In the dark and relentless world of assassins bound by codes, hidden allegiances, and unbreakable oaths, Blood Oaths and Shadows offers a thrilling collection of interconnected short stories set within the legendary universe of John Wick. These stor...
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Rain cascaded down the darkened windows of The Continental Hotel, transforming Manhattan's neon glow into rivers of liquid light. Alex Gruner stood in the shadow of a neighboring building, his tailored black suit untouched by the downpour. To the underground world, he was known simply as "The Hand"—the High Table's most ruthless enforcer, a man whose very presence signaled that someone's time in this world was about to end.
A black Mercedes pulled up to the hotel entrance, and Alex's hand instinctively moved toward his shoulder holster. But it was just another guest, another killer seeking sanctuary within The Continental's hallowed walls. He took a final drag from his cigarette, crushed it beneath his polished Oxford, and stepped out into the rain.
The doorman—a retired cleaner named Torres—gave him a slight nod as he ascended the stone steps. No words were necessary; everyone in their world knew The Hand by sight, and wise men stayed out of his way.
The lobby hummed with the quiet energy that only a gathering of professional killers could generate. Small groups clustered in corners, conducting business in whispers. Lone wolves nursed drinks at the bar, watching reflections in mirrors and polished brass. All of them shifted slightly when Alex entered, like prey animals sensing an apex predator.
Charon stood behind the front desk, his permanent smile somehow both welcoming and knowing. "Mr. Gruner," he said, his Haitian accent precise and measured. "We've been expecting you."
Alex placed a gold coin on the marble counter. "Room 818, if it's available."
"But of course." Charon's fingers moved across his keyboard with practiced efficiency. "Though I must inform you that our new sommelier has acquired some rather interesting additions to his collection. Many guests find his current inventory... compelling."
"Perhaps later," Alex replied, taking the proffered key. "Tonight, I have other matters to attend to."
"As you wish, sir." Charon's smile never wavered. "Though I feel obligated to mention that several of our other guests have expressed... similar interests in your current endeavor."
Alex paused. "The Table sent insurance?"
"One never knows what the Table might send," Charon replied diplomatically. "I merely wish to ensure all our guests enjoy their stay. Without unfortunate incidents."
The elevator carried him to the eighth floor, Mozart's Requiem playing softly through hidden speakers. Alex allowed himself a grim smile at the appropriateness of the selection. The High Table's orders burned in his breast pocket like a brand, their ornate letterhead and flowing script concealing the brutality of their contents:
*Alex Gruner,* *You are hereby tasked with delivering the Table's justice to James Sullivan, found guilty of betraying our organization and its principles. Evidence has been verified. Sentence is final. No markers or negotiations permitted.* *The Table has spoken.*
