New York Continental: The Safe Zone
The black Dodge Viper pulled to a silent stop outside the gleaming, neoclassical facade of the Continental Hotel New York. Smith and Fox exited the car and walked with an assured, predatory grace toward the heavy bronze doors.
At the entrance, the immaculately dressed doorman accepted two pristine Continental Hotel gold coins—currency that spoke volumes in this hidden world—before granting them passage.
Once inside the hushed, opulent lobby, Smith did not pause to admire the artwork or the crystal chandeliers. He steered Fox directly toward the less-trafficked, heavily guarded path leading to the underground bar.
At the mahogany front desk, Charon, the stoic concierge, watched their progress. The instant they were out of sight, he picked up the phone.
"Manager Winston," Charon's voice was a low, steady rumble. "Smith, the individual you asked me to monitor, has arrived at our hotel with Ms. Fox and is now heading towards the bar area."
The voice on the other end was clipped and weary. "Okay, I get it."
Charon hung up the phone and murmured, a touch of dark humor escaping him: "Fortunately, I have food and lodging secured here. I wouldn't want to be the one on the outside right now."
In his upper-floor office, Winston rubbed his temples, a sigh escaping his lips. "Why, out of all the places in New York, are these two guys here?"
Winston, a man who survived by understanding every shift in the wind of the assassin world, ran through the possibilities. "Could those fanatics from the Assassin's League be planning to breach my sanctuary? Or is it simply that some poor, unlucky wretch has incurred the personal wrath of this Smith Doyle?"
As the manager of the New York Continental, Winston maintained a cautious understanding of the League of Assassins. Eighteen years ago, they were an unpredictable, quasi-mythological threat, known for their seemingly random, fate-dictated hits. Then, their entire doctrine had shifted. Now, they were the world's most effective and terrifying vigilantes, specializing in neutralizing individuals who had committed demonstrable evil or were steeped in deep, unpunished sin. New York's criminal element had been decimated by their sudden, righteous zeal.
Winston had personally reported the League's activities to the High Table, but the response was tepid: a single Judge was dispatched for a brief meeting, and then they left, granting the League a chilling sort of tacit approval. Winston knew the old whispers: that the League had once been offered a seat on the High Table itself, only to refuse.
What truly irritated Winston was that many of his registered member-killers were victims of the League's outside operations. Smith Doyle, who was visiting today, had an especially bloody reputation for neutralizing black killers in particular—a clear preference that the League, surprisingly, had catered to by ceasing all recruitment of African Americans.
Still, as long as the bloodshed remained outside his walls, the hotel's neutrality held. He quickened his pace, deciding to meet the trouble head-on.
The Bar and the Blacklist
Downstairs, after paying an additional two gold coins as the requisite intelligence fee, Smith and Fox entered the dimly lit, smoke-hazed underground bar.
The moment the two men appeared, the killers inside, who were usually focused on their drinks and hushed conversations, intentionally and unintentionally glanced their way. Killing was strictly forbidden in the Continental, but the bar was the primary intelligence zone, and instinct always demanded a quick assessment of new arrivals.
Upon recognizing Smith Doyle, a significant portion of the crowd relaxed, some even raising their glasses in a polite, professional acknowledgment.
However, several of the black assassins immediately exhibited physical discomfort. They either turned their backs, hurriedly stood up and walked toward the bathroom, or pulled their hats low over their faces, attempting to melt into the shadows.
Fox took in the sudden, palpable shift in the atmosphere and whispered to Smith: "You're practically a hunter assassin, Smith. Look how you've scared those black killers out of their wits."
Smith smiled faintly, taking a seat at the bar. "Isn't it our sworn duty to cleanse the world of its filth, one filthy individual at a time?" he replied, his tone casual yet utterly serious.
Fox nodded in earnest agreement. In this world, the distinction between good and bad was a blurry line defined by currency and contract, but Smith's focus on the genuinely evil made their work, in his eyes, a righteous endeavor. Still, he couldn't deny Smith's intense personal focus on African American targets.
Smith addressed Eddie, the bartender, a man whose face held the secrets of a thousand whispered contracts. "Two Thundering Bourbons."
After expertly pouring a measure of whiskey for each of them, Eddie slid the drinks over and leaned in, a world-weary smile on his face. "Smith, our business seems to take a hit every time you grace us with a visit."
"I expect they're currently sending out mass text messages to every other African American killer, advising them to avoid the Continental for the next 48 hours."
Smith merely shrugged. "Actually, I wish they would all come to the Continental quickly. After all, killing is strictly prohibited here, right?"
Eddie smiled, entirely unconvinced. "If they come here for refuge, I'm afraid you'll simply memorize their faces and find a better opportunity outside." He got straight to business. "How can I help you today? The entrance fee covers intelligence."
Smith pulled out a folded piece of paper and, with a quick sketch, drew a perfect sphere containing four stars—the Four-Star Dragon Ball. He slid it across the bar. "If anyone comes here asking about an object resembling this—a crystal ball with stars inside, or anything even remotely similar—let him know I'd like to speak with him."
Eddie picked up the paper, his expression briefly flickering with confusion at the bizarre request. "A crystal ball with stars on it, eh? Very well. I see."
As Eddie tucked the paper away, Fox leaned over, his curiosity piqued. "What exactly is that? And what about the good show you promised?"
Just as Smith was about to answer, a smooth, cultivated voice interrupted them.
Winston had arrived. He extended a warm, but measured, greeting. "Mr. Smith. Ms. Fox."
Smith raised his glass in acknowledgment. "Manager Winston, long time no see."
Fox echoed the courtesy: "Mr. Winston."
Winston snapped his fingers, and Eddie immediately came over. "Eddie, get out my bottle of 1972 Macallan whiskey. I want to treat Smith and Fox to a drink."
Hearing the vintage, Smith raised an eyebrow. "Winston, this vintage of Macallan isn't cheap."
Winston's smile was knowing. "No matter how expensive a wine is, its true value lies in its being drunk. Besides, good wine goes well with heroes. This little gesture is nothing to the two of you."
Soon, Eddie returned and placed three glasses of the amber whiskey in front of them.
Smith picked up the glass, inhaled the rich, peaty scent, took a sip, and paused. "This vintage is quite good. Though I've always heard the 1926 is the undisputed king."
Winston chuckled. "That 1926 Macallan is almost mythical, difficult to find, and at its current price, even I wouldn't be willing to part with it."
Smith conceded the point. It was true that the legendary bottle could fetch upwards of $200 million and was a collector's dream.
Winston then shifted the topic to the reason he was here, his voice hardening slightly. "Operating platforms like ours—zones of neutrality—shouldn't fall within the Assassin's League's scope of attack. So, Smith, you and your partner aren't here to break the fundamental rules of my hotel, correct?"
Smith looked directly at Winston, offering a slight, disarming shrug. "You don't seriously think the two of us are here to take down the New York Continental? As for the rules of this fine establishment, I think they are excellent."
Winston smiled, satisfied with the reassurance, however fragile. "Thank you."
It was then that Fox, glancing at the constant stream of text messages scrolling across the electronic ticker tape that ran around the bar's upper edge—the pulse of the underworld's information network—suddenly went still.
"The Continental Hotel just released a new contract," Fox stated, his voice tight with surprise. "A bounty worth a clean $200 million." He looked sharply at Smith. "Smith, this isn't what you call lively, is it?"