Chapter 56: A Price Hike?
Rayne Clinic.
It was almost closing time; the sunlight had softened, gilding everything with a warm glow.
Ethan finished the last cupcake while sneaking glances at the man nearby—John Wick.
He silently arranged his wife's scarf and fastened the buttons of her coat.
Every movement toward her was breathtakingly gentle.
A man who could drop dozens without blinking now handled a scarf like he was defusing a bomb.
Helen tried walking on her own, steps still wobbly but steadying, a rare flush returning to her cheeks.
John watched her as if she were the only treasure left in the world.
He turned to Ethan, the young doctor who'd just worked a miracle, now scraping the last bit of frosting from a cupcake wrapper with his fork.
The absurdity of it made even John Wick, veteran of every storm, feel something indescribable.
"Doctor," John broke the silence, voice low but far less tense, "how do I compensate you?"
Ethan licked cream from his fingertip and turned. "A hundred thousand."
John went still for a beat, then quietly echoed, "A hundred?"
"Mm. Pay it next visit; installments are fine."
John stared as though watching a man who'd just stopped a nuclear warhead and only asked for a Big Mac in return.
"You cured a condition every other physician gave up on," he said, "and you only charge a hundred thousand?"
Ethan nodded. "I'm just a neighborhood clinic; can't charge too much."
John Wick slowly shook his head, looking Ethan dead in the eye. "Too low."
"You saved her life. That price isn't fair to you." He paused, searching for words. "Before I walked in, I was prepared to trade anything for a miracle."
Ethan gave a covert nod. Big client thinks it's cheap! My affordable pricing strategy is working perfectly!
"That's the price," Ethan said calmly. "I'm running a community-focused practice." He thought the approach was rather noble.
John Wick didn't smile, but something new flickered in his gaze.
He fell silent for a few seconds, as if reaching a decision, then spoke again.
"Doctor, though this is our first meeting, I'd like to speak candidly."
Ethan shrugged. "Of course. Say whatever you need; I'm happy to listen."
Generally, a man who loves his wife this much can't be completely bad.
The two stepped out of the treatment room, leaving Helen inside to rest.
The moment the door shut, all sound from within was sealed away.
John glanced at his wife through the slats of the blind, then turned to Ethan.
"Believe me, no one cares more about keeping you alive right now than I do." John was deadly serious. "I want to see you here again next week."
Ethan's easy smile froze. "…What do you mean? I'm perfectly healthy."
"Not your health." John stepped closer, eyes on the clinic's reception desk. "Your pricing will get you killed."
Ethan frowned, puzzled.
"Ever heard of the 'High Table'? …Or the Continental Hotel?"
Ethan shook his head.
"The High Table is a council of the world's most powerful crime syndicates, organizations, and kingpins—the true rulers of the criminal underworld."
"The Continental is their enforcement arm here in New York."
"I advise you to establish a relationship with them." He paused, gaze turning darker. "Doctor, if you were in the Continental's underground medical facility, white coat on, a team of bodyguards at your back, offering this service to the High Table's leadership… do you know the starting price?"
Ethan leaned in, curious. "How much?"
John: "Ten High Table gold coins. Minimum."
"Ten? Gold coins?" Ethan was unfamiliar with the currency.
"One coin covers cleanup of a body or a safe night at the Continental."
Seeing Ethan's blank look, he added, "Five coins will eliminate a target."
Ethan sucked in a breath. "So the starting price is equivalent to two assassinations?"
John nodded solemnly. "Because this isn't just medical treatment. It's the price of life itself. In the High Table economy, five coins to end a confirmed target; fifty to save one already condemned. That's the standard—the balance."
"My wife was diagnosed by the High Table's chief physician—Dr. 'Virus' Smith. His assessment matched yours: incurable, terminal, less than a week."
Ethan said, "The guy's fairly competent."
"Dr. Smith charges eighty thousand cash for a symptom-management, pain-killing regimen—if you forgo the coin payment structure."
Ethan blurted, "That's highway robbery!"
"And you," John's voice dropped lower, "cured the condition every physician had abandoned. Word will spread. Soon the entire network will know: a Dr. Rayne accomplished for a hundred thousand what they couldn't achieve for millions."
He let that sink in.
"Imagine how Dr. Smith will react? You didn't just prove him incompetent—you made his exorbitant fees look like a scam. Doctor, undermining someone's income stream in that world is a direct path to your grave."
Ethan's face paled; he clearly hadn't considered that angle.
John pressed on, expression graver still. "And those who paid Smith—
the crime bosses, the family patriarchs, the power elite
who've paid prices you can't imagine to extend their lives.
Now they discover a Brooklyn clinic that solves the problem better, for pocket change… do you think they'll be grateful?"
He leaned slightly forward, voice low and warning: "No. They'll feel insulted, diminished.
Their power and wealth appear worthless before your affordable 'miracle.'
That humiliation is only erased with blood, to preserve their world's 'order.'
They won't ask you politely—they'll force you to serve them exclusively.
Your independent clinic… will disappear.
And you'll survive, but I guarantee it won't be the life you want."
Ethan's fists clenched unconsciously.
John straightened. "Doctor, undercharging isn't a virtue in this world.
It's a liability—provocation to competitors, insult to powerful clients. It disrupts the rules we all survive by."
He met Ethan's eyes and offered his final, heartfelt counsel: "Raise your prices. Raise them until they feel substantial, until 'expensive' becomes expected.
Make them believe it's a service only the elite can access, beyond ordinary reach.
Routine conditions—one coin minimum, that's the baseline.
Something difficult—ten coins.
Only you can cure it—no less than fifty.
That won't just protect your practice; it'll protect your life."
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