New York – Continental Hotel
Smith and Fox entered the Continental after handing two gold coins to the doorman.
Without pausing in the lobby, Smith led Fox straight down toward the underground bar.
At the front desk, Charon noticed them heading downstairs and immediately picked up the phone.
"Manager Winston, the Smith you asked me to watch for just arrived with Fox. They're headed to the bar."
"Got it."
After hanging up, Charon muttered:
"Good thing I eat and sleep in this hotel... no need to step outside."
Winston, after hanging up, rubbed his temples and muttered aloud:
"Why are those two here?"
"Don't tell me those maniacs from the Brotherhood are planning to hit the Continental."
"Or maybe some poor bastard pissed off Smith again…"
As manager of the Continental's New York branch, Winston was more than familiar with the Assassin Brotherhood. Eighteen years ago, they were known for bizarre and inexplicable killings—but then, they suddenly changed their ways. Now, they exclusively targeted the wicked—crime lords, serial killers, and the like.
In New York alone, countless crime syndicates and unpunished maniacs had fallen to the Brotherhood, and not once had they failed.
The hotel, along with several crime organizations, had reported this to the High Table, but they had merely sent a single adjudicator to talk things through—then let it go.
Winston had heard rumors, though: supposedly, when the High Table was founded, they invited the Brotherhood to join—offering even a seat as an Elder. But the Brotherhood declined.
The Brotherhood had also taken out many registered killers—especially Smith Dole, who had a notorious track record of killing Black assassins. It seemed to be a personal preference.
Still, as long as no killing occurred inside the hotel, Winston didn't concern himself. But… if Smith was here to ID someone, that might be different.
Winston picked up his pace.
After paying another two gold coins, Smith and Fox entered the underground bar.
Inside, all eyes—some casual, others cautious—turned to them.
Though killing was forbidden in the Continental, and the bar was a hub for information, every assassin instinctively sized up new arrivals.
When they saw it was Smith Dole, most looked away—or raised a glass in greeting.
But several Black assassins instantly turned their backs, stood up to head to the restroom, or pulled down their hats.
Fox observed the reactions around them and leaned close to Smith:
"You're practically a Black-hunter assassin now."
"You scared the hell out of those guys."
Smith chuckled:
"Isn't our job to cleanse the world of filth?"
"Those ones? Every single one deserved it."
Fox nodded seriously. This place was full of contract killers—none of them innocent. Kill one, save many. No regrets.
Still, Fox had long noticed Smith's clear disdain for Black assassins. Ever since the Brotherhood found out, they'd quietly stopped recruiting Black members altogether.
Smith stepped up to the bar and spoke to the bartender, Eddie:
"Two Thunder Bourbons."
Eddie poured them two glasses of whiskey and joked:
"Smith, business always slows down a bit whenever you show up here."
"I bet word's already spreading—'Black assassins, don't come to the Continental this week.'"
Smith shrugged:
"I actually hope they all come hide here. Killing's forbidden, right?"
Eddie chuckled wordlessly. "Hiding here"? More like giving Smith time to memorize their faces and hunt them later.
"Anything I can help you with?"
The entrance fee also doubled as a payment for information. Any lead could be bought in the bar.
Smith pulled out a piece of paper and drew the Four-Star Dragon Ball, saying:
"If anyone asks about this—or anything like it—send them my way."
Eddie looked at the drawing:
"A crystal ball with stars in it, huh? Got it."
As Eddie walked away, Fox asked curiously:
"What was that?"
"And what about this 'show' you promised me?"
Before Smith could answer, Winston approached with a warm greeting:
"Mr. Smith. Ms. Fox."
Smith raised his glass:
"Manager Winston. Long time no see."
Fox nodded:
"Mr. Winston."
Winston snapped his fingers, signaling Eddie to return.
"Eddie, bring out my bottle of 1972 Macallan. I'd like to offer these two a drink."
Smith raised an eyebrow:
"Winston, that year's Macallan isn't cheap."
Winston smiled:
"Even the finest wine exists to be drunk."
"And what's better than pairing a fine drink with a hero? For the two of you, it's a small thing."
Eddie returned, placing three glasses before them.
Smith took a sip and said:
"This year's Macallan is solid. But I hear the 1926 vintage is the real gem."
Winston laughed:
"That one's nearly impossible to find. And even I wouldn't dare spend what it costs."
Smith nodded—it went for over 2 million pounds. Practically priceless.
Winston continued:
"We run a platform. In theory, that places us outside the Brotherhood's purview."
"So Smith, I trust you're not here to break hotel rules."
Smith looked at him, then shrugged:
"You really think we came to take down the New York Continental?"
"Honestly, I think your rules are pretty good."
Winston smiled in relief:
"Thank you."
Just then, Fox said:
"The Continental just posted a new contract—two million dollars."
"Smith, is that the show you mentioned?"
(End of Chapter)
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