Chapter 57: Continental Hotel
"Fifty gold coins—what's that in cash?" Ethan couldn't help asking about the exchange rate.
"It can't be converted," John Wick said flatly. "Gold coins buy what money can't."
"In some hands they're priceless; in others, they're worthless."
Still worth something, right? They're gold, after all! Ethan thought to himself.
He kept that to himself and merely nodded. "Thanks for the heads-up, Mr. Wick. But I'm not raising my prices."
"Why not?"
Ethan shrugged. "Conflicts with my principles: 'A man must know what he will and will not do.'"
John clearly wasn't familiar with the reference.
Ethan simplified: "It's not about what you can do, it's about what you choose not to do."
Seeing John still looked uncertain, Ethan gave up. "Doesn't matter.
What matters is you take care of your wife. I can take care of myself."
"If some billionaire insists on paying millions, fine—but that won't determine who I treat."
John studied him a moment, saw he meant it. "All right, Doctor. Good luck."
He stepped toward the door, then turned back.
"I'll recommend your clinic to the Continental and keep an eye on you these next two weeks."
"…No need."
Ethan declined politely, but this man wasn't one to be dissuaded.
"Suit yourself."
Ethan watched John Wick leave with his wife.
He'd felt a tiny flicker of temptation—just a flicker—quickly smothered by two greater principles.
Neither Holy Light nor Shadow bothers distinguishing "ordinary" from "privileged."
They sort by faith, by understanding, by resilience.
Holy Light asks only for belief—not wealth or status. Believe, and it responds.
Its wielders range from noble paladins to peasants, beggars, even reformed criminals.
As for Shadow—it never refuses anyone, but it consumes the weak.
So drawing lines between rich and poor simply wouldn't work for Ethan.
And the dangers John mentioned—rival physicians, powerful crime lords—Ethan wasn't overly worried.
Rational people don't antagonize the only doctor who might save their life.
But if some lunatic did come "interfering," would a shadow priest with years of experience be intimidated?
'Freedom belongs to those willing to pay its price'—Shadow's creed.
Still… Ethan warned himself, John's reminder was timely; he'd better sharpen his Shadow abilities.
Lately he'd over-specialized—Holy Light nearly perfected, Shadow barely developed.
True to his word, the next day the clinic received an unexpected visitor.
A dark grey sedan glided to a silent stop outside.
A middle-aged man in an impeccable dark suit, hair perfectly styled, collar crisp, moved like a gentleman emerging from a five-star funeral parlor.
He paused at the door, tilted his head, and knocked three times—very politely.
Extremely courteous knocking.
Ethan opened the door.
The man smiled, voice refined: "Dr. Rayne?"
"…Yes." Ethan reflexively hesitated. "If you're selling life insurance, I already declined one yesterday."
The man merely inclined his head.
"My name is Winston. Manager of the New York Continental Hotel."
Ethan's eye twitched.
Well, here comes the power broker.
"I believe we have… matters to discuss."
He swept his gaze inside.
The space was neat, medical cabinets gleaming softly; a faint antiseptic smell mingled with cupcakes—unusual.
It looked utterly ordinary, yet he already knew it wasn't.
Ethan stepped aside; Winston entered.
"Dr. Rayne, if I may say—your clinic is… distinctive."
He sat down gracefully.
"We've noticed," Winston murmured, "an associate recently received your treatment here."
Ethan pressed his lips together. "True—and honestly, I didn't know they were connected to your organization beforehand."
"Dr. Rayne, there are two kinds of establishments that attract people from our world."
"One is a morgue."
"The other… is where miracles occur."
Ethan: "…"
"Yours is decidedly not a morgue."
Ethan: "…Thanks?"
Winston continued observing, eyes calm yet penetrating:
"Some say you're… more than a physician."
"They say your methods… transcend conventional medicine."
"So," Winston interlaced his fingers, "we wish to establish a professional relationship."
"Hold on, I'm not joining your organization."
"No." Winston met his gaze. "We're not recruiting you."
"Good, because I don't shoot people, don't eliminate targets, and don't clean crime scenes. At most I clean wounds."
"Precisely why," Winston smiled, "we need you to remain neutral."
"The Continental would like Rayne Clinic to serve as the neutral medical facility for New York."
Ethan blinked.
Winston elaborated:
"Like our tailors, armories, vault keepers, archivists… you'll be another protected professional service. We only ask that you preserve lives."
Ethan frowned: "So assassins will come here for medical care?"
"If they can compensate you appropriately," Winston's smile was mild. "Don't worry, they rarely default on payment."
"And the pricing?"
"Entirely at your discretion."
Ethan: "That simple?"
"Dr. Rayne," Winston leaned in, voice soft, "we require a medical facility, and you… are the ideal candidate."
Ethan stayed silent for three seconds. "What if I refuse?"
Winston lifted his chin slightly.
"Our associates will still come."
"Because someone has already vouched for you."
"And in our world—his endorsement carries more weight than gold coins."
Ethan: "…"
Winston stood, smoothing his cuffs, preparing to leave.
"I'll send documentation in the next few days outlining the 'protocols.' Simple guidelines that won't disrupt your practice."
He paused, looked at Ethan, and for the first time showed genuine respect:
"Thank you for existing."
"The underworld never expects miracles."
"Yet you… have provided one."
Ethan clarified: "I'm just a doctor."
Winston smiled gently:
"Ordinary doctors don't cure terminal illnesses."
Ethan stayed silent—how did the entire criminal network find out so fast?
Winston gave a polite nod:
"Have a peaceful evening, Dr. Rayne."
He left; the car glided away soundlessly.
Ethan stood alone in the clinic, lamplight stretching his shadow long across the floor.
"Am I becoming the underworld's personal priest?"
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