Chapter 58: The Contract is Sealed
The morning sky was overcast, the clouds like dough that hadn't risen, lazily pressing down on the street.
Ethan opened the clinic door and hung up the "Open" sign.
He had just taken off his jacket when—
Footsteps approached with an impatient voice: "Hey! Doctor, move it."
Ethan turned around.
Max had a cardboard box tucked under one arm, the other hand fighting with the scarf strangling her neck.
"This damn scarf is more suffocating than Caroline's business presentations."
"Max, you're up this early?" Ethan greeted.
"Please, I'm up this early every day. You're the rare sight." She sounded annoyed.
Max pushed into the clinic, set the cupcakes on the counter, and exhaled.
She looked Ethan up and down like checking an expiration date.
"Have you gotten fatter?"
Ethan: "…No."
Max snorted: "Exercised lately? Besides lifting a fork and hauling cupcakes out of boxes?"
"Of course." Ethan clung to his dignity.
"Great, tell me—what exactly?"
"Running."
Max raised a brow: "From kitchen to couch? Couch to fridge? Ten-foot marathons?"
Ethan thought of his recent workouts: "Commuting… and stairs."
Max folded her arms, eyes narrowed: "Has your heart rate ever exceeded what it hits during your 'intimate' moments?"
Ethan opened his mouth, then chose silence—arguing with Max was unwinnable.
"Eat less. I mean, two is fine, not twenty."
"I usually stop at three…" Three at a time; perfect excuse: "Your cupcakes are addictive."
"Someone with my self-control should never touch gambling or heroin."
Max's eyes narrowed, expression softening for half a second—she liked the compliment.
But the next instant her lips curled: "So it's my fault?"
Ethan: "…That's not what I meant."
Max waved as if accepting a verdict: "Fine, I'll take responsibility."
She stepped closer, as if to comfort him: "Since I made you fat, I'll help you lose it."
She pointed at the examination table behind the door, voice sultry: "Rare to catch you alone. Want some heart-rate-spiking exercise? I've got—" she checked her watch—"fifteen minutes."
Ethan blinked, heart racing, about to answer—
Ding!
The clinic door burst open; a blood-soaked man clutched his torso: "Doctor! I'm bleeding out!!!"
The mood dropped like ice water.
Max leapt back three steps, hands up: "You boys have fun. I'm outta here."
She spun and bolted, leaving only cupcakes and a trace of perfume.
Ethan turned to the bleeding patient, mood flipping from "about to get lucky" to "time to stitch flesh":
"…You had to come now? Couldn't wait fifteen minutes?"
The patient gasped: "I'm dying!"
Ethan replied coolly: "Dead's fine; I can resurrect you."
The patient stared—today the doctor seems pissed off.
Though the mood was ruined, Ethan treated the wounds with professional precision.
Considerate as ever: "I'll use minimal anesthetic and work fast—saves you money."
The patient was touched; he whimpered at first, then went numb.
Afterward he felt oddly energized, able to walk normally—he left cash and grateful thanks.
Morning drama over, Ethan cleaned the examination table—
Ding—
The bell chimed again.
A man in a charcoal suit entered silently.
His movements were so controlled he seemed more automaton than human.
Black leather gloves placed a thick envelope on the counter.
Its surface stamped in gold: "The Continental Hotel – Confidential – Manager Authorized"
The man spoke—polite yet emotionless: "Dr. Rayne, from this moment you and the Continental Hotel formally enter a neutral medical services contract."
He gave a slight nod, as though completing a ritual, then turned and left.
The bell chimed again; the door closed.
Ethan blinked—the Continental's efficiency is impressive.
He opened the envelope; the paper carried a faint scent of ink and metal.
Two neatly printed documents sealed with wax:
"Rayne Clinic Neutral Medical Agreement (Continental Hotel Special Provisions)"
[The clinic must provide impartial, confidential, non-partisan medical care to all Continental clients.
All fees must be paid in High Table gold coins; alternative payment methods forfeit High Table protection.
Medical records must never be disclosed to any government agency, organization, or individual.
The clinic may not actively participate in any factional conflicts.
Violation nullifies neutrality and constitutes interference with High Table order.
Effective immediately, signed by Winston Scott, Manager, New York Continental Hotel.
Stamped at bottom:
"We Serve, We Do Not Judge." – The Continental Hotel, New York]
Ethan stared at "We Serve, We Do Not Judge"—sounded noble, almost priestly.
He turned to the second document: "Continental Hotel Regulations (High Table Universal Code)"
Under the title, a golden line read:
[All who enter are bound by these rules.]
He skimmed:
Rule 1: No Business on Continental Grounds – Conducting assassinations on hotel property forfeits all protection; worldwide hunt authorized.
Rule 2: Right of Sanctuary – Registration grants immediate neutral protection; only the High Table can revoke.
Rule 3: Gold Coin Payment – Services rendered exclusively in Continental gold coins; coins represent contract and identity, not monetary value.
Rule 4: Neutral Service – The Continental must serve any protected individual without bias, secrecy violations, or refusal.
Rule 5: No Betrayal – Staff may not disclose, betray, or interfere in client affairs; violators forfeit all protections.
Rule 6: Marker Contracts – Blood marker contracts cannot be refused or broken; violation strips all rights and triggers unlimited pursuit.
Rule 7: Manager Authority – Managers enforce rules and maintain neutrality but cannot alter fundamental provisions.
Rule 8: High Table Supremacy – The High Table holds absolute legislative authority; armed defiance constitutes rebellion and warrants systematic elimination.]
Besides the two documents, a directory listed contact information; Ethan's clinic was included—only an address, no phone number.
At the bottom lay a small velvet pouch.
Inside: ten gold coins and a note—"From the day you sign, protection begins."
Ethan set the note aside and weighed the coins: "Enough to pay for ten body disposals. Payment ready—just need the corpses."
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