After assigning everyone their tasks, Shiranui Hayate stood by the window, watching the horizon. The sky was darkening rapidly, a storm brewing in more ways than one.
"The heavens are about to change," he murmured.
He opened his system interface to perform his daily check-in.
Ding! Check-in successful. You have received 200 Reputation points!
Would you like to recharge to VIP4 to claim double rewards?
Hayate clicked the 'X' without hesitation, closing the interface. He began to calculate. In this operation to save John Wick, how could he extract the absolute maximum profit?
On the other side of the city.
The once clear sky was suddenly swallowed by roiling black clouds. John Wick, his body battered and bleeding, led his dog onto the crowded streets. He could feel the eyes—countless pairs of them—tracking his every move with predatory greed.
He checked his watch. Excommunicado would take effect at 6:00 PM. He had exactly one hour.
He thought of the note in his pocket and Winston's advice. He knew where he needed to go. But out of a life-long habit of caution, he made a detour to the New York Public Library. He had a cache there—gold coins and a specific item that could buy him a way out of the country if things went south.
A Ruska Roma ticket.
He couldn't afford to let the Shiranui Agency be his only exit. Fourteen million dollars was a staggering sum, enough to turn even the most loyal ally into a traitor.
The rain began to pour, a cold and sudden deluge. John hailed a taxi. "New York Public Library."
"You got it," the driver replied, glancing in the rearview mirror.
The car moved quickly for a few blocks before grinding to a halt. The heavy rain had turned the city into a gridlock of honking horns and frustrated drivers. John looked at his sleeve, checking the time again. His window of safety was shrinking. Once the hour was up, every person on these streets could become an enemy.
He pulled a gold Continental coin from his pocket and leaned forward, handing it to the driver. "Change of plans."
The driver turned, his eyes widening slightly as he saw the coin. He recognized the man in the backseat.
"Take the dog to the Continental. Give the coin to the front desk. Can you do that?"
The driver nodded solemnly. "Of course, Mr. Wick."
John stroked the dog's head, whispering, "Good boy... stay." Then, he pushed open the door and vanished into the rain, sprinting toward the library.
Dozens of eyes watched him run. They remained still for now, bound by the iron laws of the Continental. But they were like wolves waiting for a clock to strike midnight.
At the Continental, Charon opened the car door for Winston.
As they walked into the lobby, Charon spoke softly. "I truly hope Mr. Wick manages to escape."
Winston adjusted his lapels. "He broke the rules, Charon. He killed a man on these grounds."
"Do you think he has a chance?" Charon asked.
Winston stopped and looked at his concierge. "There is a fourteen-million-dollar bounty on his head. Every killer in this city wants a piece of it."
"I'd say he has a fifty-percent chance. And that is only if he reaches Shiranui Hayate and secures his help."
Charon was puzzled. "Only fifty percent?"
In Charon's mind, Hayate was a force of nature. After the slaughter outside the hotel a few days ago, no sane assassin would dare challenge him. If Hayate chose to protect John, the survival rate should be one hundred percent.
Winston smiled thinly. "Fifty percent, Charon. A fifty-percent chance that Hayate kills John himself to claim the bounty, and a fifty-percent chance that he helps him."
"John Wick is technically 'worthless' now. Does Shiranui Hayate value the promise of a Blood Marker, or the cold reality of fourteen million dollars?"
"It all depends on the choice Hayate makes."
With that, Winston turned and headed upstairs, leaving Charon standing alone in thought.
John reached the library, soaking wet and gasping for air. He hurried to the service desk.
"Russian Folk Tales. Alexander Afanasyev. 1864."
The librarian looked up, checking the logs. John glanced at his watch. The hour wasn't up yet.
The librarian scribbled a note and handed it to him. "Second floor."
"Thank you."
John ran to the stacks. He found the book, tore open the hidden compartment, and revealed his emergency stash: a photo of his late wife, five gold coins, and the Roma ticket.
He placed the photo on the shelf for a moment, pocketing the coins and the ticket. Then, he picked up the photo, looked at it with a profound, aching longing, kissed it, and sealed it back inside the book.
"Reflect on why God created you," a deep voice rumbled from the shadows.
A giant of a man, over seven feet tall, stepped into the aisle holding a book. "Not to live like brutes, but to pursue virtue and knowledge."
He showed the cover to John. "Dante."
John placed his book back on the shelf, his eyes narrowing. "Ernest. The clock hasn't run out yet."
Ernest didn't move. "It's close enough. Who's going to know the exact second you died?"
John's face turned grim. "Are you sure you want to do this?"
Ernest's eyes glittered with greed. "Fourteen million. That's a lot of money, John."
"No," John rasped. "First, you have to live to spend it."
Ernest didn't hesitate. He pulled a short blade from his coat and lunged. John grabbed a heavy book from the shelf, using it as a shield, and the two slammed into each other, the quiet of the library shattered by the sound of a desperate struggle.