Evening descended quickly.
In the beginning, there were still a few stragglers—hitmen with lagging information or an overabundance of confidence in their own skills—who stepped into the lockdown zone hoping to snag the bounty.
They didn't last long.
As the hours passed, the news of the slaughter spread through the underworld like a plague. Whether it was the frantic text alerts or the grim sight of bodies piled near the 500-meter perimeter, the message eventually sank in. No more assassins dared to cross the line. Instead, groups of them gathered just outside the boundary, staring into the "Death Zone" as if visiting a macabre museum, confirming with their own eyes that the legends were true.
At exactly 6:00 PM, the deadline passed. Not a single soul remained to challenge them.
The aftermath was a seismic event in the criminal underworld. The name Shiranui Hayate didn't just ripple through New York; it reverberated across the global network of assassins. The day would forever be known as the "Shiranui Incident."
In its wake, the New York Continental had to deactivate nearly a hundred memberships. Not because of excommunication, but because the members were simply... gone. Among the survivors, Hayate was no longer just the "Ninja"—he was whispered to be the undisputed Number One Hitman in New York.
Inside the hotel, Winston stared at the bounty files for the five members of the Shiranui Agency. He scribbled a few notes on a slip of paper and handed it to a subordinate. Soon after, their profiles were moved from the scrolling "Active" monitors to the deep archives.
Winston couldn't cancel the bounty—only the client could do that, and the client was currently a corpse—but he could "bury" it. It was a subtle way of protecting his hotel's ecosystem from further suicide runs.
In his room, Hayate was busy giving instructions to Hotaru. "Hotaru, get the office renovations started immediately. We can't stay closed forever. Also, check with our neighbors. See if they're willing to sell."
"You want to expand?" Hotaru asked.
"I want to build an indoor training hall. The old training space can be converted into the recovery ward for the Wax Baths."
Hotaru thought for a moment. "Boss, why not build a facility in the suburbs? The costs would be significantly lower."
Hayate looked at her, confused. "Hotaru... are we short on cash?"
"We have twenty million dollars in the company account, Boss. That includes the six million we just banked the other day. But buying prime real estate next door in the city is expensive. For the same price, you could have a sprawling estate and acres of land in the countryside."
As a competent secretary, Hotaru always prioritized efficiency.
"Acquire the property next door first," Hayate decided. "I want the Agency and the training grounds together. We can worry about a country estate later. Also, I have a stash of gold and jewelry from that job with Viggo. I'll hand it over to you to liquidate."
Hotaru sighed, a small smile playing on her lips. "You're the boss. I'll handle the liquidation as soon as possible."
As she turned to leave, Hayate added, "And don't forget the John Wick matter."
"I know, Boss!" she called back, her heels clicking rhythmically as she swayed out of the room.
The following day.
At the Triskelion—headquarters of the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement, and Logistics Division—Agent Phil Coulson, whose hairline had not yet begun its aggressive retreat, hurried toward the Director's office clutching a tablet.
"Director, we have a new anomaly report. You need to see this."
Nick Fury took the tablet. A video file was already cued up. He pressed play.
On the screen, an Asian youth moved with terrifying, blurred speed. He lunged toward an armed woman and delivered a single punch. The woman didn't just fall; she was launched through the air, snapping a metal lamppost like a toothpick before tumbling into the distance.
The video ended. Fury's voice was a low rumble. "When did this happen?"
"Three days ago."
Fury replayed the clip, focusing on the boy's velocity and the sheer kinetic force of the strike. There was a massive difference between throwing someone and hitting them so hard they flew.
"The boy," Fury said, looking at the youth who couldn't have been more than thirteen. "What do we have?"
"His name is Rock Lee," Coulson replied. "Thirteen years old. Resides at the Shiranui Agency on 71st Avenue, Forest Hills, Queens. His identity papers were processed through Continental Hotel channels. We have zero record of him prior to his appearance in New York."
Fury stood up, rubbing his chin. "A hitman?"
Coulson nodded. "According to our intel, his papers were handled by Shiranui Hayate, a registered member of the Continental and a 'legendary' figure in the hitman circuit. The Agency is his primary place of business."
Fury's eye narrowed with a trace of disdain. To him, hitmen were just rats in the gutter.
Noticing the Director's look, Coulson added pointedly, "Latest reports indicate that Shiranui Hayate wiped out the Brotherhood of Assassins forty-eight hours ago."
Fury's brow twitched. He was surprised, but still not overly concerned with underworld squabbles. However, he looked at the boy on the screen and saw a "resource." A raw talent that, if indoctrinated correctly, could be a powerful asset.
"Coulson, have the tech boys analyze the speed and force in this video. Get me a full danger assessment."
"And then?"
"Then, I want you to make contact. He's just a child. What kind of life is he leading, running around with a career killer? If he's a viable candidate, let's get him into one of our 'academies.' A thirteen-year-old belongs in school, doing what he's supposed to do: learning."
Fury sounded righteous, but whether he meant a standard public school or a S.H.I.E.L.D. training facility was a matter of perspective.
Coulson nodded, took the tablet, and headed out to begin the recruitment of the boy in the green jumpsuit.