May quickly covered Peter's eyes.
The fried chicken shop clerk, for reasons unknown, dropped his gun and began rolling on the ground in terror. The scene was bizarre and unsettling.
"There is a strange creature called a Boggart," John explained calmly. "It reveals the thing you fear most in your heart."
To put it simply, it was an illusion.
John blinked, and the darkness in his pupils faded back to normal.
As Witch King, he needed special methods. This was a technique he had learned from the Boggart, extremely effective for interrogation and punishment. There was a time when wizards were called evil for such things.
The clerk soon fell silent, fainting from overwhelming fear. John picked up a piece of fried chicken and took a thoughtful bite.
He nodded, commenting like a food critic, "For a bomber, he really got the heat just right."
May could not begin to figure out who John really was or how he could eat so calmly after what had just happened. In her eyes, this man was utterly mysterious.
"Is he dead?" May asked uncertainly.
"No, just fainted from extreme fear," John replied.
With a chicken leg in one hand, John said in a tempting tone, "That hundred million is now ownerless. Do you have any thoughts about it?"
He habitually used money as bait to test people.
A hundred million? Only then did May remember she was still sitting on a fortune. Given her family's current situation, that money could change their lives.
But May was unmoved. She replied matter-of-factly, "We want the police to arrest him."
John smiled, setting down the drumstick. "You really are a kind person. Well then, eat up and get ready for the next stop."
"I think little Peter is hungry too."
Peter's eyes were already locked on the fried chicken, so May could only let him eat his fill.
Over their meal, they talked about Hell's Kitchen. May, now John's guide to New York, helped this man, who had not set foot in the Muggle world for ten years, quickly get up to speed.
Hell's Kitchen, as the clerk had mentioned, was the most chaotic place in New York. Even the police avoided it after dark. It was a haven for criminals, addicts, and gangs, where any crime could happen. In the heart of prosperous New York, Hell's Kitchen was a place of misery. Such contrasts were part of the city's unique diversity.
The clerk had mentioned a man named Simon. May thought for a moment—she had heard that name before.
"That's not someone you want to mess with," May said. She was not a gang member and did not come from Hell's Kitchen. Her home was in Queens, a world away from that place.
John nodded, taking just one more bite of chicken before stopping. The fried chicken and nuggets disappeared quickly; May and Peter were truly hungry.
It was odd, though—it should have been busy at this hour, but since they had entered, no other customers had come in.
John had quietly cast a Muggle-Repelling Charm. Anyone approaching would suddenly remember something urgent and leave or simply not notice the shop at all. This allowed them to enjoy their meal in peace.
John had learned enough. There were not enough clues in Hell's Kitchen during the day, so he planned to go there at night. For now, he would let May and Peter have a proper meal, send them home, and then use the Memory Charm. Nothing more would happen today, or so he hoped.
John's plan was simple, but plans rarely survive contact with reality.
He had no intention of continuing to supervise the clerk, so he led May and Peter out of the shop, hailed a taxi, and sent them home.
As soon as he saw them safely to their building, police sirens wailed nearby.
John was promptly taken to the police station.
Sitting across from the detective, John sighed helplessly. "My car was bombed. You did not arrest the person who did it, but you brought me in instead?"
"We need you to assist with the investigation," the FBI agent said seriously. John looked around the interrogation room, hardly feeling like he was being "assisted." It felt more like being treated as a suspect.
"Can you explain why you did not call the police after your car exploded?" the detective pressed. They were thorough, even if the questions seemed odd.
John leaned back in his chair, answering calmly, "I was hungry."
The detective was stunned. "What does that have to do with not calling the police?"
"I was hungry, so I went to eat fried chicken," John said innocently. "Is that so strange?"
A million-dollar sports car is bombed, and your first reaction is to eat fried chicken? It sounded like something only the extremely rich would do.
The agent frowned, tapping his fingers on the table. "Be serious."
"I still need you to answer a question," the detective said, fixing John with a sharp look. "As far as we know, this car is not in your name."
"It's my father's," John replied in a relaxed tone, understanding that they were not after him for no reason.
"Watson Wick is your father?" The agent's frown deepened. The Wick family did have a son, according to their records, but this son was so low-profile he was almost invisible. That alone made him suspicious.
Yet John's documents were all in order, which left the detective deep in thought.
As their main surveillance target, the team had mobilized quickly after the car bombing. They had hoped to find Watson Wick, but instead fished out his son. Most importantly, they knew almost nothing about John.
The silent detective finally spoke. "As his son, you should know where your father is."
"I am going to disappoint you," John replied. "My father never tells me his itinerary."
John knew they had only been drawn out because of his father's car, but he had no use for these people at the moment. His answer was intentionally unhelpful.
The agent wanted to press further, but John was not interested in staying.
"I am not calling my lawyer, so can I leave?" John's attitude was pure second-generation rich kid.
But the FBI had no real reason to hold him. American lawyers were notoriously difficult to deal with.
They could only watch him go.
"Keep an eye on him. Those people will not let him go," the detective instructed his team.
After leaving the police station, John first considered erasing memories but changed his mind. He hailed a taxi and headed elsewhere.
The taxi entered Manhattan.
John got out in front of a magnificent hotel.
The clientele here were unusual—most wore black, and the suited guests looked more like they were arriving for work than for leisure.
John approached the front desk. The man there, with dark skin and a bald head, was nothing like the gangsters John had encountered. He wore a crisp suit and gold-rimmed glasses, exuding meticulous professionalism.
"Hello, what can I do for you?" the receptionist asked, smiling without showing his teeth.
John took a gold coin from his pocket and slid it across the counter. "I need some information."
The receptionist saw the coin, then gently pushed it back. "The bar is the place for that," he replied with a smile.
John retrieved the coin and took the elevator down.
The bar was not the kind of place for wild drunkenness but a quiet, elegant spot for a refined drink.
At the bar, a woman was shaking a cocktail mixer.
"I want to know about Simon," John said.
The woman poured a glass from the shaker and handed it to him.
John took a sip. "Be more specific."
"You are a stranger," the bartender replied, raising an eyebrow. "We do not do business with strangers."
"How about this?" John produced two more gold coins and slid them over. "I am sincere."
She considered, then took the coins. "Wait a moment."
She wrote "Simon" on a slip of paper, placed it in a capsule, and sent it through a pneumatic tube. After a short wait, a new capsule dropped down. She opened it and handed the contents to John.
"You would be wise not to get involved with him," she advised.
"You are the second person to tell me that," John replied, taking the clue and rising to leave.
In the elevator, he opened the note and read the address. He shook his head. "Dad's organization really is profitable."
This was his father's hotel chain.
There is always a dark side to the light in this world. The white side is orderly, but to manage the chaos of the black side, someone must establish order there. John's father was that person. He had set up rules and systems to keep the underworld stable.
It was John's first time experiencing the hotel's services. If not for the FBI's visit, he might have forgotten his father's other talents. He had found the gold coins at home—his father was not always careful about hiding things.
After leaving the hotel, John saw the sky growing dark. He was preparing to head to Hell's Kitchen. If nothing else, Simon was likely connected to the Ten Rings gang—a gangster leader allied with terrorists. It was a strange combination, and John wondered what their goal was in targeting his father.
He would find answers tonight.
John tried to hail a taxi, but when drivers heard he was headed to Hell's Kitchen, they refused, one after another. If he were not worried about being spotted while flying on a broomstick, he would have taken to the sky.
In the end, he had to find another way.
Meanwhile, the bald man who had survived John's pencil attack was reliving his traumatic day in his car. Once an ambitious New York gangster, he was now so frightened he nearly wet himself. It was a huge blow to his self-esteem, making him question his own manhood. He cursed and pounded the steering wheel, trying to shake off the humiliation.
"Your mouth is really dirty," a voice said suddenly.
The bald man started to curse, then froze. The voice was familiar.
He turned and saw the face that haunted his nightmares—John, smiling and waving outside the window.
"Would you mind taking me to Hell's Kitchen?" John asked. "Honestly, I do not know the way."
The bald man's legs went weak. He wanted to run, but he could not.