Chapter 90 — A Front Desk Is Needed
The storm had just passed.
The air by the Brooklyn docks felt heavy, like it had been pressed down by oil—cold, damp, and thick enough to make breathing laborious.
A wrecked SUV sat by the roadside, white smoke curling from its hood.
The door burst open from the inside.
A hand—slick with blood and rain—gripped the edge.
John Wick dragged himself out.
He stood upright.
But his body looked like it had been taken apart and hastily put back together—
Misaligned joints. Stiff movements. Every motion weighed down with strain.
He checked his injuries.
The worst was the stab wound in his abdomen.
Viggo's final strike had been precise—too precise. It hit the upper right side, likely grazing the liver.
Blood mixed with rainwater streamed down his waist like a dark red brushstroke.
Every step—
Felt like a hook tearing at the wound from the inside.
He pressed his abdomen, knuckles turning white.
His breathing was shallow, rapid. He didn't dare expand his chest fully—his ribs protested just as fiercely.
The car crash had done its work.
At least two cracked ribs.
His right shoulder barely moved.
His right knee swollen, dragging with every step.
Blood loss was pulling his body temperature down.
His skin turned pale.
His vision blurred intermittently.
His fingers trembled.
And yet—
He kept walking.
Not by strength.
But by sheer will—the kind that drags a man back from hell, one step at a time.
A dim maintenance light still glowed inside a nearby animal shelter.
John stepped in, bracing himself against the wall.
His fingers found a tool on the rack—
A stapler.
Cold. Rough. Crude.
But enough to buy time.
He took a breath—feeling his lungs tear with it—
Then gripped the edges of the wound and pulled.
No hesitation.
He squeezed the trigger.
Click—
The sound of metal piercing flesh echoed brutally in the empty room.
Blood seeped through the gaps—
But the wound held, crudely stabilized.
No longer tearing open.
He injected himself with emergency medication.
His heart forced itself back into motion under the drug's push.
Then—
He walked again.
---
The Rayne Clinic was nearby.
Less than ten minutes away.
---
Dawn had barely broken.
Ethan was still asleep.
His phone rang.
Half-conscious, he grabbed it.
The screen showed a name:
Max.
"…Yeah…?" he mumbled.
There was no teasing tone this time.
Only sharp, wind-cut breathing.
"Ethan… there's someone lying outside your clinic."
"Someone lying there…?" he said, eyes still closed.
"A homeless guy?"
"No. Not homeless. He's covered in blood. Like—completely covered in blood."
Ethan woke up a little more.
"…Is he alive?"
"I don't know! I didn't touch him—wait… he just sat up. I'll ask his name."
A few seconds of silence.
Then—
"He says… his name is John Wick."
Ethan's heart jolted.
Fully awake.
"Put him on the phone."
A rustle.
Then a low, weak voice:
"Hey, doctor. I need treatment."
Confirmed.
Ethan spoke immediately:
"Open the door. Let him in. Don't touch him if you can avoid it."
"He won't hurt you."
"Are you sure?"
"…If he wanted to hurt you, you wouldn't be calling me right now."
Max paused.
"…Okay. That's convincing."
———
Thirty minutes later, Ethan arrived.
Max stood outside, pale-faced.
A few drops of blood stained her coat—she didn't even know when they got there.
She pointed inside.
"I'm leaving."
Ethan nodded.
Watched her hurry off.
Then stepped into the clinic.
---
The air hit him immediately—
Blood. Rain. Gunpowder.
All mixed into something thick and metallic.
The treatment room floor was stained dark red.
Diluted by water—
Still glaring.
John Wick sat quietly beside the treatment bed.
Like a weapon dragged straight off the battlefield.
The door closed behind Ethan.
Silence fell.
He put on gloves.
His eyes landed on the stapled wound.
"…Did you just sew yourself up like a punching bag?"
John replied calmly:
"Limited tools."
Ethan exhaled.
Then moved.
Cut clothing.
Monitor vitals.
Assess.
Palpate.
Clean. Efficient.
---
When he saw the torn muscle in the thigh and arm—
He frowned.
"You making it here alive… is already beyond science."
John said nothing.
Just lifted his eyes slightly.
The monitor told the story:
Heart rate too fast.
Blood pressure dangerously low.
Oxygen levels dropping.
Ethan knew immediately—
Conventional medicine wouldn't save him.
He pressed a hand to John's chest.
Voice low. Steady.
"Starting now."
Light exploded in the room.
[Greater Healing]
Golden energy surged into John's body-
Dragging him back from the edge of the abyss.
His body trembled violently—
But he made no sound.
Then—
Something went wrong.
The liver bleeding resisted.
Abdominal inflammation reacted violently.
Muscle tears around the ribs complicated everything.
Ethan frowned.
The healing… was being blocked.
He'd only seen this once before.
With William.
A dying patient. Multi-organ failure.
But John?
Young. Physically elite.
This shouldn't be happening.
Unless—
Internal bleeding had already caused localized necrosis.
"How long were you lying outside?" Ethan asked.
"…Three hours," John rasped.
Ethan's pupils shrank.
"You couldn't call me?!"
John opened his eyes slightly.
"…Didn't have your number."
"…Right."
Ethan continued.
Still ineffective.
Too much blood loss.
Too much time.
Damage turning irreversible.
Ethan muttered:
"What you've been through… isn't something a human should survive."
Then he made his decision.
[Resurrection]
White-gold light surged in—
Cells reigniting.
Dragging John back from the brink of irreversible death.
His breathing snapped back into rhythm.
His heart stabilized.
For the first time—
He was no longer dying.
Ethan placed both hands over the wound again.
[Greater Healing]
The bleeding along the liver's edge stopped.
Tissue reattached.
Inflammation in the peritoneum rapidly subsided.
Hairline fractures in the ribs slowly mended under the glow of holy light.
Torn muscles were reconstructed.
The lacerations on his thigh and arm drew together on their own.
---
Finally, Ethan lifted his hand.
A faint glow gathered in his palm.
[Purification]
A thin veil of light swept across John's body.
Infection risks in his blood—gone.
Inflammatory markers—cleansed.
Necrotic tissue—erased.
At the exact moment the treatment ended—
John took his first full, deep breath in what felt like forever.
———
The treatment room fell silent.
Only the monitor's steady beeping and the faint sound of rain outside remained.
John sat there—
Like a man whose name had just been crossed off the list of the dead.
His eyes were no longer unfocused or drifting.
They sharpened again—clear, precise, dangerous.
Ethan removed his gloves, looking at the legendary hitman in front of him.
"You recover faster than most people… but honestly, with your line of work, you should consider a career change."
John replied calmly:
"I'm retired."
Ethan raised an eyebrow.
"This is retirement? Doesn't look like it."
John paused briefly.
"…Some temporary assignments."
Ethan studied him.
Compared to when he first walked in—
He was practically a different person.
The wounds were nearly gone.
Internal injuries? Even less of a concern.
At this level of holy light—
One Greater Heal was enough to erase most physical trauma.
In less than an hour—
A man who had been on the brink of death now looked better than the average person.
Only his complexion remained pale—
After all, he'd lost a lot of blood.
Ethan sighed.
"John, next time you walk in like that… I seriously recommend getting a membership plan."
John gave a slight nod.
It looked like agreement—
Or maybe gratitude.
He stood up, rolling his shoulders and flexing his wrists.
Like a weapon freshly reassembled.
"Doctor, your treatment is more effective than before."
"People improve," Ethan replied.
"Oh, right—how's Helen?"
"She's at the Continental. She's fine."
John finished dressing.
Then, unexpectedly—
He began walking around the clinic.
Glass panels.
Front desk.
Cameras tucked into corners.
"Doctor," he said, "your clinic's security has been upgraded."
"Yeah," Ethan replied. "After the friend you introduced showed up, things got… complicated."
John nodded.
Not surprised.
He thought for a moment.
Then said:
"You need a receptionist now. I'll have Helen come this afternoon.
Ethan froze.
"…What?"
"You said you needed a receptionist. And security."
"…I was joking."
Ethan stared at him.
"You're not seriously planning to have your wife work here to pay off your medical bill, are you?
"Helen will bring money."
"That's not the point!"
Ethan frowned.
"Why bring her here at all? Aren't you done with… whatever this is?"
John answered simply:
"I've handled part of it. There may be more."
"So I want her here. For now."
Ethan looked at him.
"You're letting your wife work as a receptionist here—won't she feel wronged?"
"And what about safety?"
John met his gaze.
Calm. Certain.
"This place is safer than the Continental."
He turned toward the door.
"Goodbye, doctor."
"She'll be here this afternoon. Please run a full check-up for her."
"Wait—"
---
The door opened.
Wind rushed in.
Rain followed.
John stepped out into the storm.
"Doctor," he said without turning back,
"This city is dangerous."
"You need a receptionist."
The door closed.
Ethan stood there, stunned.
"…???"