Late at night.
The rain hadn't stopped.
Inside the San Dian Strip Club.
On the table sat a bottle of vodka, bandages for staunching blood, scissors, and disinfectant…
Gulp! Gulp!
The Night Demon grabbed the vodka, chugged deeply, then slumped onto the sofa, staring at the bandages wrapped around his right hand.
In his mind, the near-death moment at the airport still echoed vividly.
"Damn it… if I wasn't tough enough, I'd have been finished there today. The Camorra family really is a bunch of useless trash…"
Snapping back to the present, he cursed bitterly.
Before he could continue, several figures rushed into the room.
One of them, a small-time leader from the Vietnamese gang, stammered nervously:
"Sir… it's bad! The Giselle Crew, the Deli Gang, the Hadro Organization, and even that traitor Viggo's men have teamed up. Uptown, Midtown, Downtown—they're all in chaos!"
The Night Demon turned his head, glaring with venom.
"You idiots! Do I really need to spell it out? Send men to stabilize the streets!"
The outburst silenced them instantly.
Finally, one of the sharper ones spoke up carefully:
"Sir, we've already deployed people. We should be getting word back soon…"
"Hmph. And what about that bastard Viggo? Found him yet?"
"…No news yet."
"Useless!"
The Night Demon roared, his right hand clenching instinctively. The movement pressed against his wound, sending sharp pain through him.
Snarling, he grabbed the bottle again. Gulp! Gulp! Another heavy swig.
Then—Crash!
He hurled the bottle across the room. It smashed against one man's forehead with brutal force.
Blood gushed instantly.
"Ahhh—!"
The man screamed in agony, driving the Night Demon into a deeper rage.
Bang!
A single gunshot ended the man's suffering.
Coldly, the Night Demon waved a hand, signaling the others to drag the corpse away.
He rose, walked to the liquor cabinet, and pulled out another bottle of vodka.
Just as he uncapped it, his phone rang.
Still holding the bottle, he answered.
A voice came through the line:
"Night Demon, it's Santino. Word is, that bastard Alex has gotten himself entangled with the High Table…"
"So what? Your father and sister couldn't solve that problem. You think you—an exile—have something better to offer?"
Unimpressed, the Night Demon poured himself a glass and leaned casually against the bar, sneering.
Santino ignored the insult, continuing smoothly:
"I've already sent Ares to New York. When Alex is busy fending off the High Table's special enforcers, you and Ares can use the chaos to finish him off for me."
The Night Demon had no reason to refuse.
The High Table might have dispatched their special squad, but after today's airport fiasco, he'd seen the truth: Alex had powerful allies—Anna, the woman who wounded him; the male assassin who slashed his palm; and of course, John Wick and Caine.
Four top-level killers.
While on his side—only himself.
Clearly not enough.
If a fool wanted to throw men into the fire, he wouldn't complain.
"Doesn't matter… even if you hadn't said anything, the High Table would've dragged me into this fight anyway."
Meanwhile.
Across the street from the San Dian Club, in a filthy, rain-soaked back alley.
The constant downpour masked the stench.
A group of men carried the corpse of the unlucky victim—killed minutes earlier—and dumped it carelessly onto a trash heap.
Without a word, they turned and walked toward the street corner to wait for a ride.
From the shadows, a homeless Black man, wrapped in a rain tarp, crept toward the body. His hands fumbled over the corpse, searching for valuables.
But he never noticed the man who appeared silently behind him.
John Wick, dressed sharply in a suit, stepped into the alley.
His eyes instantly caught the vagrant rifling through the dead.
In his earpiece, Duggan's calm voice warned:
"Better to silence him. The men who just left are still waiting at the corner. If this guy bolts, he'll draw their attention. And if a gunshot goes off, the Night Demon will know."
"Yeah…" Wick replied simply.
He drew a tactical knife from behind his back.
Silent as a shadow, he slipped up behind the vagrant.
One hand clamped over the man's mouth.
The blade flashed across his throat in a swift, practiced motion.
The body dropped. Wick moved on without a glance, striding toward the alley's exit.
Behind him, the wounded vagrant clawed at his throat, glaring after Wick's fading silhouette.
Somehow, he held on—long enough to stumble away into the darkness, bleeding, but alive.
That night seared into his memory.
Soon after, he would found a new power in the underworld—
Bowery King's network.
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