John Wick - Chapter 36: That Man (Patreon)

1:30 p.m., New York Continental Hotel, first-floor lobby.

The elevator doors opened, and the light refracting through the lobby's crystal chandeliers briefly dazzled Nate's eyes.

He instinctively squinted.

Then he saw that man.

John Wick stood beside the front desk, tall and imposing in a perfectly tailored black suit. His black hair was neatly tucked behind his ears, and a fresh cut marked his face.

There was no anger in his eyes. No sadness either.

And yet, a quiet melancholy seemed to cling to him.

Charon slid something across the counter. John took it, picked up his case, and turned around.

Winston went to meet him.

He didn't offer a handshake. He simply stopped half a step in front of John and tilted his head slightly to look up at the taller man.

They held each other's gaze for two seconds.

Then Winston lightly patted John's arm.

“Jonathan.”

“Winston.”

“It's been a long time.”

Winston tilted his head, signaling for him to follow.

Nate stood rooted to the spot, his heartbeat so loud he could hear it in his own ears.

A voice inside his head was practically screaming.

It's him.

That's John Wick!

It's really him. Damn, he's cool!

Nate was doing everything he could to keep his expression under control, but there was no hiding the excitement on his face.

His feet felt nailed to the floor.

Henry had to give him a shove before he finally snapped out of it and followed.

Nate didn't greet John.

He didn't even dare make eye contact.

How could he describe the feeling?

It was like meeting your favorite celebrity from his previous life, except Nate's reaction was probably even worse than the average obsessed fan.

In his previous life, he had watched every one of John Wick's movies.

He hadn't only seen John mowing people down with guns.

Through the camera, he had also seen John at his lowest. Beaten bloody, staggering through the rain while clutching his wounds before collapsing to his knees.

He had seen him kill with a pencil.

With a book.

With a car.

He had killed more than four hundred people because of his dog.

Scenes from the movies kept flashing through Nate's mind.

And now the man himself was only a few meters away.

Several people near the elevators greeted Winston. He waved them off, and they tactfully cleared the way.

The group turned into a corridor.

The lighting there was dimmer than in the lobby. Amber wall lamps cast their glow across the wooden paneling, making the entire hallway look as though it had been soaked in the chemicals of an old photograph.

Light and shadow split John's face in half, one side warm gold, the other nearly black.

He remained silent.

At the end of the corridor stood a door.

The security guard stationed there saw Winston and immediately opened it.

Behind it was a staircase spiraling downward.

Nate caught the distinctive smell of an underground space.

Old wood.

Leather.

And the faint lingering scent of whiskey.

The smells mingled together and hung heavily in the air, as though they had accumulated there for decades.

The Continental's underground bar.

The lighting was kept low, casting a muted sheen over the dark red leather booths.

Countless glasses had polished the brass bar top to a mirror-like shine.

There weren't many people around at this hour, and even the bartender hadn't started his shift yet.

Winston chose a booth against the wall and motioned for John to sit.

John didn't sit immediately.

First, he surveyed the room.

“Not much has changed.”

Winston smiled.

“You know me. I'm sentimental.”

Henry pulled over a chair some distance away and lit a cigarette.

Nate sat beside him with his back against the bar.

From this angle, he had a perfect view of John's profile.

Winston took two glasses and a bottle from behind the bar.

He didn't bother asking what John wanted. He simply poured two fingers of bourbon into each glass.

He pushed one toward John, picked up the other, and took a sip.

John didn't touch his.

“Viggo Tarasov's son,” John said.

His voice had that unmistakable rasp, like wood worn smooth by sandpaper.

Winston slowly turned his glass in his hand without speaking.

“I need to know where he is.”

Winston set his glass down and tapped twice on the table.

Neither fast nor slow.

Almost as though he were keeping count.

He looked up at John.

The usual faint amusement was gone from his face.

He could hear the anger beneath John's voice.

“Do you know what you're doing?”

It wasn't really a question.

John didn't answer.

His silence was answer enough.

Winston sighed.

For just a moment, Nate saw the old man's shoulders sink slightly before straightening again.

“You've been out for five years,” Winston said. “Five years, Jonathan. You know better than anyone how hard it was to get out. You finally made it ashore. Don't jump back into the water.”

John finally reached for the glass.

He picked it up but didn't drink.

He simply stared at the amber liquid inside.

“He killed my dog.”

Something shifted ever so slightly in Winston's expression.

Like a pebble disturbing the surface of still water, the ripple appeared and vanished in an instant.

“All this for a dog?” Winston asked.

John raised his eyes.

For the first time, Nate saw emotion in them.

It was like a dark current moving beneath a sheet of ice.

The surface was still calm.

But what lay underneath could no longer be contained.

It was grief.

And when grief reached a certain point, what it turned into was terrifying.

“He broke into my home and killed my dog. She was a gift from Helen.”

John's voice never rose.

Every word came out cold and hard, as though soaked in ice water before striking Nate's ears.

Winston remained silent for a long time.

Nate sat nearby, separated from them by only a table.

At this distance, he could clearly see the lines around John Wick's eyes, the dark stubble along his jaw, and the hand wrapped around his glass.

The knuckles were prominent, marked by old scars.

Those were the hands that had killed more than four hundred people in the movies.

Yet now they rested quietly around a glass of bourbon, belonging to what looked like nothing more than a tired, ordinary middle-aged man.

Something tightened in Nate's chest.

He knew more than everyone else here.

He knew what this man was about to endure.

He would be hunted.

Betrayed.

Thrown into the deepest depths of hell, only to claw his way back out.

He would lose friends.

Lose the last proof of the love he'd once had.

And in the end, exhausted and covered in wounds, he would die fighting for his freedom.

But Nate also knew there was no stopping him now.

Because everything that followed began with a dog.

Except it wasn't just a dog.

It was the final gift of love left behind by his dead wife.

Winston probably understood that too.

He leaned back in his seat, shifted position, and crossed one leg over the other.

The posture made him look more relaxed.

But his fingers tapped lightly against his knee.

It was a habit of his whenever he was calculating something.

“Viggo has hidden his son,” Winston said.

John's expression didn't change.

“He still owns plenty of businesses in New York. Bars, casinos, several transportation companies.” Winston took a sip of bourbon. “But his son won't be at any of them. Viggo knows you'll come looking.”

“I don't care. Where is he?” John's voice was cold and hard.

“The Red Circle Club.”

John stood.

“Sit down,” Winston said.

John didn't.

He looked down at Winston, his height alone creating a natural sense of pressure.

Winston didn't move an inch.

He simply raised his head and met John's gaze.

The two stared at each other like opposing slabs of stone.

“Sit down, Jonathan.”

John slowly sat again.

Winston poured a little more bourbon into his glass.

This time, John picked it up and took a drink.

His Adam's apple moved as the liquor went down, but his shoulders didn't relax in the slightest.

Winston spoke with a trace of resignation.

“I have a proposal. Hear me out first.”

He set the bottle down.

It touched the table with a soft clink.