Chapter 12: Twelve Gold Coins
John, who'd fallen to the ground, glanced at the gauze—now soaked through with blood again from the torn sutures.
"Sorry. Muscle memory. Looks like I'll need you to re-stitch that.
Don't worry, I'll pay you the full twelve coins."
David shrugged, unsurprised, then stepped forward and helped John onto the exam table:
"I'm curious—doesn't that kind of reflexive response hurt whoever's sleeping next to you?"
Hearing David's question, John's eyes darkened:
"She's gone."
David, having learned something significant, didn't stop working. While cleaning the wound, he asked:
"Sorry to hear that. Was it... work-related?"
John shook his head, his expression distant with memory:
"No. Cancer."
David skillfully cut the broken sutures and pulled them from beneath the skin:
"Then you must miss her terribly. Did she leave you anything?"
Whether from physical pain or emotional pain, John's jaw tightened slightly:
"Helen picked out a Beagle puppy for me. Named her Daisy. She thought... the dog would keep me from being alone."
David nodded. Since Daisy was still alive, it meant John Wick's story hadn't officially begun yet.
The current John was simply injured during a contract.
Which meant David wouldn't get caught up in John's inevitable storm of violence.
However, at this point, John should be preparing to leave the profession.
David, momentarily distracted by this thought, accidentally brushed John's wound.
John hissed sharply:
"Whiskey would really help right about now."
David smiled, refocused his attention, finished the sutures, and covered the wound with fresh gauze:
"You should actually avoid alcohol with an open wound.
But an assassin doesn't need companionship. Sounds like you're planning to retire."
John didn't deny it. He sat up from the exam table and pulled on his black suit jacket:
"Yeah. She didn't approve of what I do. For her... this is my last contract."
Then John extracted twelve gold coins from his pocket and placed them on the blood-stained instrument tray.
"Your payment. I hope we don't cross paths again."
David smiled knowingly and picked up the twelve coins:
"Of course. If possible, I'd prefer not to see you again either. I wish you a peaceful retirement."
"Thank you. Goodbye."
Watching John's retreating figure, David hefted the gold coins in his hand.
Pure gold. Enough to get by for a while.
As for John's future, David didn't want to interfere.
The assassin business had always been kill-or-be-killed.
Working as an after-hours doctor at the Continental Hotel was one thing, but binding himself to John Wick was something else entirely.
David shook his head, temporarily shelving the idea of moonlighting at the Continental.
Then David dredged up information about a black market dealer from his predecessor's messy memories.
Most of the previous David's recreational drugs had come from that source.
If you had money, you could get military-grade weapons from Eastern Europe, let alone some experimental cancer drugs.
Soon, ten gold coins were exchanged for experimental glioblastoma medications and prescription painkillers.
David also purchased a black-market Glock 17—simple design, easy maintenance, reliable performance.
In a country that championed the Second Amendment, not having a firearm for self-defense was asking for trouble.
After politely declining the propositions from working girls lingering on the midnight streets, David checked into a budget motel and got a single room.
Without hesitation, he dry-swallowed half a bottle of painkillers.
Under their influence, he finally got a decent night's sleep for the first time in years.
The next day, David returned to the hospital eagerly awaiting critical cases.
But Chase was already absorbed in the New York Times crossword, while Foreman stared blankly into space at his desk.
Cameron sat at her computer, frowning at her inbox.
David didn't even see House anywhere.
Everyone seemed to have absolutely nothing to do.
Only then did he remember—this was apparently normal for Diagnostic Medicine.
Rare and complex diseases existed, certainly, but there were plenty of days with nothing happening.
And the diagnostics team was always on standby, never assigned other duties.
So everyone could only wait here, bored out of their minds.
But what they were waiting for, David couldn't afford to wait for.
David's life was still ticking away every single moment. Waiting was wasting what little time he had left!
David glanced at Cameron, who looked conflicted as she read her emails. He remembered that many difficult cases came through email, but House deliberately ignored most messages.
Cameron, however—who handled House's correspondence—was too kind-hearted to ignore people's desperate pleas.
She was probably struggling with whether to forge House's signature and schedule an appointment with the patient.
With this in mind, David stood and walked to Cameron's side, adding weight to tip the scales:
"Letting medical talent sit idle is a massive waste of resources. I think we should help House manage his email backlog."
Cameron turned around, startled to see the intern who'd previously had virtually no presence.
In her experience, on patient-free days, this intern would disappear somewhere to slack off and wouldn't reappear until lunch or the end of shift.
Why had David suddenly become so proactive since yesterday?
Seeing Cameron's surprised look, David smiled:
"Don't worry. House loves challenging cases."
Cameron nodded, made her decision, and began replying to emails.
Foreman, who'd been zoning out nearby, perked up after hearing David's comment, looking for entertainment:
"Kid, you've been here what, a few days? And you think you've got House figured out?
I think compared to rare diseases, House would rather stare at hot girls in low-rise jeans.
Want to bet on it? Ten bucks says House chews Cameron out for overstepping.
Oh wait—you probably don't even have ten dollars, do you?"
David smiled, pulled out one of his two remaining gold coins from yesterday, and tossed it onto the conference table:
"Want to bet? I'll wager one gold coin that House won't blame Cameron for taking initiative."
A gold coin?
Foreman's eyes widened. He hadn't expected someone who came from foster care and survived entirely on academic scholarships to have this kind of wealth.
Shouldn't David be like him—broke, with no savings, everything earned through hard work?
How had this kid suddenly transformed into someone with Chase-level money?
Foreman was completely baffled.
"Where the hell did you get a gold coin?"
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