New York.
Lower Manhattan.
In a filthy, chaotic alley overflowing with trash and rats,
a heavyset Black beggar curled up in a corner, not daring to move.
Just a short distance away, by a dumpster,
a few gang enforcers were dumping a corpse.
They shoved the blood-soaked black bag inside while cursing under their breath:
"Damn! This alley stinks like hell."
"Well, maybe stop dumping bodies here every time. Look at the rats—they're so fat from all your feeding, they can barely waddle."
"Shit! You're disgusting, man!"
"Disgusting now? Why didn't you tell him to take it easy when Night Demon was the one doing the killing?"
The last remark was enough to silence them instantly.
As if they'd spoken a forbidden name, the men quickly abandoned the corpse and fled the alley.
No sooner had they gone, the beggar scrambled out of hiding.
He clawed open the sticky cloth bag, hands rummaging through the dead man's pockets.
Finally, at the victim's severed finger, he found a gold ring.
With no hesitation, the beggar snapped it off.
He glanced nervously around, then bolted from the alley.
Behind him, the rats squealed, swarming eagerly over the corpse.
…
Just one street away, inside the kitchen of the Saint Dianne Strip Club—
A man covered in ancient tattoos was slicing into a bloody steak.
Beside the meat lay a severed finger, its blood dripping down the cutting board onto the floor.
Thok—! Thok—! Thok—!
The pan sizzled as he lit the flame, brushed on butter, and dropped the bloody steak into the skillet.
Calmly wiping his hands, he turned toward the doorway,
where a man in a tailored suit stood silently, watching.
"So," the tattooed man finally said, voice cold,
"your New York branch gets wiped out, and suddenly you come crawling to me—the so-called traitor of the Camorra?"
"Mr. Night Demon, you may have left the Camorra, but the blood of the family still runs in your veins. The Don promises: if you eliminate Alex, your betrayal will be forgiven. You'll be welcomed back."
"Ha!" Night Demon sneered. "Family, huh? If Alex hadn't struck first, I'd have destroyed that pathetic New York branch myself sooner or later."
"Night Demon! The family came with sincerity—"
The suited man frowned but stood his ground, not cowed, though a flicker of disgust crossed his face.
Night Demon chuckled darkly again.
He flipped the steak, letting it sear.
"Sincerity? I already control half of New York. I want for nothing. What can your 'family' possibly offer me?"
"If you let Alex grow unchecked, he will eventually come for your share of the city. That's inevitable."
The words hit their mark.
Night Demon paused mid-motion, the spatula hovering over the pan.
At last, he plated the half-cooked steak.
Then, with deliberate cruelty, he placed the severed finger squarely on top.
He slid the dish across the counter, grinning:
"Eat this clean, every last bite… and then we'll talk about what 'sincerity' the Camorra has to offer a traitor like me."
The man froze.
He had just watched Night Demon pin someone to the cutting board, chop off the finger, and slit the throat.
Even without the finger, there was no way he could stomach that steak.
…
Santos Club.
8 p.m.
John Wick had completed his contract with Alex.
Without delay, he pulled Caine upstairs, dragging two stools over to the half-demolished bar.
They grabbed a few surviving bottles of liquor, drinking and swapping stories of their past lives.
"John, you should step away from the work. Give yourself a real vacation."
"A vacation?"
"That's right. Hit Las Vegas, gamble a little. Or Hawaii—sun, ocean, no bloodshed. Stop drowning yourself in this assassin's life."
"Now that you mention it… there is somewhere I suddenly want to see."
Caine's words stirred something in John Wick.
For the first time in years, he felt maybe—just maybe—it was time to rest.
Meanwhile, beneath their feet, in the underground training hall—
Anna was at the range, working on her shooting.
Not her usual style this time.
She was practicing the Mozambique Drill—the technique John Wick had taught her.
Nearby, Duggan silently assembled a sniper rifle.
And Alex himself sat calmly at the shooting range entrance,
chair pulled up, eyes scanning the system's marketplace as Susie and Margarita finished reporting the day's spoils.
"Mr. Alex, the two severely injured assassins have been treated by the doctor. All bodies at the hotel have been incinerated. Excluding the vault profits, the tally is: $940,000 cash, 307 gold coins…"
"Mr. Alex, as for weapons: 11 sniper rifles with 937 rounds, 74 M4A1 assault rifles with 9,796 rounds, 168 MP5K submachine guns with 16,734 rounds…"
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