When Anthony woke up the next morning, the heavy clouds had finally broken, leaving the New York sky a brilliant, bruised blue.
He had just finished filling Helen's bowl with premium dog food when his burner phone rang.
The caller ID displayed the front desk number of the New York Continental.
"Good morning, Lord Tarasov," Charon's voice came through the receiver, smooth, elegant, and carrying the signature detached professionalism of the Continental.
"The Adjudicator's Enforcers have completed the restructuring of the Tarasov syndicate. All rebellious captains and potential destabilizing elements have been permanently eliminated from the board."
Anthony didn't respond immediately. He walked over to the living room window, looking out at the rain-soaked grass in his small front yard.
"Is the board as clean as a freshly wiped window?" he asked, a faint smile touching his lips.
"It is significantly more thorough than that, sir," Charon replied. He paused for a fraction of a second, as if carefully weighing his next words. "However... the Adjudicator has stipulated one final condition before your succession is officially ratified by the High Table."
"To definitively prove your loyalty and your adaptability to our world, you are required to personally execute two innocent targets. Yes. Innocent civilians. It is an old, dark tradition of the High Table. They believe you must willingly stain your hands with pointless blood to truly comprehend the absolute price of the power they are giving you."
Anthony's knuckles instantly turned white where he gripped the window frame. The veins in his forearm bulged against his bandages, but his breathing remained perfectly steady.
He remembered the collateral damage he had witnessed in Afghanistan. He remembered the sheer, animal terror in Winnie Pritzker's eyes when the Bratva thugs cornered her in the hotel. He remembered the agonizing grief in John Wick's eyes the night he lost his puppy.
When the High Table had tested John Wick's loyalty so he could retire, Viggo had given him an "impossible task"—a mass slaughter of rival mobsters.
Anthony had never imagined that the High Table's test to enter the life would require the cold-blooded murder of random, innocent civilians.
But he understood the brutal logic behind it. If he took the Tarasov throne but refused to pass this psychological test, the Adjudicator would instantly classify him as a moralistic threat—a loose cannon—and order his immediate execution.
That was exactly why the High Table hadn't punished him for killing Iosef, Viggo, or even Perkins yet. They were waiting to see if he could be broken and molded into a compliant monster first.
"Are there specific operational requirements?" Anthony asked. His voice was terrifyingly calm, devoid of a single ripple of emotion.
"The targets must be completely unrelated to you. No prior history, no enemies, no business competitors. A truly random act of violence," Charon instructed, his voice carrying a microscopic hint of sympathetic hesitation. "Once the task is completed, you may present yourself at the Continental."
"Anthony..." Charon dropped the formal title, speaking man-to-man. "I must warn you. Once you cross this specific line, there is absolutely no turning back. The Adjudicator stated... if you choose to withdraw right now, the High Table will simply parachute in a proxy Administrator. You will be left with nothing, but you will be allowed to live a peaceful civilian life."
A peaceful life?
Anthony almost barked a laugh.
Since the moment he woke up in this universe inside the body of Anthony Tarasov, "peace" had become the most absurd, luxurious fantasy imaginable.
He was destined to either become John Wick's greatest enemy or his greatest ally. There was no middle ground.
Furthermore, by slaughtering the vault guards and executing Perkins, he had already shattered the High Table's laws. If he suddenly showed weakness and rejected the Tarasov throne now, the High Table wouldn't let him live in peace. They would simply send waves of assassins to his house until he was dead, tying up a loose end.
"For me, Charon, the rules of the High Table have never been about making choices," Anthony said, his voice dropping to a low, cold rasp. "They are only ever about survival."
There was a long, heavy silence on the other end of the line.
"I understand," Charon said softly, his voice returning to its flawless, indifferent mask. "Please remember, Lord Tarasov... the Continental Hotel always welcomes guests who abide by the rules."
The line clicked dead.
Anthony stood by the window for a long time. Helen abandoned her food bowl and padded over to him, lying quietly across his boots, as if she could sense the freezing, murderous aura settling over the room.
The blood of the innocent...
The High Table always used the most elegant, bureaucratic language to disguise the most barbaric, sociopathic demands.
But Anthony was not without options. He was a tactician. He knew how to exploit a loophole.
An image flashed through his mind: Blake.
Blake was the mid-level executive at Sterling Pharmaceuticals. He was the secret lover of Winnie's treacherous half-sister, Christine, and the primary architect of the conspiracy to destroy Winnie's reputation and steal her inheritance.
Blake had meticulously planned to hire Bratva thugs to ruin Winnie's life, and potentially kill her.
In Anthony's personal dictionary, a man like Blake had absolutely forfeited his right to breathe.
The High Table demanded the blood of someone who wasn't a "competitor or enemy" of the Tarasov syndicate. Blake was a civilian corporate executive. He fit the technical criteria perfectly. The High Table didn't actually care whose blood was spilled, as long as they saw Anthony spill it on command.
"Helen, stay here and guard the house," Anthony said. He changed into a dark, tailored overcoat that easily concealed his shoulder holster, and tucked the suppressed Walther P99 into his waistband. "Daddy needs to go farm some stats."
The streets of downtown Manhattan were slick with rain, reflecting the dazzling midday sunlight.
Anthony pulled up a dossier photo of Blake on his burner phone. He memorized the man's arrogant, sculpted features in two seconds, then deleted the file.
He drove his armored Pathfinder to the financial district, parked legally, and walked confidently into the towering glass-and-steel administrative lobby of Sterling Pharmaceuticals.
He approached the sleek marble reception desk and offered the young receptionist a charming, entirely disarming smile. "Good afternoon. I'm here regarding the new purchasing contracts. I need to see Mr. Blake."
The receptionist tapped her keyboard, checking the digital logs. She offered a polite, apologetic smile. "I'm sorry, sir, but I don't see your company listed on Mr. Blake's appointment schedule for today."
Anthony leaned casually against the counter. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a thick, unsealed envelope, revealing stacks of crisp hundred-dollar bills. He slid it discreetly across the marble, winking at her.
The receptionist's eyes widened fractionally. She seamlessly slid a folder over the envelope, her professional smile never wavering. She lowered her voice. "Room 383. Third floor."
"Thank you, darling," Anthony murmured.
He walked over to the polished steel elevator bank and watched the digital floor indicator tick downward.
Ten seconds later, the elevator chimed. The heavy doors slid open. Anthony took two steps back to allow the passengers to exit.
Two men stepped briskly out of the elevator, moving with the self-important urgency of corporate executives heading to a power lunch.
One of them was a man in his mid-thirties, wearing a bespoke Italian suit with the collar rakishly unbuttoned. His hair was perfectly, expensively tousled, and he was gripping a black leather Tom Ford briefcase tightly in his left hand.
Anthony blinked in mild surprise.
Well, isn't that incredibly convenient?
It was Blake.
"Hey! Mr. Blake!" Anthony called out loudly, his voice echoing across the cavernous marble lobby. "I think you dropped something!"
The shout instantly drew the attention of the receptionist, several passing executives, and the two armed, uniformed security guards standing near the revolving front doors.
Blake stopped, an annoyed scowl crossing his face. He turned around, glancing dismissively at Anthony, then looked down at the pristine marble floor. There was nothing there.
"The fuck are you talking about?" Blake snapped arrogantly. "What did I drop?"
"Your life," Anthony grinned, his eyes going dead.
He drew the Walther P99 with blinding speed.
Before anyone in the lobby could even register the presence of a firearm, let alone process the shock, Anthony pulled the trigger.
Pfft!
The suppressed gunshot was a sharp, mechanical cough.
Anthony didn't hesitate. Before Blake could even open his mouth to beg, the 9mm hollow-point struck him perfectly between the eyes. His head snapped back, and he collapsed like a marionette with its strings cut, blood pooling instantly on the white marble.
"AHHHHH!"
The receptionist unleashed a blood-curdling scream that echoed off the glass walls, diving frantically beneath her desk.
The executive who had been walking with Blake froze completely in place, his face drained of all color, staring at the corpse in absolute, paralyzed terror.
The two security guards finally snapped out of their shock. Their faces went pale, and their hands scrambled clumsily for the heavy revolvers holstered at their hips.
Why would Anthony give them the time to draw?
The Adjudicator had demanded he execute two innocent people to prove his loyalty. Since these guards were technically innocent civilians just doing their jobs, this was the perfect opportunity to fulfill his quota and farm some extra system points.
Buy one, get three free.
Anthony pivoted smoothly into a modified Weaver stance.
Pfft! Pfft!
Two rapid shots. The first guard took a round directly to the sternum, dropping instantly. The second guard caught a bullet in the throat before his revolver even cleared leather.
Anthony calmly walked over to Blake's twitching corpse and fired two more insurance rounds directly into the man's chest cavity, ensuring the executive was permanently deleted.
A familiar chime echoed in his mind.
[Hostiles Eliminated. Attribute Points +4.]
Anthony calmly pulled out his burner phone. He recorded a quick, ten-second video of Blake's ruined face and the dead guards, panning the camera to prove the kill.
He gave a jaunty, two-finger salute to the terrified receptionist cowering under her desk, holstered his weapon, and casually walked out the front doors into the New York sunlight.
Back in the Pathfinder, Anthony merged seamlessly into the chaotic Manhattan traffic.
He attached the video file to an encrypted message, sent it directly to Charon at the Continental, and tossed the phone onto the passenger seat.
Two minutes later, the burner phone rang. It was John Wick.
"You did it?" John asked. His voice was utterly blunt, carrying a heavy, dark weight.
Anthony grunted affirmatively, steering the SUV with one hand. "Buy two, get two free," he said nonchalantly.
"Fuck," John breathed heavily into the receiver. "Do you have any idea what you've just done? You crossed the line, Anthony. You killed civilians."
Anthony's expression hardened. "Tell me something, John. Is it a sin to kill the target they assign you? Or is it a sin to kill the man who is actively threatening the people you care about?"
There was a long, incredibly tense silence on the other end of the line.
"Anthony," John finally said, his voice dropping to a gravelly, pleading whisper. "Do not let them turn you into the monster they want you to be."
Anthony sighed, abruptly changing the subject. "John, you want to grab a bite to eat? I know a great diner. My treat."
"I do not dine with madmen," John refused coldly.
"You need to calm down, John," Anthony laughed, a dry, humorless sound. "Because I honestly don't know how much longer you have until they force you to go completely crazy again."
John's breathing hitched slightly, suddenly growing rapid. "What exactly do you know, Anthony?"
"I know that I don't fully understand why they're doing this to you," Anthony said, pulling the Pathfinder over to the curb and putting it in park. "But I know this: once you step back into the dark, the High Table is never going to let you walk back into the light."
"Oh, and by the way? You need to warn Marcus. He actively sabotaged Viggo to protect you. The High Table knows that now. He is absolutely going to become a target. You two should probably move in together."
Silence fell over the line again. Heavy, suffocating silence.
"Is it because no one currently has the courage to come after me directly?" John finally asked, his voice a lethal, barely restrained whisper.
"You are the Baba Yaga, John. You are the right hand of Death," Anthony said truthfully. "There is no syndicate, no faction on this planet that dares to openly challenge your legend in a frontal assault."
"But you want to know the terrible truth about being a legend, John?" Anthony leaned his head against the steering wheel. "A legend who refuses to die makes the people in power tremble in their sleep. They are terrified of you."
"So, they won't attack you directly. They'll use the rules to break you. For example... what do you think would happen if a certain Italian boss suddenly showed up at your front door, and used a Blood Oath Marker to force you to assassinate a member of the High Table?"
Anthony's voice turned chillingly grim.
"Would you even have a choice?"
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