The Streets of New York
Smith and Fox followed at a discreet distance as John Wick left the park. The sky had darkened ominously, heavy clouds rolling in like a physical manifestation of the storm about to break over the city.
A killer stepped into John's path, young, ambitious, calculating. "John. You've got less than an hour. How about I pay you one million for those two Balls you're carrying? Quick transaction, everyone wins."
John's expression didn't change. "Not for sale."
The killer tried again, adjusting his approach. "Then at least tell me what they're worth. In exchange, I won't touch you for the full hour. Call it professional courtesy."
John understood the trap immediately. The moment he revealed the Dragon Balls' power, their ability to grant wishes, to resurrect the dead, he'd be signing his own death warrant. The bounty would skyrocket. Every organization in the world would hunt him.
"If you want to die," John said flatly, "come find me in an hour."
The killer shrugged and stepped aside. He'd tried. The Dragon Balls were becoming legendary, John's obsession with them, Santino's previous attempt to look for the other, and now rumors of black market counterfeiters trying to replicate them despite having never seen the originals.
Only John Wick knew the truth.
And John intended to keep it that way.
Rain began falling, first as scattered drops, then as a torrential downpour. John hailed a taxi quickly.
"New York Public Library, Fifth Avenue," John ordered, sliding into the back seat.
The driver glanced at him in the rearview mirror, saw the intensity in his eyes, and wisely didn't ask questions. "Sure thing."
But within minutes, they hit traffic. Rush hour combined with the sudden storm had turned the streets into a parking lot. Cars honked uselessly. Nothing moved.
John checked his watch. Forty-two minutes remaining.
Behind them, several cars back, Fox held an umbrella and watched the gridlock develop. "Bad luck. There's an accident blocking the intersection ahead."
"Or good planning," Smith corrected. "Someone deliberately created a traffic jam. Can't let John take a car, he'd cover too much ground too quickly. An hour is plenty of time to cross the city by vehicle."
"So they're forcing him to go on foot," Fox realized.
In the taxi, John came to the same conclusion. He threw cash at the driver and stepped out into the rain.
Then he ran.
Every killer on the street watched him pass. Their eyes tracked his movement like wolves watching wounded prey. But no one moved. Not yet. The hour of grace hadn't expired.
Rules were rules.
Even in their world.
New York Public Library
John burst through the library doors, dripping water across the marble floor. He went straight to the information desk.
"Russian Folk Tales by Alexander Afanasyev, 1864 edition," he said, slightly breathless.
The librarian, an older woman who'd clearly seen enough not to ask questions, consulted her computer. She wrote a location on a slip of paper and handed it to him.
"Second floor. Eastern section."
John took the stairs two at a time.
Fox and Smith entered the library moments later, water beading off their coats. Fox looked around, confused.
"Why here? Shouldn't he be heading straight for the textile factory? What could possibly be in a library that helps him survive?"
"Resources he stashed before retiring," Smith said, watching John disappear up the stairs. "Every professional has emergency caches. Weapons, money, identification. Seems John put his in a book."
He checked his Scouter, scanning the power levels throughout the building. "Want to make a bet on whether someone breaks the hour rule?"
Fox surveyed the library patrons, most of whom were assassins in disguise. "You said it yourself: people die for money. Birds die for food. Someone's going to get impatient."
"Exactly," Smith agreed. "John Wick isn't the first person to kill on Continental grounds. Perkins did it. Someone here will too."
The Continental Hotel
Charon drove Winston back to the hotel through the rain. Once inside, the concierge allowed himself to speak freely.
"I truly hope Mr. Wick makes it out safely."
Winston adjusted his collar, his expression unreadable. "Charon, he committed a crime with full knowledge of the consequences. He killed someone in the hotel. In front of witnesses."
"But do you think he can escape?" Charon pressed.
Winston paused at the bottom of the stairs. "There's a twenty-million-dollar bounty on him. Plus two million for the Dragon Balls. Every assassin in New York is salivating. His chances of survival are fifty-fifty at best."
He started climbing. "And that's only if he reaches his destination and receives protection."
"Where?" Charon asked, genuinely puzzled. "Everywhere in the city is covered by the Continental network. Where could he possibly go?"
Winston stopped and looked back, a slight smile on his lips. "Smith Doyle promised to protect John Wick, if he can reach the Fraternity headquarters alive."
Charon's eyes widened. "The... what?"
"A force that rivals the High Table," Winston said simply. "If John makes it there, he survives. If he doesn't, he dies on the streets."
He continued up the stairs, leaving Charon standing frozen in the lobby, mind reeling at the implications.
An organization that could rival the High Table? And Smith Doyle commanded that kind of power?
Charon made a mental note to be even more polite to Mr. Doyle in the future.
Library - Second Floor
John found the book quickly worn leather binding, yellowed pages, exactly where he'd left it years ago. He pulled it from the shelf and opened it carefully.
Inside the hollowed-out interior: a photograph of Helen, five Continental gold coins, and a small medallion marked with unfamiliar symbols.
A marker. But not a blood oath, something else. Something older.
John pocketed the coins and the medallion, then picked up Helen's photograph. Her smile looked out at him from frozen time, reminding him why he was doing this.
"Soon," he whispered to the image. "We'll be together again soon."
He kissed the photo gently, then placed it back inside the book. He couldn't carry it with him, too much risk of damage. Better to leave it here, in this sanctuary of knowledge, waiting for his return.
Footsteps echoed through the stacks.
Heavy footsteps.
A figure emerged from between the shelves, a massive man, easily over six and a half feet tall, built like a professional wrestler. He carried a book, reading as he walked.
"Consider why God created you," the giant said conversationally, his accent thick with something Eastern European. "Not to live as animals, but to pursue virtue and knowledge."
He showed John the book's cover, Dante's Inferno. "From the Canto of Ulysses. Appropriate, no?"