Chapter 56 — A Price Increase?
Rayne Clinic.
It was almost closing time. The late-afternoon sunlight softened, laying a warm golden edge over everything it touched.
Ethan was finishing his last cupcake, but his eyes kept drifting—quietly, carefully—toward the man not far away.
John Wick.
He was adjusting his wife's scarf, buttoning her coat for her, every movement deliberate and almost painfully gentle.
A man who could take down dozens without hesitation, whose hands never shook when pulling a trigger—yet now looked as tense as if he were defusing a bomb, just fastening a button.
Helen took a few steps forward on her own. Her gait was still unsteady, but she could hold herself upright now. A faint flush had finally returned to her face.
John watched her as if she were the only treasure left in the world.
Then his gaze shifted—to Ethan.
The young doctor who had just performed a miracle was now scraping the last bit of frosting from a paper cupcake with a fork.
The contrast was so stark that even someone like John Wick—who had seen everything—felt a strange sense of absurdity stir in his chest.
"Doctor," John finally broke the silence. His voice was still low, but the tension had eased considerably. "How should I thank you?"
Ethan licked the frosting off his fingertip and turned around.
"One hundred thousand dollars."
John paused for a beat. "One hundred thousand?"
"Mm. Pay it in full next time you come for treatment. Installments are fine."
John stared at him—like someone looking at a man who had just sunk an aircraft carrier with a nuclear strike, then casually asked for two bags of fries in return.
"You cured an illness that defeated every other doctor," John said slowly. "And you're only charging one hundred thousand?"
Ethan nodded. "This is just a small private clinic. I can't price myself too high."
John Wick shook his head, very slowly, very seriously.
"That's too low."
"You saved her. That price isn't fair—to you." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "Before I walked into this clinic, I was prepared to trade everything I have for a miracle."
Ethan nodded to himself internally.
Even the big boss thinks it's cheap. Good—my pricing strategy really is customer-friendly.
"Let's keep it at that," Ethan said calmly, tossing out what he thought was a decent joke. "I run on a people-friendly pricing model."
John Wick didn't smile.
But when he looked at Ethan again, there was something different in his eyes.
After a few seconds of silence—long enough to feel like a decision had been made—he spoke again.
"Doctor," John said quietly, "this may be our first meeting, but I'd like to speak to you… sincerely."
Ethan shrugged. "Sure. Say whatever you want. I'm happy to hear any suggestions."
As a rule of thumb, a man who truly loves his wife rarely turns out to be irredeemable.
They stepped out of the treatment room, leaving Helen inside.
The door closed softly, sealing off every sound from within.
John glanced through the narrow slats of the blinds, watching his wife's movements for a moment—then turned back to Ethan.
"Believe me," John said quietly, with absolute seriousness, "right now, no one cares more about your life than I do."
"I want to see you standing here again next week."
The easy smile on Ethan's face froze.
"…What do you mean by that?" he asked. "I'm in excellent health."
"It's not your body," John replied, stepping closer, his gaze flicking toward the clinic's reception counter.
"It's your pricing. That's what's going to kill you."
Ethan frowned. He didn't understand.
"Have you ever heard of the High Table?" John asked.
"…Or the Continental Hotel?"
Ethan shook his head.
"The High Table is a council formed by the most powerful crime families, organizations, and leaders across the world. They are the true rulers of the underworld."
"And the Continental," he continued, "is their executor here in New York."
John paused, then spoke more deliberately.
"I suggest you cooperate with them."
"Doctor," he said, his eyes darkening, "if you were sitting in the Continental's underground medical facility—wearing a white coat, guarded by armed security—providing this same service to the elders of the High Table… do you know what the starting price would be?"
Ethan leaned in slightly, curious despite himself.
"How much?"
John answered calmly.
"Ten High Table coins. At minimum."
"Ten… coins?" Ethan blinked. The unit itself sounded surreal.
"One coin," John explained, "can hire a crew to dispose of a body perfectly. Or buy a full day of guaranteed safety at the Continental."
Seeing Ethan still processing it, he added flatly,
"Five coins can end a life."
Ethan sucked in a breath.
"So your base price is… two human lives?"
John nodded.
"Because this isn't just treatment. It's respect—for life itself."
"At the High Table, ending a confirmed target costs five coins. Saving someone already sentenced to death is worth ten times that. That's the rule. That's… balance."
"My wife," John continued, "was personally diagnosed by the High Table's chief physician—'Virus' Smith."
"He told us exactly what you did: incurable. One week at most."
Ethan nodded. "Then he's not incompetent."
John didn't smile.
"Smith charges eighty thousand dollars in cash—just to prescribe a pain-relief cocktail. That's without using coins."
Ethan blurted out, "That's highway robbery."
"And you," John said quietly, "are curing diseases that every other doctor has abandoned."
"This won't stay secret. Soon, everyone in that world will know that there's a doctor named Ethan Rayne who charges one hundred thousand dollars to do what they couldn't achieve with millions."
He paused, letting the weight of that sink in.
"Have you considered how Smith will feel?"
"You won't just prove him wrong. You'll turn his pricing into a joke. Doctor—cutting off someone's livelihood is dangerous anywhere. In that world, it's a direct invitation to death."
Ethan nodded slowly. He had thought about medical conglomerates—but not this.
John pressed on, his voice colder now.
"And what about the people who paid Smith?"
"The elders. The family heads. People who sit above power and wealth."
"They paid unimaginable prices just to survive."
"And now they'll discover that a street-corner clinic can do the same thing—better—for pocket change."
"Do you think they'll thank you?"
He leaned forward slightly, voice dropping to a warning whisper.
"No. They'll feel humiliated. Offended."
"In your cheap 'miracle,' their power and money become meaningless."
"That kind of discomfort gets washed away with blood—so their world can keep its sense of 'dignity.'"
"They won't come asking for your help."
"They'll make it impossible for you to refuse."
"Your clinic will disappear."
"And you'll stay alive—but I guarantee it won't be the kind of life you want."
Ethan clenched his fist without realizing it.
John straightened.
"Doctor, underpricing isn't a virtue here."
"It's a threat."
"To your peers, it's provocation.
To the powerful, it's insult."
"It breaks the rules that keep this world functioning."
He met Ethan's eyes and delivered his final, sincere advice:
"Raise your prices."
"Raise them until they feel reasonable. Until 'expensive' feels natural."
"Make them believe this is an exclusive service—one ordinary people can't touch."
"Common injuries: one coin. That's the entry threshold."
"You can treat them better: ten coins."
"Only you can cure it?"
"Never charge less than fifty."
"That won't just protect your clinic."
"It will protect your life."