatever secret these Dragon Balls held, it was significant enough that the knowledge alone posed a lethal threat.
In John's mind, telling Sofia would expose her to the Fraternity's scrutiny. If she failed their tests or chose not to join them, they'd eliminate her. And beyond that, she'd become a target for anyone hunting the Dragon Balls.
"Sofia." His voice softened slightly. "What's your greatest wish?"
The question caught her off guard. "What?"
"Your wish. What do you want most in the world?"
She didn't need to think about it. "I want my daughter to be safe. That's all I've ever wanted."
John knew exactly how the High Table controlled people like Sofia, through loved ones held hostage by implied threat. He'd helped extract and hide her daughter years ago. But as long as the High Table existed, Sofia could never see her child again. One meeting, one traced phone call, and the High Table would find the girl.
The only real danger to Sofia's daughter was the High Table.
Considering the Fraternity's plans, John allowed himself a faint smile. "I believe your wish will come true. Soon."
Before Sofia could ask what he meant, John opened the marker case and pricked his finger on the ornate clasp. He pressed his bloodied thumbprint on the opposite side of Sofia's, sealing a new oath.
He closed it and handed it to her.
He turned and walked toward the door.
Sofia stood frozen, turning the marker over in her hands. She knew exactly what threatened her daughter. And John had just implied, no, practically promised, that the High Table itself would fall.
How? How could he possibly have that kind of confidence? The High Table was eternal, untouchable, absolute.
Wasn't it?
New York – Belarusian Theater
The Director watched her dancers rehearse, their movements fluid and precise. She didn't notice the three figures entering from the wings until they were already on stage.
Zero and his two students moved like ghosts, silent, efficient, deadly. They'd eliminated the security personnel backstage without a sound. By the time The Director registered their presence, it was too late to run.
She raised one hand. "Stop."
The music died. The dancers froze mid-movement.
The Adjudicator emerged from the shadows behind The Director's seat and walked onto the stage.
The Director's expression hardened. She understood immediately. "Clear the stage," she ordered.
Her students fled, casting terrified glances back at their teacher.
The Director remained seated as the Adjudicator approached. "There is an accord between the High Table and the The Ruska Roma. One that has stood for decades."
"True," the Adjudicator agreed. "But you helped John Wick."
"He had a ticket. An ancient right that predates, "
"The ticket is not above the High Table. Nothing is above the High Table." The Adjudicator's tone was final, absolute. "Your transgression will be paid in blood. Now extend your hands and pledge your service."
The Director knew she couldn't refuse. Defying the High Table meant death, not just for her, but for every member of her tribe. The protection they'd enjoyed for generations would evaporate.
She stood slowly and placed her palms together, then extended both hands toward the Adjudicator.
"I have served the High Table," she said, voice steady despite what was coming. "I will continue to serve."
Zero stepped forward with a tanto blade. He drove it through both of The Director's palms in one smooth motion.
The Director gasped but didn't scream. Blood ran down her wrists and dripped onto the stage floor.
The Adjudicator examined the wound with clinical detachment, then turned and walked away, Zero and his students following like shadows.
The Director sank back into her chair, cradling her pierced hands, blood pooling in her lap.
Moroccan Desert
John left the Continental in a stolen jeep, driving east as the city lights faded behind him. By dawn, he'd reached the desert's edge, an endless sea of sand stretching to the horizon.
He abandoned the vehicle and checked his supplies. Water. The Dragon Balls. A compass. Nothing else mattered.
He looked up at the rising sun, oriented himself toward Orion's constellation, and began walking.
Three days later, rain pounded New York City.
The Bowery King sat alone on his rooftop among the pigeon coops, soaked to the skin, stroking one bird with mechanical motions. The Adjudicator's enforcers stood around him in a loose perimeter, silent sentries ensuring he didn't try to run.
Below, in the warren of tunnels and rooms that comprised his empire, a massacre was taking place.
Zero moved through the Bowery King's forces like death incarnate. His blade flashed in the dim light, once, twice, three times, and men fell. His students followed his example, cutting down anyone who raised a weapon.
Guns proved useless. The moment someone drew, Zero or one of his apprentices was already moving, closing the distance, driving steel through vital organs. The Bowery King's soldiers had numbers but no skill, no training, no chance.
Within an hour, the garrison was silent. Bodies littered the floors.
On the rooftop, the Bowery King watched the Adjudicator approach with an umbrella. He stood, walked toward her with heavy steps, and forced the words out.
"All right. You've made your point." His voice was hollow, defeated. "You have my loyalty."
He'd spent the past seven days trying to save himself. Called in favors, reached out to old allies, offered bribes. No one would help him. No one wanted to break the High Table's rules for a street king with a pigeon fetish.
And he had no way to reach the Elders directly, no connections that high up the chain.
So he surrendered. Because surrender was better than annihilation.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Writing takes time, coffee, and a lot of love.If you'd like to support my work, join me at [email protected]/GoldenGaruda You'll get early access to over 50 chapters, selection on new series, and the satisfaction of knowing your support directly fuels more stories.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~