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Moonie Fisher was still far from being satisfied, but she knew very well how to deal with someone like Henry — the kind of man who responded better to a soft hand than a hard shove.
With people like him, you had to test their limits, push slowly, one step at a time.
Try to force too much too soon, and you'd only earn resentment.
On the other hand, she understood something else: once someone entered the Continental's system, started using its services and connections, they would inevitably get pulled in deeper.
And the deeper they went, the higher the price they'd have to pay.
Everything in their world followed equivalent exchange.
So there was no rush.
While Moonie fell silent in thought, the hotel's resident physician — the elderly man who had just performed surgery — gave Henry a strange look and asked:
> "Kid, are you trying to steal my business?"
Henry waved his hands quickly.
> "No, no — I'm not planning to stay in the hotel. I want to set up my own medical station outside, maybe something like a black clinic.
"There should be plenty of people who can't go to proper hospitals. I can offer services to them — under the Continental's name, or however you prefer to frame the partnership."
Staying in the hotel as a resident doctor might mean fewer hassles, sure — but it also meant being caged.
Everyone who entered the Continental had already been filtered once; Henry didn't want to limit himself to that kind of clientele.
He wasn't just planning to treat bullet holes and stab wounds, and he didn't want to be bound by the hotel's walls.
Opening an external practice suited his goals far better.
Besides, Los Angeles had been a mess lately — that much even old Gary had reported.
Not every wounded person could just slap on a bandage or stroll into a clean, legal hospital.
And that meant there was work for a black-market doctor.
As for whatever trouble that might bring?
Henry would deal with it as it came.
After all, this was new ground — new types of people, new kinds of cases.
Even a super-intelligent mind couldn't predict every variable in an unfamiliar environment.
Moonie didn't respond right away.
Instead, she gave a small glance toward Charlie, the aging gunman who was always talking about retirement.
> "He's your guest," she said. "Teach him the rules yourself. As for the FBI issue — I'll handle it."
Without waiting for Charlie's reaction — which looked as if he'd just swallowed something disgusting — Moonie turned and left with her staff.
The administrative details — logging credits, calculating payment — were handled by others.
Charlie shuffled up to Henry, scratching at his unshaven chin, looking regretful.
> "I'm starting to think I should've just shot you back at that Black congressman's place."
Henry chuckled.
> "You couldn't have."
> "I know," Charlie said with a scowl. "Even if I'd used that vampire or the mutant, it'd probably be the same damn result. But if I'd pissed you off, at least all this crap today wouldn't be my problem."
Henry tilted his head.
> "That woman — Ms. Fisher — even if we don't know each other well, how many chances do you think she'd give you after something like that?"
Charlie sighed deeply.
> "Don't remind me."
Then his tone turned serious.
> "Listen. Registering as a Continental servicer isn't complicated.
"You just need a sponsor to vouch for you, decide what type of service you'll provide, and then leave a contact location or number to be recorded in the hotel's service directory.
> "Once you're registered, though, you have to follow the High Table's rules. You do have the right to refuse a request — but only before a coin is presented.
> "If someone offers you a coin within your service field, you can't refuse. The only acceptable excuse is that you're already busy serving another coin-holder.
> "If you get caught refusing clients too often, the Continental will remove you from its registry — and after that…"
He trailed off, his smirk fading as he looked at Henry's bullet-riddled but intact clothes.
Like a rooster who'd just lost a fight, Charlie muttered:
> "Let's just say, all services will be permanently closed to you."
Henry nodded thoughtfully.
> "So, for example — if I register as a healer, and someone comes to me asking to buy guns, I can refuse. But if they come to me for treatment, I can't turn them away, right?"
> "Exactly," Charlie said. "You don't ask how they got hurt, and you don't ask who they are. You treat them — unconditionally.
> "The only exceptions are those officially blacklisted by the High Table or the Continental. If you accept a coin from a banned target, you'll be branded a traitor right alongside them."
Henry absorbed that for a moment, then asked:
> "And once I accept a coin, I can't charge anything else on top of that? Coins don't exactly buy groceries."
> "Servicers can't demand additional payment," Charlie said. "That's the rule.
"If you're short on cash, the Continental offers a standard exchange rate — one coin for ten thousand dollars.
> "Sure, you might find some private deals with better rates, but hardly anyone does that. The coin's value isn't really about money — some services simply can't be bought with cash, no matter how much you have."
It was just like a bank buying and selling gold — the purchase and buyback prices were never the same.
That spread existed to stop people from flipping coins for quick profit.
Now that Henry understood the responsibilities and obligations, he didn't resist the idea of working with the Continental.
He still wasn't sure what hidden pitfalls might lie behind their rules, but for now, it was the most reasonable way to resolve his FBI problem.
At least it didn't involve him being set up as the fall guy — or being forced into open conflict with the authorities and spiraling into the role of a villain.
If something could be solved through deals and intellect, there was no need to resort to violence.
Even though his Kryptonian mind knew brute strength was the fastest solution, it wasn't always the best one.
Having thought it through, Henry asked:
> "So, you're my sponsor then?"
Charlie shook his head and pointed at Henry's pocket.
> "Nope. The person who gave you your first coin is."
> "Mr. John Wick?"
> "The Russians call him Baba Yaga," Charlie said flatly.
Henry feigned surprise, though he already knew the name.
> "Ah, that guy."
> "Yeah," Charlie nodded. "He didn't give anyone a coin asking for favors, but since he gave you your first one, no one's stupid enough to make trouble for his referral."
Henry raised an eyebrow.
> "So I've basically landed myself a pretty solid backer, huh?"
Charlie poured a whole bucket of cold water on that thought.
> "Don't get cocky. That goodwill only buys you one favor — just this once.
> "If you piss off the wrong people, you'd better hope Baba Yaga himself is standing right beside you.
"Otherwise, whatever's coming… is still coming.
> "And don't forget — he runs things in New York. You're in Los Angeles."
Henry sighed dramatically.
> "What a pity."
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