Chapter 91 — Helen Wick
After the storm, New York settled into a damp, quiet stillness.
Inside the clinic, the scent of blood still lingered—mixed faintly with the afterglow of holy light.
Ethan sat in his office chair, holding a cup of coffee that had already gone lukewarm.
His mind kept circling around the two things John Wick had said before leaving:
"This city is dangerous."
"You need a receptionist."
Individually, they made sense.
Together?
…He had no idea what that was supposed to mean.
His wife… is she a killer too?
He had met her once.
She definitely didn't look like one.
After thinking for a while with no answer, Ethan shifted to a more practical problem:
Am I… supposed to pay a hitman's wife a salary now?
And how much would even be appropriate?
He glanced around the clinic.
The newly installed reinforced glass gleamed coldly.
Cameras in every corner worked diligently.
The front desk was spotless—
And completely empty.
"…I do need a receptionist."
He paused.
"…But I don't need a nuclear weapon."
These assassins really had no sense of humor.
He'd made a casual joke—and they took it seriously.
He'd even joked about hiring John as security.
Don't tell me he actually considered that…
A legendary hitman working as a guard?
…Yeah, right.
Just as Ethan was mentally roasting the situation—
Ding.
The clinic doorbell rang.
The intercom crackled to life with a soft, slightly tired female voice:
"Hello… is Dr. Rayne available?"
Ethan looked at the monitor.
A woman stood in the entryway.
He unlocked the door and stood up to greet her.
———
Helen Wick stepped inside.
She wore a light gray chunky knit sweater—soft, warm.
Just like the impression she gave.
Quiet.
Comforting.
Her complexion was fair, with a natural flush touched by the wind.
But what stood out most wasn't her features—
It was the way the atmosphere seemed to relax when she smiled.
Helen wheeled in a white suitcase, a coat draped over her shoulder.
Raindrops still clung to the ends of her hair.
"Hi, doctor," she said, offering a gentle smile.
"We've met before, but never properly introduced ourselves."
"I'm Helen Wick."
"John asked me to come find you."
Ethan straightened up slightly.
"Uh… hi. I'm Ethan Rayne."
He hadn't felt this nervous even when facing John Wick—yet now, for some reason, he felt a little awkward.
He found himself studying her.
No trace of a killer's aura…
but there was a quiet resilience about her—something restrained, yet unbreakable.
Helen smiled softly.
The curve of her lips was like a faint light after rain.
"Sorry, I might be a bit late. He said… you needed someone to help here."
"He said that?" Ethan blinked, incredulous.
Helen nodded.
She walked to the front desk and set down a white suitcase.
The movement was gentle—
but the suitcase still hit the ground with a heavy thud.
Ethan's eyelid twitched.
"This is what John asked me to bring," she said softly.
"For the medical fees… and any future expenses."
Ethan raised a hand.
"Don't tell me that inside is—"
Helen unzipped it.
A full suitcase—
of gold coins.
"…Well, at least it's not cash," Ethan exhaled.
"Actually—no, this is even more outrageous than cash."
"You two have a very… free-spirited view of money."
Helen pressed her lips together slightly.
"John tends to be… direct."
"This is for me?"
"No." She shook her head.
Ethan didn't know whether to feel relieved or disappointed.
"Oh. Good. Good. I thought—"
"It's for the clinic," she added.
"..."
Yeah.
The wife of a legend was definitely not ordinary.
She continued calmly:
"He said the clinic might need security upgrades, medical equipment, additional staff, salaries…"
Ethan glanced at her.
"Does that 'staff' include you?"
Helen smiled lightly.
"Of course."
She gestured toward the suitcase.
"My salary can be deducted from this. John said this should cover at least three years."
"…Three years!?"
"He seems to think… I'll be staying here for a long time."
Ethan looked at the suitcase again.
Logic and common sense had both quietly left the building.
What was this?
Funded employment?
Self-paying salary?
Or… work where you spend?
And more importantly—
Did he earn this money… or take it?
The question reached his lips, but he swallowed it.
"…It's too much."
Helen's expression didn't change.
"For John, when it comes to the people or things he cares about—"
"He never gives 'enough.'"
"He gives everything."
…Yeah.
That did sound like John.
Ethan cleared his throat, pulling himself back.
"Since you're here, let's handle the most important thing first—your condition."
Helen paused, then nodded gently.
"Alright. Honestly… I still can't quite believe it."
"I thought I was already at the end."
"Diffuse intrinsic glioma," Ethan said.
"Yeah. That doesn't usually give second chances."
"But you got lucky."
Helen took a quiet breath and handed him her latest scans.
On the image—
The tumor that once spread like fog through her brainstem…
was gone.
Clean.
As if it had never existed.
Diagnosis note:
"No detectable lesion."
Ethan stared carefully at the scan.
"When I first treated you, you were already at the critical threshold."
"The second time… though unexpected, involved a much stronger method."
He looked up.
"From what I can see—"
"Your tumor is completely gone."
Helen's fingers trembled slightly.
"…Really?"
"It still feels like a dream. Sometimes I wonder if I already died."
"I understand," Ethan said.
"That's a classic dissociative response."
"When someone survives extreme despair, the brain struggles to catch up with reality."
"Go outside more. Engage with the world."
"It helps your brain confirm—you're still alive."
———
The clinic equipment was basic—but sufficient.
Ethan cross-checked imaging with real-time readings.
Brain activity: smooth.
Neural response: normal.
Electrical rhythms: stable.
Every abnormality—
gone.
"No residual lesions," he confirmed.
"You're clear."
Helen looked at him.
Her eyes glistened—but she held back.
"I thought… I'd only extended the goodbye."
Ethan shook his head gently.
"Not extended."
"You took the second half of your life back from despair."
The check continued.
Everything—oxygen levels, heart rate, organ function—
better than average.
Only one issue.
"Muscle atrophy," Ethan noted.
"From long-term bed rest. Normal. A few weeks of exercise will fix it."
Helen nodded.
"I can feel it… my body isn't fully coordinated yet."
Ethan casually cast a recovery spell.
A faint green light flowed from his fingertips, gently wrapping around her.
"You'll recover quickly—especially working here."
Helen didn't notice anything unusual.
She only felt lighter.
"…I understand."
"Other than exercise, just live normally," Ethan said.
"You're not going back to a hospital bed."
Helen smiled.
A clear, relaxed smile—
like someone who had truly come back to life.
———
Ethan showed her around the clinic.
Her soft sweater, lit by the window's light, added warmth to the otherwise cold space.
"I need to confirm something," Ethan said.
"Are you here by choice—or because John arranged it?"
Helen met his gaze.
"By choice."
"Really?"
She nodded.
"John never forces me to do anything."
Ethan quietly relaxed.
"…So you actually want to be a receptionist?"
"I want to do something," she said softly.
"John wants me somewhere safe and stable."
"And you need someone here."
"It's a perfect fit."
"You don't feel… wronged?"
"Doctor," Helen said gently,
"A receptionist welcomes people. Reassures them."
"I'm familiar with that."
Ethan paused.
"…Alright. Let's talk about your role."
Helen listened attentively.
"To be honest, I'm not even sure what a front desk should do," Ethan admitted.
"I had an intern briefly before—no clear division of work."
"After she left, I handled everything myself."
"What I can think of: greeting patients, answering calls, registration, notifying me when someone arrives."
Helen nodded.
"I've worked as a nurse and a volunteer. I'm familiar with workflows."
"That's great," Ethan said seriously.
"Also—if someone looks like they're about to die, call me immediately."
Helen smiled.
"I don't think anyone will die in this clinic."
…You'd be surprised.
"Oh, one more thing," Ethan scratched his neck.
"You know about John's… situation?"
"I do now. He told me everything."
"Good," Ethan nodded.
"Sometimes your husband shows up in pieces. Don't be alarmed."
"…I probably still will be," she admitted softly.
"But I can handle it."
"Alright then."
Ethan took a breath.
"From today onward—you're officially part of Rayne Clinic."
"My second employee."
"We also have a future doctor joining in about ten months."
Helen inclined her head slightly.
"How should I address you?" she asked.
"Dr. Rayne? Ethan? Or just 'doctor'?"
"Anything works," Ethan said.
"Just don't call me 'boss.' The last intern only said that when she was mad. It stressed me out every time."
Helen's eyes softened with amusement.
"Then privately—Ethan."
"Formally—Dr. Rayne."
Ethan paused for a moment—
then smiled.
"Welcome aboard."