New York Continental Hotel.
Smith and Fox stepped inside after handing the doorman two Continental gold coins.
Once through the doors, Smith didn't linger in the lobby. He led Fox straight to the underground bar.
At the front desk, Charon noticed them heading downstairs and immediately picked up the phone.
"Manager Winston, the man you asked me to watch—Smith—just came in with Fox. They're heading for the bar."
"All right, I understand."
After hanging up, Charon muttered to himself, "Good thing I eat and sleep at the hotel. No need to go outside."
Winston ended the call, rubbed his forehead, and murmured:
"What are those two doing here?"
"Don't tell me the Assassin's League is planning to hit my Continental Hotel…"
"Or maybe some poor soul ticked off Smith again."
As manager of the New York Continental, Winston had a solid understanding of the Assassin's League. Eighteen years ago, they were known for random, inexplicable killings. But somewhere along the way, their mission changed—now they only targeted those with blood-stained histories: notorious criminals, corrupt officials, people who had slipped through the cracks of justice.
In New York alone, gang leaders and wanted serial killers had all met their end at the hands of the League—without a single failure.
The Continental, along with a few syndicates, reported this to the High Table. But the only response was sending an Adjudicator to speak with the League. After a short conversation, the Adjudicator left—no sanctions, no warnings.
Winston had even heard whispers that the High Table once offered the League a seat—an Elder position—early on. The League refused.
Of course, several registered Continental assassins had also been taken out by League operatives. Among them, Smith Doyle stood out—his kill count was unusually high, and he was known for being especially thorough.
Still, as long as no blood was spilled inside the hotel, Winston didn't care. But was Smith here scouting targets? That thought quickened his pulse.
······
After paying two more Continental coins, Smith and Fox entered the underground bar.
The moment they walked in, every assassin in the room glanced their way—some out of habit, others out of wariness.
Though killing was strictly forbidden inside the Continental—especially in the intelligence-heavy bar—assassins still instinctively sized up newcomers.
When they recognized Smith Doyle, some nodded or raised a glass in silent acknowledgment.
Others quietly excused themselves—slipping off to the restroom, pulling hats lower, or angling their faces away.
Fox noticed and leaned in, whispering:
"You've really become a ghost story around here."
"Look how on-edge they are."
Smith chuckled softly.
"Our job is to wipe away the worst this world has to offer."
"None of them were mistakes. They all earned what came to them."
Fox nodded. Everyone here was a killer. Mercenaries. No innocents. Whether any of them lived or died rarely changed the bigger picture.
Still, Fox couldn't help but notice that some seemed to avoid Smith with more urgency than others. Word was, after a pattern emerged in Smith's targets, the League quietly changed recruitment policies to avoid drawing unnecessary friction or attention.
As they spoke, Smith walked up to the bar and said to the bartender, Eddie:
"Two Thunder Bourbons."
Eddie poured two glasses and grinned.
"Smith, every time you show up, the room clears out."
"I bet people are already messaging each other to steer clear for the next few days."
Smith shrugged.
"Honestly, I'd love it if this place stayed packed. It's safe here—no killing allowed."
Eddie gave a dry chuckle. Safe? Maybe. But having Smith nearby was like drinking beside a lit fuse.
"Anything I can help you with?"
The entry coin wasn't just a cover charge—it bought access to intel. Assassins came here for more than just drinks.
Smith pulled out a slip of paper and drew a four-star Dragon Ball.
"If anyone comes asking about this—or anything like it—send them my way."
Eddie took the paper and raised an eyebrow.
"Looks like some kind of crystal ball with stars?"
"Got it."
As Eddie walked off, Fox leaned in, curious:
"What's that about?"
"And is this the 'fun' you mentioned?"
Before Smith could reply, Winston arrived and greeted them warmly.
"Mr. Smith. Ms. Fox."
Smith raised his glass.
"Manager Winston. Been a while."
Fox added, "Always good to see you, Mr. Winston."
Winston snapped his fingers, and Eddie came back over.
"Eddie, bring out that bottle of 1972 Macallan from my private stash. I'd like to share a drink with Mr. Smith and Ms. Fox."
Smith raised a brow.
"Winston, that year's Macallan isn't exactly cheap."
Winston chuckled.
"What's the point of fine whiskey if not to enjoy it?"
"And good liquor should be shared with legends. For you two, it's worth it."
Soon, Eddie returned with three glasses of the rich, amber liquid and set them down.
Smith took a sniff, then a sip.
"This is excellent. But I've heard the 1926 Macallan is the true masterpiece."
Winston laughed.
"That one's practically a myth. Even if I found it, I wouldn't dare drink it—worth a fortune."
Smith didn't press the issue. A 1926 Macallan was rare and valued at nearly £2 million.
Winston leaned on the bar and continued:
"Someone like me—just running the hotel, keeping the peace—I'm not on the League's radar, right?"
"So, Smith… you're not here to break the rules, are you?"
Smith looked at him and shrugged.
"You don't actually think we're here to take down the Continental, do you?"
"And the rules? I like the rules."
Winston smiled.
"Glad to hear it."
Then Fox spoke up:
"There's a new contract—just posted. Two million dollars."
"Smith, is that the excitement you were talking about?"
······
—End of chapter—
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