John Wick was utterly stunned by the sudden appearance of Shiranui Hayate. Just moments ago, he was certain he was about to depart this world to reunite with his beloved wife and dog.
"Thank you, Hayate. I owe you one," John said, his voice raspy. He immediately began struggling against the heavy-duty zip ties binding his wrists.
Watching John's futile efforts, Hayate spoke calmly, "Don't bother with that."
With a flick of his wrist, Hayate hurled a sharp dart. It whistled through the air, cleanly severing the plastic restraints.
"Cool," John remarked. He didn't waste another second, scooping up a Kel-Tec KSG shotgun from the floor. As he sprinted toward the exit, he called out, "I'll find you back at the Continental to thank you properly, Hayate. Right now, I have business to finish."
He vanished out of the warehouse like a vengeful gale.
As the sunlight hit Hayate, he pulled out a kunai and tilted it toward a specific angle in the distance. The polished metal caught the sun, reflecting a sharp glint directly into the scope of Marcus, who was perched on a far-off rooftop.
Marcus blinked as the light flooded his vision, realizing he had been spotted. As expected of a titled assassin. He didn't make any sudden moves; he had come to save John, and seeing his old friend out of danger was enough. Satisfied, Marcus packed his rifle and prepared to vanish from the scene.
Outside, John Wick had already cornered Viggo, ending the driver's life with a single, deafening blast from his shotgun.
"Viggo, where is he?"
John fired a warning shot into the ground beside the mob boss before pressing the barrel against the man's chest. Once he extracted his son's location and forced Viggo to vow to rescind the bounty, John agreed to spare his former employer.
Hayate didn't show his face. Utilizing his ninja speed and stealth, he slipped away from the area without leaving a trace. He didn't care about the truce between John and Viggo.
John had his own code. He needed the bounty lifted, and perhaps there was still a shred of history between him and his old boss. John's world was simple: you kill his dog and steal his car, he kills you. Everyone has their own rules.
At the same time, inside the Continental, Perkins stood over the lifeless body of Harry. She took the Gold Coin John had given him and paused, remembering the moment her assassination attempt failed when John inexplicably rolled off the bed.
She returned to John's room and examined the headboard. There, she found a bullet hole—not from her handgun, but from a high-powered sniper rifle. She traced the trajectory back to a small hole in the window.
"Someone ruined my hit!" she hissed. "I'll make you pay for this."
Understanding why her mission had failed, Perkins memorized the details and turned to leave the hotel, breaking the most sacred of rules once again.
Hayate arrived back at the Continental shortly after leaving Little Russia. He tossed a Gold Coin to the doorman—the standard entry fee—and headed to his room to wait for John's inevitable visit.
He was satisfied. For the price of two mob lackeys, he had saved the Boogeyman and secured a heavy favor. It was a bargain.
Thinking of the coin he had just spent, Hayate felt a bit of irony. These coins were issued and promoted by the High Table, and their purchasing power was truly bizarre.
In the world of the Continental:
Entry: One coin.
A room: One coin.
Bar entry: One coin.
Medical treatment: One coin.
Body disposal: One coin.
A favor, like the one John asked of Harry: One coin.
The minimum price for any service was always one coin. Yet, while one coin might only cover a few hours of pet-sitting, that same coin could also hire a competent hitman for a contract.
Even the legendary John Wick only had a bounty of four coins—a sum high enough to tempt assassins into breaking hotel rules. Without coins, even with millions in cash, you might not be able to hire a professional.
Under the High Table's mandate, these coins were the hard currency of the underworld. The Continental acted as the guild hall, providing bounties, intel, and, most importantly, sanctuary for its registered members. Eighty percent of New York's assassins were members here.
Of course, there were other organizations, but none could rival the Continental. The hotel had its own "Adjudicators" to punish rule-breakers, and every manager commanded their own armed forces.
Behind the Continental stood the High Table—a council of twelve seats representing the world's most powerful crime syndicates: the Camorra, the Mafia, the 'Ndrangheta, the Triads, and others. Its headquarters lay deep in the deserts near Casablanca.
But wherever there are people, there is conflict. The High Table was a nest of shifting shadows and hidden agendas.
Hayate lay on his bed, flipping a Gold Coin between his fingers. He had a goal: to claim one of those twelve seats for himself before the great Marvel events truly began.
After all, the business suited him perfectly.
Weren't Ninjas the ultimate masters of assassination, intelligence, and instigating war?
Back at the warehouse, Viggo Tarasov hadn't left immediately after giving John the information.
He returned to the room where John had been held and looked at the two corpses on the floor. He needed to know how a bound, unarmed man had escaped and killed two armed guards.
He examined the wounds on his men and found two shuriken and a dart embedded in the scene.
Viggo's face darkened with rage. He let out a gutteral roar:
"Ninja... SHIRANUI!"