Aftermath at the Red Circle Club
The battle inside the Red Circle Club was essentially over. Smith and Fox, positioned nearby, had witnessed the entirety of the carnage with their own eyes. The sheer brutality and efficiency of the legendary assassin were on full display.
Back in the sleek black car, Smith looked at Fox, his expression one of calm assessment. "He killed 31 people, including four executed solely with a dagger in close quarters. How do you feel about the Night Demon now?"
Fox glanced in the rearview mirror at the fleeing car of Iosef Tarasov, a touch of regret in her voice. "He was decisive and utterly brutal, utilizing the Mozambique shooting method—two shots to the chest, one to the head. He left no one alive who tried to stop him."
She continued, a flicker of her own assassin pride showing. "Although he killed quite a few, his true target should have been the guy who just escaped, Tarasov's son. He let him slip away."
Smith nodded. Fox's analysis was spot on, both recognizing the devastating skill and pointing out the failure to achieve the primary objective.
"Let's go," Smith said, starting the car. "We've seen his strength. We've seen the level of commitment. Let's head back to the Continental Hotel."
Fox pressed the accelerator, and the Viper shot into the night. At that moment, the bloodied John Wick emerged from the club, his body injured and moving with exhausted purpose, while Iosef was already speeding away.
The Rules Are Meant to Be Broken
Hours passed slowly.
John Wick returned to the Continental Hotel, received swift, professional medical attention from the hotel doctor, and retreated to the supposed sanctuary of Room 818 to rest.
Because the old textile factory—the League's headquarters—was directly adjacent to the Continental, the sound of John Wick's door opening and closing was audibly loud in Smith Doyle's adjacent room, 819. Smith knew the Night Demon had returned.
Sure enough, within a few minutes, the distinct, muffled sounds of a vicious struggle erupted from the next room.
Fox, who had been resting, sat up from the bed with a jerk, her training kicking in instantly. She quickly put on her clothes and grabbed her sidearm. "It seems that not everyone adheres to the rules of the Continental Hotel," she observed grimly. "If I remember correctly, that's John Wick's room."
Smith smiled, completely relaxed. He could already 'see' the fight in his mind—the stealth attack by the female assassin Perkins, and John Wick's struggle. He knew that if John's friend, the driver, had not fired a warning shot outside the hotel to distract her, Perkins might have successfully executed the ambush.
"Rules are meant to be broken," Smith said calmly, his eyes reflecting the glow of the city lights outside. "But the premise is always that you can afford the cost of breaking the rules."
Fox gave a tight, lethal smile. "It seems someone is about to be in a lot of trouble. Clearly, the one who broke the rules should pay the price." She listened to the continued chaos next door. "With such a big commotion, I think some guests have already notified the Continental management."
But after a moment, the sound of fighting abruptly stopped. John Wick was victorious.
Smith Doyle opened his door, stepping into the hallway. He looked down at Perkins, who was now struggling to crawl away, incapacitated.
"It seems she is a person who drastically overestimated her own abilities," Smith remarked to Fox.
John Wick emerged from his room, having just finished a quick call to the hotel's cleanup service. He grabbed Perkins from behind, put a gun to her head, and quickly extracted the information he needed about Viggo's movements.
After knocking Perkins unconscious with the butt of his gun, John Wick looked up and saw Smith standing there.
"Smith," John said, his gaze hard, but his tone suddenly pragmatic. "Can you help me take care of this sleeping guest?"
"I'm willing to pay a gold coin to see her handed over to the Continental Hotel at dawn," he added. "You know, killing is not allowed in Continental Hotels."
Smith laughed at the serious application of the very rule that had just been broken. "Bring her in with you," he invited, stepping aside. "I have something important to tell you."
John Wick nodded, immediately recognizing the shift in priority. He quickly returned to his room and retrieved a pair of handcuffs and a Continental Hotel gold coin.
Perkins was handcuffed behind her back, secured to a heavy chair inside Room 819, and the single gold coin was placed on the table for safekeeping.
Once the temporary prisoner was secured, Smith addressed Fox. "Fox, please pour John a glass of bourbon. He's earned it."
Fox walked over, picked up the bottle, poured a generous measure, and handed it to John Wick, then stood aside, her expression neutral, intensely curious about the conversation that would follow.
John Wick walked forward, picked up the glass, and drank the whiskey in one controlled gulp.
"This wine is good," John noted, the burn a welcome distraction. "Charon also recommended this brand to me."
Smith Doyle smiled and nodded. "John Wick, your personal business is not yet complete." Smith then looked at him with gravity. "But before you continue, I need to know what your wish is."
Hearing Smith Doyle mention his wish—the unspoken, sacred hope that had driven him back to the world of violence—John Wick set the empty glass down and said seriously:
"My wish..."
He paused for a pregnant second, his eyes reflecting a deep well of pain and love, then continued: "I hope to resurrect my dead wife, Helen."
Smith Doyle knew that John Wick was not lying; the raw sincerity was impossible to fake. Yet, he still looked at him seriously for three seconds, ensuring the truth held. "OK. I believe you are not lying at this moment."
Fox, completely confused, maintained a calm, professional expression. She had no context for "wish" or "resurrection."
The Sacred Object Revealed
"The Assassin's League is an organization that has been passed down for over a thousand years," Smith began, his voice taking on a formal, almost priestly tone. "And the Dragon Balls are the sacred object at the heart of our organization."
"What you currently possess is one of the seven Dragon Balls. Once you find all seven, you can summon the Dragon and make a single wish to it."
John Wick nodded. The confirmation of the power was terrifyingly real. "Sounds a bit like Aladdin's lamp," he noted dryly, the assassin's practicality overriding the wonder.
Smith dismissed the parallel with a wave of his hand. "That was just a storybook that the bard modified after hearing confused rumors about the Dragon Balls."
John Wick was surprised by the unexpected answer, but he returned to the question that had plagued him since the basement. "Since the Dragon Balls are the sacred objects of your organization, why was one in my home?"
Smith explained the cosmic cycle. "After a wish is granted, the Dragon Balls automatically disperse, flying to different corners of the world. They hide their bodies and revert to an unassuming stone form, then return to their original, crystalline appearance after a set period of time."
He then delivered the League's true doctrine. "And we in the Assassin's League will not completely lock the Dragon Balls away. Instead, after a destined person comes into contact with one, we will observe that person and understand their core desires."
"If this person passes the League's observation—if their heart's desires are not filled with selfishness and destruction—then the Assassin's League will actively guide them to find the remaining Dragon Balls."
John Wick nodded slowly. The situation was starting to make chilling sense.
"What if this person's desires are evil and full of selfish intent?" John asked, his voice dark, already knowing the answer. "What will you do then?"
Smith Doyle leaned back, his eyes narrowing. "What do you, the assassin community, think of us, the Assassin's League?"
John Wick considered the legend: The League never accepts paid contracts, yet people and forces inexplicably die at their hands. He understood the chilling implication. It wasn't the High Table that condemned them—it was the Assassin's League's cosmic test.
No wonder there is no legend of the Dragon Balls in the outside world, John realized with a cold shudder. All the people who learned of them and failed the test have already been quietly killed.