New York Continental Hotel.
Smith and Fox stepped inside after handing the doorman two Continental gold coins.
Once through the doors, Smith didn't stop 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."
"Alright, 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 unlucky bastard ticked off Smith again."
As manager of the New York Continental, Winston had a decent understanding of the Assassin's League. Eighteen years ago, they were known for random, inexplicable killings. But somewhere along the way, they changed course—now only targeting those with a long list of sins: notorious criminals, corrupt figures, monsters who escaped justice.
In New York alone, gang leaders and uncaught serial killers had all met their end at the hands of the League—without a single failure.
The Continental, along with a few gangs, reported this to the High Table. But the only response was sending an Adjudicator to talk with the League. After a brief conversation, they left without taking any action.
Winston had even heard whispers that the High Table once offered the League a seat—an Elder position—during its early formation. The League refused.
Of course, several registered Continental assassins had also been killed by League operatives. Among them, Smith Doyle stood out—he'd taken out an unusually high number of Black assassins, and it sometimes felt intentional.
Still, as long as no blood was spilled within the hotel, Winston didn't care. But was Smith here to scout out targets? That thought quickened his pace.
······
After paying two more Continental coins, Smith and Fox entered the underground bar.
The moment they walked in, all the assassins present glanced their way—some out of habit, others with intent.
Though killing was strictly forbidden inside the Continental—especially in the intelligence-rich bar area—assassins still instinctively checked out new arrivals.
When they recognized Smith Doyle, some nodded in greeting or even raised a glass.
But a few Black assassins quickly turned away, headed for the restroom, or used hats and hoods to obscure their faces.
Fox noticed it all and leaned in, whispering:
"You're practically a boogeyman to them now."
"Look how nervous those guys are."
Smith chuckled lightly.
"Our job is to cleanse the filth of this world, isn't it?"
"Not one of them was an accident—they all earned what they got."
Fox nodded seriously. Everyone here was a killer. Mercenaries. No innocents. Whether any of them lived or died didn't really matter.
Still, Fox couldn't help but notice that Smith seemed to harbor a particular dislike for Black assassins. In fact, rumor had it that after noticing Smith's preference, the Assassin's League stopped recruiting Black members altogether.
As they spoke, Smith walked up to the bar and said to the bartender, Eddie:
"Two Thunder Bourbons."
Eddie poured two glasses of whiskey and grinned.
"Smith, every time you show up, our business dips."
"I bet they're all texting other Black assassins to stay away for the next few days."
Smith shrugged.
"Honestly, I'd love it if everyone came here to hide out. It's safe, after all—no killing allowed."
Eddie chuckled dryly. Hide out? More like walk into a trap. Smith probably memorized every face and waited for them to leave.
"Anything I can help you with?"
The entry coin wasn't just a cover charge—it was also a payment for intel. Assassins could request information here.
Smith pulled out a piece of paper and sketched a four-star Dragon Ball on it.
"If anyone comes asking about this—or anything like it—send them to me."
Eddie took the paper, gave it a look.
"Crystal ball with stars inside?"
"Got it."
As Eddie walked off, Fox leaned in, curious:
"What's that?"
"And is that the 'fun' you mentioned earlier?"
Before Smith could answer, Winston arrived and greeted them warmly.
"Mr. Smith. Ms. Fox."
Smith raised his glass.
"Manager Winston. Been a while."
Fox added, "Good to see you again, Mr. Winston."
Winston snapped his fingers, and Eddie came over.
"Eddie, bring out that bottle of 1972 Macallan from my private stash. I'd like to offer Mr. Smith and Ms. Fox a drink."
Smith raised an eyebrow.
"Winston, that year's Macallan isn't cheap."
Winston chuckled.
"The point of fine whiskey is to be enjoyed."
"And good wine is best shared with legends. For you two, it's worth it."
Soon, Eddie returned with three glasses of whiskey and placed them on the counter.
Smith took a sip after a quick sniff.
"This is good. But I've heard the 1926 Macallan is the real legend."
Winston laughed.
"That one's nearly impossible to find—and even if I did, I wouldn't dare drink it. Costs a fortune."
Smith didn't press. A 1926 Macallan went for around £2 million and was incredibly rare.
Winston continued:
"For someone like me—just running a platform for assassins—I should be safe from the League's attention, right?"
"So, Smith, you're not planning to break the hotel's rules, are you?"
Smith looked at him and shrugged.
"You don't really think we're here to take down the Continental, do you?"
"As for the rules—I actually like them."
Winston smiled.
"Glad to hear it."
Then Fox chimed in:
"There's a new contract—just got posted. Two million dollars."
"Smith, is that the excitement you were talking about?"
······
—End of chapter —
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