The revolving door of the Ark Hotel slowly stopped, sealing off the last trace of blood from the golden lobby.
As long as it doesn't happen inside the hotel, then everything doesn't violate the rules.
Even for the assassin organizations under the High Table, the mechanism of survival of the fittest is both cruel and real.
Zhang Jie stood in the shadow of the doorway, his fingers unconsciously caressing the stack of brand-new banknotes in his pocket.
Five thousand usd, a thick wad, more than all the commissions he had taken in the past month combined.
"Thank you."
John turned around and patted his shoulder, the force was light, but it made Zhang Jie stiffen.
He didn't expect this simple action to make him so nervous; five months ago, when he picked up Daisy in the park, he was still fantasizing about becoming a top-tier expert.
"5000 usd, go get some better equipment."
Before Zhang Jie could speak, John suddenly smiled: "Consider today as me hiring you."
Morning mist condensed into fine water droplets on the glass, blurring the outline of the street.
Zhang Jie suddenly realized that John was protecting him, using the name of "hiring" to draw a clear line and prevent him from being dragged into a deeper vortex.
And his equipment indeed needed an upgrade; besides this glock 34 and the dagger given by John, everything else was... never mind, I won't talk about it, I'm a pauper!
The dull thud of a garbage truck compressing waste echoed in the distance; New York was waking up.
Winston's voice came from behind: "You should go."
The Old Gentleman's silver hair was meticulously combed, as if the bloody slaughter had never happened.
The bodies and bloodstains on the ground had already been cleaned up by the cleaners.
"Rules are rules."
"Even for John?"
"Especially for John." Winston's smile was like a mask carved on his face, "But this time... you did very well."
Not letting Iosef into the Continental Hotel was the correct choice; otherwise, Winston would have lost a friend.
Viggo Tarasov's private suite was filled with the smell of cigars and despair.
He had already checked into the Continental Hotel, gaining 24 hours of safe refuge.
The Russian paced back and forth on the Persian rug like a trapped beast, each step leaving charred cigarette butt marks on the priceless handmade fabric.
"Confirm again!" he growled into his phone, veins bulging in his neck, "All accounts? Yes, all! Including the one in Zurich!"
Outside the window, the morning light had already dyed the Hudson River red.
Viggo tore off his tie and suddenly noticed himself in the mirror; his expensive custom suit was wrinkled like a rag, and his right cuff still had his son's bloodstains.
The godfather who had dominated the Brooklyn underworld three days ago had disappeared, replaced by an old man with bloodshot eyes.
When John walked in, Viggo immediately laid out his cards: "Twenty million usd, plus the yacht in the Cayman Islands."
The folder slid across the table, "Let's resolve this peacefully, as if nothing happened."
He very straightforwardly covered all the losses, including his son.
John didn't even look.
His gaze fell on a photo on the wall: twelve-year-old Iosef holding a golden retriever in front of a Christmas tree, his smile blindingly pure.
"Do you know what the highest commission I ever received was?" John suddenly asked.
Viggo's pupils contracted: "Five million? Eight million?"
He couldn't remember.
"Thirteen million." John pulled a gold coin from his inner pocket, "The target was an arms dealer; his daughter gave it to me before I made my move."
The gold coin made a crisp sound as it landed on the solid wood table.
Viggo saw the inscription on it, "To remember that we were once human."
"But your son is worse than a dog."
John left, taking Viggo's hope with him.
The next day, ten minutes before sunrise, Viggo walked out of the Continental Hotel.
He had no choice.
Either die in the hotel, be erased from the underworld, and not even have a tombstone.
Or walk out and gamble that John would give him a quick end.
The streets of New York were empty, enveloped in morning mist.
Viggo stood in the middle of the road, taking a silver cigarette case, engraved with a double-headed eagle family crest, from his suit's inner pocket.
He leisurely took out a Cuban cigar and lit it with a pure gold lighter.
Smoke swirled in the morning light, like his soon-to-dissipate life.
"You're here."
John emerged from the morning mist, a 1911 in his hand.
His suit was still immaculate, as if the killing had never happened.
"I underestimated you."
Viggo exhaled a perfect smoke ring, his voice surprisingly calm, "I always thought assassins shouldn't have emotions."
"You're wrong." John raised his gun, "Assassins are people too."
Viggo suddenly laughed; he took off the family ring from his left pinky finger and gently placed it on the fire hydrant by the roadside: "It was meant for my son, but alas..."
Bang!
A bullet pierced his brow.
As Viggo fell backward, the cigar was still clenched in his mouth.
In his final moments of consciousness, he remembered a golden retriever his son had once kept as a child.
If he hadn't mocked Iosef for not being manly that day, would the outcome have been different?
Alas, there are no 'ifs'.
The morning breeze dispersed the gun smoke and carried away the last spark of the cigar.
The double-headed eagle ring shimmered in the morning sun, waiting for its owner who would never come to retrieve it.
When Zhang Jie pushed open the apartment door, Mrs. Schneider was sitting on his sofa counting money.
The Old Lady's false eyelashes fluttered in the morning light, like two black butterflies.
"Thirty-two minutes late." She didn't even lift her head, "Each minute is twenty usd..."
"Wait! Wasn't it ten usd before?"
"Inflation." The Old Lady righteously pulled out a brand-new bill, "Also, you're missing three cans of beer and two packs of instant noodles from your fridge..."
Zhang Jie slapped 2000 usd on the coffee table: "Is that enough?"
Mrs. Schneider's eyes immediately lit up, but then she sternly composed herself: "Barely enough to cover the interest."
She quickly counted the money, stuffed it into her handbag, then stood up, "Next time, remember to be on time, or the interest won't be just this much."
After speaking, she waddled towards the door, then looked back once she reached it, "Oh, by the way, have you gotten into any trouble recently? I've heard some rumors, someone is asking about you."
Zhang Jie's heart tightened, but his expression remained calm, "What trouble could there be? You must have misheard."
Mrs. Schneider snorted, "My ears are very sharp, you be careful."
The door slammed shut with a "bang," and the room became quiet again.
Zhang Jie rubbed his temples; he knew the trouble was definitely because of John, Viggo's death wouldn't end things, there must be greater forces stirring behind it.
He walked to the window, watching the street outside gradually become lively, silently pondering what to do next.
But his mind started flashing back to some small fragments; dead memories were suddenly attacking him?
On the beach, looking at Lisa in a bikini?
Hmm, it should be her, right?
But she looked a bit different, though he couldn't quite pinpoint how.
From this memory, it seemed their relationship was quite good.
They said some things, which looked a bit serious.
The next memory was of the two of them kissing passionately in the room... the few remaining clothes fell off one by one, flying to where they belonged... Damn, Lisa's figure is truly amazing!
The memory ended there, Zhang Jie shook his aching head, his mind full of milk... bah!
His mind was full of: what exactly happened?
It felt like watching a silent movie in color, with a buzzing tinnitus in his ears.
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