William was starting to feel the wine when Book approached him.
She had no idea how he’d done it, but that didn’t affect his mission verification.
At most, she’d file a note.
The rest wasn’t her problem.
Book led William back to the private room and handed him a new phone.
This one was the real deal.
Every new public contract would arrive via text message.
William’s first thought when he took the phone: This thing’s got a tracker, doesn’t it?
Given how the High Table always seemed to find people, he figured he was probably right.
Then came a long, familiar oath.
It felt like reciting a company mission statement.
After that, William was dismissed to do whatever he wanted.
The Continental wasn’t in a rush.
Either he’d make a name for himself and get enough data collected, or he’d die trying.
For now, William was just another rookie.
Before he even left, the money hit his account.
He had no idea when they’d set it up for him.
William walked out.
Now he had two problems to solve: where to live and what to eat.
His assets had grown to a whopping one thousand four hundred sixteen dollars.
Congratulations all around.
He went back to that familiar coffee shop.
An iced Americano.
He even splurged on a sandwich.
Six bucks.
William pulled out his phone and saw a completely different interface.
An app.
He opened it.
Pretty comprehensive features: news, mission board, bounty section, information registry.
It was, well, a front page.
It gave him major front-page website vibes.
There were even registration requirements.
You couldn’t accept jobs without the right level.
But the bounty section was public.
Anyone could browse.
The headline in the news section was pinned at the top.
John Wick Officially Retires from the High Table Society.
The post was from a week ago.
One simple sentence.
And the comments section had exploded.
Nothing but WTF and question marks.
Looked like William had arrived early.
He hadn’t caught Wick’s rampage yet.
William checked the information registry.
It was bare-bones.
So this was what Book had been filling out earlier.
Then he noticed something.
He couldn’t change his occupation.
No choice at all.
Staring at the two bold characters in his job field, “Assassin,” William felt a headache coming on.
But hey, life goes on.
He’d just have to make some money.
The job title probably wouldn’t affect his ability to take contracts, right?
William started looking for his first real gig.
Level one jobs were mostly security, bodyguard work, or deliveries.
Finally, he found a target.
A warehouse cleanup on a side street.
Eight thousand dollars.
The client was a crew called A-Z.
The deadline: before sunrise tomorrow.
It was the only cleanup-related job he could find.
Being a rookie, William didn’t know that disposal work was almost always kept in-house or assigned to trusted contacts.
Outsourcing was rare.
Cleaners operated on referrals.
The better you were, the more you charged.
Take Arthur’s crew out of New York City, for example.
With their top-tier skills, they were paid in Continental coins and had partnerships with local Hotels.
William wasn’t at that level.
He was a solo act.
Taking the subway and hoofing it, he arrived at the job site an hour later.
A sunglasses-wearing guy in a jacket was waiting there.
When he saw William show up carrying just a bucket and mop, he looked visibly unimpressed.
Outsiders really were unreliable.
But he had no choice.
Might as well let the kid try.
The man waved off any conversation, verified the mission code, and gestured for William to get to work.
He didn’t even ask for his name.
William pushed open the warehouse door and groaned.
This was going to be a pain.
A dead guy sat slumped in a chair.
Around him, William counted at least six bodies lying in pools of blood.
Looked like they’d been protecting him.
The worst part?
These people were sloppy.
Blood everywhere.
Definitely bladed weapons.
Local gangs really had no manners.
William stared at the white-and-yellow mess on the floor and wondered just how deep the bad blood ran between these two crews.
On one side, bodies were neatly arranged with white sheets covering them.
On the other, corpses were scattered like discarded trash.
It was obvious who the winners and losers were.
A professional might have analyzed the wounds and cause of death from the blood spatter.
For William, it was all the same.
Just a difference between easy to clean and hard to clean.
This was clearly a big job.
He felt underpaid, but he was broke.
The sunglasses guy sighed after sending William inside.
He knew it was a tough gig.
But he was broke too.
He turned to his remaining man and gave the order.
“When he’s done, check his work.
If it’s garbage, take him out too.” The newly promoted boss had been hoping to establish a connection with a proper Cleaner.
Instead, he got some clueless kid.
Annoying.
Cleaners were the unsung backbone of the underworld.
Not flashy, but essential.
Otherwise, the cleanup fines alone would bankrupt you.
Yes, in this world, if you left evidence behind, you paid a penalty.
Usually handled through the local Continental Hotel, but the cost always came back to you.
Why not just use Hotel services directly?
Because if you could afford it, you would.
Everything at the Continental ran on gold coins.
You either earned them or bought them.
The price varied.
A small-time crew like theirs, barely controlling one block, could only take a gamble.
The big man at the door nodded and took up position at the warehouse’s only exit.
At least they were giving the kid a chance.
Bad for business if word got around that they shot first and asked questions never.
William didn’t care what anyone else thought.
He was going to nail this job.
Simple reason.
He was poor.
Poverty was a disease.
Staring at the blood-soaked warehouse, William turned and opened the door.
The guard outside jumped.
What the hell?
Giving up already?
His hand instinctively went to his back, ready to pull the trigger.
William noticed the movement but didn’t comment.
He just asked, “Where’s the water?” The guard blinked.
Oh.
Not giving up.
Close call.
He pointed to the utility sink and went back to his post.
Looking at William’s plain, honest face, you’d never guess there were at least three bodies on the floor with his fingerprints all over them.