Inviting Professor Connors to join his ranks hadn't been difficult.
After all, there was a big difference between Ryan and Norman Osborn.
The Sullivan Family, one of the thirteen seats in New York's underground world, had existed for decades — many mortals even knew its name.
With the pressure from Osborn balanced by the Sullivan Family's combination of carrot and stick, Professor Connors hesitated only two minutes before signing an allegiance with Ryan.
Almost immediately after the agreement, Connors arrived at the gene lab in Presbyterian Hospital and resumed his Lizard Serum experiments.
The hospital's lab wasn't as well-equipped as Osborn Group's, but with the decay formula in hand Connors' experiment was already ninety percent complete. Temporarily, the facility would do.
In the original story, Connors would continue his work even in the city sewer system; there was precedent for the makeshift.
Ryan didn't allow Connors into Osborn Group yet — he had plans for that place, and it was wiser to keep this recruitment secret from Norman for the time being.
By evening, Ryan had already finished dinner with Gwen — the usual movie, a stroll — and only relent when three consecutive calls from his father-in-law forced him to send Gwen home.
Two blocks from her building, Frank and the action team were waiting.
Frank had assembled 120 operators; they converged on Ryan in a silent protective convoy.
Dozens of vehicles rolled through the night and pulled up at the Irish Mob's stronghold in Hell's Kitchen: the Green Hat Nightclub.
Sitting in the sleek car, Ryan looked at the neon façade and smirked. "Frank, are you sure this is the Irish Mob's headquarters?"
"Yes, boss." Frank kept his eyes on the road.
"Is this place legitimate?"
"It is. The Green Hat's name ties to Irish St. Patrick's celebrations."
"Alright, I was ignorant. Let's move."
Ryan's palm flashed, and under his Divine Sense a hundred and twenty streams of light slid into his operators — Demon-Suppressing Talismans he'd crafted with the Pure Yang Golden Bell's power.
They were specifically designed to counter evil and demonic Qi.
With Ryan's current Foundation Establishment cultivation, a single talisman could kill a Vampire of Earl level outright and grievously wound a Vampire Marquis.
Once embedded in his team, the talismans protected them from evil influence and served as an auxiliary lethal weapon against Vampires for a limited time.
Frank let out a low snort of approval, sheathed his ballistic knife, and climbed out. On his order, the team moved with military precision to encircle the nightclub.
Eliminating the supernatural threat would be straightforward: Frank's personal strength combined with the trained action team made the Irish Mob an easy target.
Ryan had no interest in wading through street-level scuffles himself; his attention was on something sharper — a killing intent that had lingered around him all day.
Cold, precise, patient. From the feel of it, this presence was a talent not unlike Frank — lethal and restrained.
Whoever it was had been watching Ryan for a full day. Either the daytime commotion kept them from striking, or they were waiting for the perfect moment.
Now, standing outside the club, that presence had reached its peak. Appreciative of talent, Ryan decided to give whoever it was a chance to strike.
He opened the car door and stepped out.
Across the street, on a rooftop eight hundred meters away, a man focused through an 8× scope. In the lens Ryan waved and smiled.
"Fuck!" the man hissed. The sight of that casual wave sent a needle of cold dread up his spine as his finger curled toward the trigger.
He knew he was going to die if he squeezed. His hand — a hand that could stab three men cleanly with a pencil — trembled.
"Night Devil. John Wick. The Russian Mafia sent you, didn't they?" a playful voice said from behind.
John Wick rolled instinctively. He drew a pistol, gripped it with practiced steadiness, and locked onto the newcomer's vitals like a predator.
But when he turned and saw the man's face, cold sweat blossomed on his brow.
It had taken less than a second. In that sliver of time, the target in the scope had vanished — and the target now stood calmly behind John Wick.
Ryan looked as serene as ever.
"Don't worry, I'm not a ghost," he said. "My appearance is just a little trick — Five Ghosts Transporting."
He raised his hand and showed the taiyin jade ring on his finger.
John Wick's confusion hardened into alarm. What the hell did this guy know about Five Ghosts Transporting?
For Ryan, the show was losing its luster. It wasn't fun to flaunt tricks in front of someone who'd already read them. Maybe it would be better to skip the theatrics altogether.
He considered killing him then and there.
But the man's presence had been interesting — precise, patient, skilled. Ryan's lips twitched. Talent deserved at least a moment of appreciation before being snuffed.
"Stay still," Ryan said softly. "You're not paid enough to be reckless."
John Wick's eyes narrowed, every muscle coiled.
He weighed the odds in the silence: the rooftop, the angle, Ryan's calm. Out there, outside the glare of neon and the noise of nightlife, two predators held each other's attention.
Tonight the Green Hat would see blood, one way or another.