Chapter 12: THE CONTINENTAL
The gold-trimmed doors were exactly as I remembered from my first glimpse—elegant, understated, promising violence in the politest possible way.
I'd dressed carefully. The previous owner's best clothes: dark slacks, a button-down shirt that almost fit, a jacket that hid the Glock at my waist. Not fancy enough to stand out, not shabby enough to be turned away. The sweet spot of anonymity.
The doorman watched me approach. He was big—not fat, but solid in a way that suggested he'd stopped fights before they started. His eyes dropped to my hands first, then my waist, then my face. Assessing. Calculating.
I produced a gold coin without being asked.
The weight of it felt significant in my palm. Currency I'd earned through blood. Proof that I belonged in this world, even if I was still learning its rules.
The doorman examined the coin. Turned it over. Checked the markings with the practiced eye of someone who'd seen a thousand forgeries.
Then he stepped aside.
"Welcome to the Continental."
The interior hit me like a physical force.
Marble floors polished to mirrors. Crystal chandeliers dripping light like frozen waterfalls. Wood paneling dark with age and secrets. The air smelled like expensive cologne and something else—something sharp beneath the luxury. The smell of people who killed for a living.
I'd seen this in the movies. John Wick walking through the lobby, ordering drinks, meeting contacts. But experiencing it was different. The scale. The detail. The way every surface seemed to whisper money and death in equal measure.
"This is real. All of it. The assassin hotel, the gold coins, the rules that keep killers from killing each other. Real."
The lobby was scattered with people. Some sat in leather chairs, reading newspapers or nursing drinks. Others moved through with purpose—checking in, checking out, heading somewhere that probably ended in bloodshed. They all had the same quality. A looseness in their shoulders. An alertness in their eyes. The walk of predators at rest.
I filed their faces away. Couldn't identify any of them, but patterns mattered. The woman in the corner who watched everyone without seeming to. The older man by the elevator who kept his hands visible at all times. The young guy at the bar who laughed too loud and drank too fast.
"Learn the culture. Understand the hierarchy. Don't do anything stupid."
The concierge desk was impossible to miss. A wooden counter that looked older than the country, manned by a single figure in an immaculate suit.
I approached. He looked up.
Tall. Elegant. Dark skin, graying temples, a face that gave away nothing. I recognized him from the movies, though the reality was somehow more impressive than the screen had captured. An air of unflappable competence that suggested he'd seen everything and could handle anything.
"Good morning." His voice was warm without being friendly. Professional. "Welcome to the Continental. I'm Charon. How may I be of service?"
"Charon. The ferryman. The man who welcomes the dead to their final destination."
"First time here." I kept my voice steady. Confident without being challenging. "I'd like to understand how things work."
Something shifted in Charon's expression. Not quite approval, but something adjacent.
"A reasonable request." He reached beneath the counter and produced a small leather folder. "This contains information about our services. Room rates, amenities, house rules. I trust you'll find everything in order."
I took the folder. Flipped it open.
The contents were sparse. A single card listing room prices—one gold coin per night. A small menu for the hotel restaurant. A brief list of rules, printed in elegant script:
No business may be conducted on Continental grounds.
Management reserves the right to refuse service to anyone.
All accounts must be settled before departure.
Simple. Direct. The kind of rules that didn't need explanation because breaking them meant something worse than a fine.
"The bar is to your left." Charon gestured toward the far side of the lobby. "The restaurant is through the main doors. If you require any other services—" his pause was meaningful "—simply ask at this desk. We accommodate most requests."
"Most requests. Not all. There are limits even here."
"Thank you."
I moved toward the bar before he could dismiss me. The room was smaller than the lobby but no less elegant—dark wood, brass fixtures, shelves of liquor that looked older than my previous life.
The bartender was a woman with short hair and eyes that catalogued me the moment I sat down.
"What'll it be?"
"Whiskey. Whatever's good."
She poured something amber and expensive-looking without asking for clarification. The glass slid across the bar.
"One coin."
Half my remaining currency. I handed it over anyway. The drink was a prop as much as a pleasure—something to hold while I watched the room.
The whiskey was extraordinary. Smooth, complex, with a finish that lingered like a memory. Worth the price, if I'd been here to enjoy it.
I wasn't.
I was here to learn. To observe. To understand the ecosystem I'd been thrown into.
The bar had maybe a dozen occupants. Most kept to themselves, nursing drinks and their own thoughts. A few conducted quiet conversations—heads together, voices low, nothing that looked urgent but everything that probably mattered.
One woman sat alone at the far end. Dark hair, sharp features, watching the room with the same intensity I was trying to project. Our eyes met for a moment. She nodded once—acknowledgment, not invitation—and returned to her drink.
"Everyone here is dangerous. Everyone here is measuring everyone else. It's a room full of predators pretending to be civilized."
A man entered the bar. Mid-forties, expensive suit, the kind of haircut that cost more than my rent. He ordered something I didn't catch and took a seat two stools away.
"Haven't seen you before." His voice was cultured. East Coast money. "New to the city?"
"Testing. Probing. Trying to figure out what I am and who I work for."
"Just passing through."
"Ah." He smiled without warmth. "A lot of people passing through lately. Must be something in the water."
I didn't take the bait. Didn't offer information. Just sipped my whiskey and let the silence stretch.
The man studied me for another moment, then turned back to his drink. Interest fading. I wasn't useful or entertaining enough to pursue.
"Good. Forgettable is good. Forgettable keeps you alive."
I finished the whiskey slowly. Memorized the faces around me. Noted the exits, the sight lines, the way sound carried in the room. All the details that might matter someday when everything went wrong.
By the time I left, the bar had cycled through a dozen occupants. Coming, going, conducting the quiet business of death between drinks.
The lobby was busier now. More people moving through, more conversations happening in corners. The rhythm of a place that never really slept.
I passed the concierge desk on my way out. Charon caught my eye.
"Until next time, Mr.—?"
"Radcliff."
"Mr. Radcliff." He nodded once. "Enjoy your day."
The doorman stepped aside as I approached. Different man than before—shift change, probably. He didn't ask for a coin. Apparently, exit was free even if entrance had a price.
The street noise hit me like a wave. Normal sounds. Normal people. The world outside the Continental, where killing was illegal and gold coins were collector's items.
I'd done it. I'd walked into the assassin underworld's holy ground, paid my respects, and walked out again. One more step toward belonging. One more connection to the infrastructure that kept professional killers operating.
[NEXT MARKER ISSUANCE: 18 HOURS, 42 MINUTES.]
The System's reminder cut through my satisfaction.
Tomorrow. Another target. Another name appearing in my mind, another face I'd have to hunt, another life I'd have to take.
But that was tomorrow.
Today, I had one gold coin left, a new ability I was still learning to use, and the beginning of a network that might someday keep me alive.
The brand on my arm pulsed. Acknowledgment. Approval. The System recognizing progress without words.
I walked toward the subway, already planning my next move.
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