By the time Nate woke up, it was already three in the afternoon.
He grabbed the box of gold coins and left his room.
When he passed through the lobby, Charon was still behind the front desk, standing as straight as ever.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Lin.”
“Is the tailor available?”
“He works year-round.”
“I also need weapons.”
Charon nodded, his gaze resting on Nate for a moment.
“Please follow me.”
Nate followed Charon across the lobby.
The corridors of The Continental always looked the same.
Dark wood paneling, warm wall sconces, and subdued lighting.
Charon walked ahead at his usual unhurried pace.
“Mr. Lin.”
Charon suddenly stopped.
Nate stopped as well.
The click of high heels came from around the corner ahead, steady and precise as a metronome.
A woman stepped into view.
She wore a tight black dress with a plunging neckline, the cut closely following her slender figure.
Her long, wavy blonde hair was neatly tucked behind her ears, exposing her pale neck.
Her features were sharply defined, and she wore heavy makeup with dark red lipstick.
Perkins!
The assassin who had tried to kill John inside The Continental in the first movie.
She was still alive.
Did that mean the events of John Wick hadn’t started yet?
Perkins’s eyes swept over Charon before settling on Nate for half a second.
“Charon.”
Her voice was slightly husky.
“Ms. Perkins.”
Charon gave a small nod.
Perkins came closer.
Nate caught the scent of perfume mixed with the chill of the outdoors.
Had she just come back in?
“Quiet little heartthrob, aren’t you?” Perkins said with a smile.
Nate didn’t answer.
His attention was on the brass-knuckle ring on her hand.
Perkins noticed where he was looking, and the corner of her mouth curved slightly.
“Relax,” she said.
“I’m not interested in you.”
Her gaze moved past Nate and returned briefly to Charon.
Charon didn’t react at all.
Not even an eyelash moved.
Perkins shrugged and walked past them.
The clicking of her heels gradually faded down the corridor.
Charon resumed walking.
“She’s dangerous,” Nate said.
“Every guest here is dangerous,” Charon replied.
“Otherwise, they wouldn’t be staying here.”
“I mean…”
“I know what you mean.”
Charon didn’t look back.
His voice remained as even as if he were reading from a menu.
“Ms. Perkins hasn’t begun her current assignment yet. Her contract is still on its way.”
Nate’s brow shifted slightly.
“What does that mean?”
“It means…”
Charon stopped and turned toward him.
A remarkably subtle expression crossed his face, somewhere between a warning and a hint.
“Tonight, she’s merely out for a walk.”
“Got it.”
Perkins wasn’t a threat to him yet.
Or rather, his bounty probably wasn’t high enough to interest someone like her.
She was a warning of what was coming.
Like the first gust of wind before a storm.
It couldn’t hurt you, but it was a good sign that you should close the door.
Charon continued leading the way.
They crossed the final stretch of corridor and stopped before a black wooden door.
There was no room number or sign, only a small brass handle polished to a mirror shine.
Charon knocked three times.
Two short knocks, then one long.
The door opened.
An elderly man stood on the other side.
He wore a white Henley shirt beneath a black tailor’s apron.
His face was deeply lined, and his hair had gone completely white, though it was neatly combed.
Nate noticed that his blue eyes were remarkably clear.
“Ah, a customer.”
His voice was much stronger than Nate had expected.
Charon stepped aside.
“This is the tailor. He’ll take care of you.”
He gave the tailor a nod, then withdrew to wait outside.
The tailor opened the door wider.
“Don’t stand in the doorway. There’s a draft in the hall.”
Nate stepped inside.
The room was far larger than he’d expected, at least twice the size of a standard suite at The Continental.
A huge cutting table occupied the center of the room.
A length of dark gray fabric was spread across its surface, covered in dense chalk markings.
A torso mannequin stood near the window, dressed in a half-finished suit.
Finished suits hung along the walls in colors ranging from charcoal gray to navy to pure black.
Every one of them was immaculate, as crisp as if it had just come off the ironing board.
The tailor walked behind the cutting table and placed both hands on its surface.
His eyes traveled over Nate from head to toe, then back up, finally stopping on his shoulders.
“Good build. Forty-two long,” the tailor said.
“No. Forty-three. Your left shoulder is two millimeters higher than your right.”
“You can see a difference of two millimeters?”
The tailor ignored the question.
He picked up a silver measuring tape marked in both inches and centimeters.
“Take off your jacket.”
Nate removed it and draped it over the back of a nearby chair.
The tailor approached, the measuring tape moving through his hands as though it were alive.
He measured Nate’s shoulders, chest, waist, arms, wrists, and neck.
Each time he finished a measurement, he called out the number while an attendant standing nearby wrote it down.
“Forty-three-inch chest,” the tailor said.
“Thirty-one-inch waist. Half an inch narrower than standard. You get a lot of exercise, young man.”
“I do all right. I’m a chef.”
“Oh. That explains it.”
The tailor gave a small hum, moved behind Nate, and measured the width of his back.
Then he suddenly asked, “Bulletproof?”
“Yes.”
“Any special requirements?”
“Reinforce the joints, but keep them flexible. I need to be able to move.”
“Certainly.”
The tailor walked to the wall and pulled open a drawer.
More than a dozen fabric samples were neatly arranged inside, each made from a different material.
He selected two and placed them on the cutting table.
“The first.”
He pointed to a dark blue fabric.
“Kevlar blend. It’ll stop nine-millimeter Parabellum and handle .45 as well. Relatively inexpensive. The drawbacks are weight and heat. Wear it in summer and your shirt will be soaked under the arms.”
“The second.”
He indicated the charcoal-gray fabric.
“Carbon nanotube composite. Lightweight, thin, flexible, and excellent once tailored. Sewn into the lining, it will stop conventional rifle rounds from penetrating. It can only reduce the kinetic energy, though, not eliminate it. Getting shot will still feel like being hit with a hammer.”
Now that was the kind of technology you only found in this world.
“Can I see it tested?”
At the tailor’s signal, the attendant placed the fabric over a mannequin, went into the back room, and returned with a rifle.
Bang!
Bang!
Bang!
Three shots.
Nate walked over to inspect the result.
The rounds hadn’t penetrated the fabric, but the mannequin’s chest had been caved in considerably.
“How much?”
“Twenty gold coins for one suit.”
Nate’s eyebrows moved slightly.
That was his only reaction.
The tailor nodded and set the fabric aside on the cutting table.
Then he took another silver measuring tape from the drawer, finer and more delicate than the first.
“Stand straight,” he said.
“Don’t breathe.”
Nate took a deep breath and held it.
For a while, the only sounds in the room were the soft slide of the measuring tape and Nate’s own heartbeat.
“All right. Breathe.”
The tailor measured him again, going over each area carefully.
About ten minutes later, he finally set the tape down.
He wrote the last few numbers on a sheet of yellow drafting paper, tucked his pen behind one ear, then planted his hands on his hips and looked at Nate.
“Two days,” he said.
“When it’s finished, someone will deliver it to your room.”
“Can’t you rush it?”
“I can,” the tailor replied.
“But people die that way.”
“How?”
“If I rush the stitching, the shoulder seam can fail. If the shoulder seam fails and a bullet strikes there, your collarbone shatters. If your collarbone shatters, you can’t raise your gun. If you can’t raise your gun, you die.”
He said it as casually as if he were explaining that a man who didn’t eat would eventually starve.
Nate was silent for a second.
“Two days?”
“Two days.”
Nate counted out twenty gold coins from the box, stacked them neatly, and placed them in the tailor’s hand.
The tailor’s eyes brightened when he saw the box of coins.
It was the strongest reaction Nate had seen from him since entering the room.
“A generous customer,” the tailor said approvingly.
“People are getting stingier these days. Everyone wants to haggle over a suit.”
“Really?”
“A Russian came in last month.”
The tailor shook his head as he put the coins into a drawer and locked it.
“He paid the deposit, then kept calling me asking for a discount because he was a regular customer.
“I’ve been a tailor for more than forty years. I’ve never given anyone a discount. He wasted several days haggling over the price. By the time I finished the suit, he was already gone.”
The tailor shut the drawer, dusted off his hands, and turned back to Nate.
The professional precision returned to his gaze.
“Measurements taken. Fabric chosen. Payment received.”
He paused.
“Now there’s only one question.”
“What?”
The tailor walked to the door and opened it.
Light from the hallway spilled into the room, drawing a sharp boundary across the carpet.
“Choose a color.”
Nate stood in the doorway.
Sunlight streamed through a window at the far end of the corridor.
It was already half past three, and the afternoon sun had begun sinking westward, casting a warm amber glow through the hall.
Nate thought of the protagonist in the movies.
“Black.”
The tailor smiled.
Not the polite smile of someone dealing with a customer.
This was genuine satisfaction, the expression of a craftsman who had just heard the correct answer.
“Classic,” he said.
“Black never lies, and it never disappoints.”
Nate nodded and stepped into the corridor.
Charon was still waiting outside.
As soon as Nate emerged, he spoke quietly.
“Someone else is waiting for you. Please follow me.”
…
The armory was on the third basement level.
Nate followed Charon to the end of another corridor, where they stopped before an iron door fitted with a peephole and a doorbell.
Charon rang the bell.
The peephole darkened for a moment.
Then the iron door slid open.
A tall blonde woman stood on the other side.
Her hair was tied into a low bun, exposing her long, slender neck.
Her features were finely defined, with slightly raised brows and pale lips.
A fitted black dress gave her an elegant, sharp appearance, and a thin scar was barely visible near her neckline.
“This is Jennifer,” Charon said with a slight nod.
“You may call her the Sommelier.”
“Nate Lin.”
The young man introduced himself.
Jennifer raised her eyes to him.
Her gaze was calm, and her voice carried the same polished elegance shared by The Continental’s staff.
“New face. What do you need?”
Nate stepped inside.
Weapons covered all four walls from floor to ceiling.
Pistols, rifles, knives.
Every piece was meticulously maintained, their surfaces gleaming beneath the cold overhead lights.
“I need a short blade that’s good for both slashing and thrusting, plus throwing knives.”
Nate drew the pistol he’d taken from one of his enemies and placed it on the counter.
“And for this, I need a holster, three magazines, and two hundred rounds.”
Jennifer took the pistol.
Her thumb ran lightly over the slide.
When she saw the manufacturer’s mark, a rare smile touched her lips.
“AREX. Their products have always been reliable and precise. Is this one of their latest models?”
“…Not sure. I took it off someone.”
Nate hesitated for a moment, then decided there was no reason to lie.
“Honest,” Jennifer said, pursing her lips slightly.
“But less interesting than I’d hoped.”
She placed the pistol on the workbench and walked toward the wall of blades.
“Your knife.”
Her fingers passed over several hilts before stopping on one.
She removed it from the wall and presented it flat across her palm.
Nate drew the blade and examined it carefully.
The handle was fifteen centimeters long, while the blade was just over forty.
Its shape resembled a shortened Tang-style sword, with a straight blade finished in matte black and a deep fuller running along its length.
Fine serrations lined the rear section of the spine.
The handle was wrapped in non-slip cord, and a metal ring protruded from the pommel.
“Night Blade III. Special steel. Extremely durable blade, exceptionally sharp edge.”
Jennifer tapped a point about two centimeters in front of the grip.
“Center of balance is here. It handles well in both an ice-pick grip and a hammer grip. The ring on the pommel can take a lanyard to keep you from losing the weapon.”
Nate took the knife and rotated his wrist.
The blade carved a circle through the air with a low hum.
It was slightly heavier than the boning knife, but the balance and handling were on an entirely different level.
“Very nice. What about the throwing knives?”
Jennifer removed three throwing knives from a magnetic strip on the wall and laid them side by side.
Each was fourteen centimeters long, double-edged, with shallow grooves cut into the blade.
She picked one up, flicked it lightly with her fingers, and sent it spinning three times through the air before catching it cleanly.
“They’ve been specially balanced. Where do you normally carry your throwing knives?”
She slipped each knife into its sheath and placed the set beside the short blade.
“Forearm,” Nate said after thinking for a moment.
Jennifer took a finely made black forearm rig from behind the counter and laid it down.
“This wraps around your forearm. The pull ring is here. Hook it over your middle finger. Straighten that finger when you need the knife, and it’ll release from the sheath into your hand.”
She paused.
“It takes practice.”
Nate strapped the rig onto his forearm and tested it.
The throwing knife released almost as quickly as retrieving one directly from his System Backpack.
Opening the System Backpack during a fight could break his concentration, though.
The forearm rig would be more practical in an emergency, and it could also help conceal the existence of the System Backpack.
Jennifer returned to the workbench and began servicing the pistol.
Her movements were fast and practiced.
Disassemble.
Inspect.
Oil.
Reassemble.
The entire process flowed without a wasted motion.
Then she searched through a drawer and took out a black holster and several small black boxes.
“I gave it a quick service. The pistol’s in good condition. This is the manufacturer’s holster and magazine carrier. Both are angle-adjustable.”
She placed the equipment on the counter.
“Three factory nineteen-round magazines, with matching magazine pouches.”
She loaded the magazines, then slid each one into its pouch with crisp clicks.
“Short blade, throwing knives, holster, magazines, and ammunition.”
Jennifer wrapped everything in dark gray cloth and pushed the bundle toward him.
“One gold coin.”
That was surprisingly reasonable.
Nate took out a coin and slid it across the counter.
Jennifer glanced at it and smoothly swept it into a drawer.
“If the blade gets dull, bring it back. Sharpening is free. If you run out of ammunition, you can buy more at the supply station on the first basement level.”
She paused.
“Oh, and since this is our first meeting…”
Jennifer took a small box-shaped knife about the length of her palm from the wall.
She pushed the switch forward.
The blade snapped straight out.
She pulled it back.
The blade retracted into the handle.
“Microtech OTF knife. They’ve become quite popular lately.”
She offered it to Nate.
“Consider it a small gift.”
Jennifer looked at him again, a friendly smile on her face.
“Happy hunting.”
Nate tucked the cloth bundle beneath his arm and nodded.
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
Jennifer had already turned away to reorganize the wall of knives, her posture slender and straight.
Nate looked at Charon.
“Does the hotel have a shooting range?”
“Of course. Third basement level. Would you like me to show you the way?”