Inside the penthouse suite of the Continental Hotel, the ambient air was so suffocatingly thick and stagnant it felt as though you could wring physical water out of it.
Gramont stood rigidly before the floor-to-ceiling windows, his back turned to the room. He actively tapped his manicured fingers against the heavy glass pane, one calculated tap after another, maintaining a highly irregular, anxious rhythm known only to him.
"Seven days," Gramont suddenly broke the silence, his voice carrying a deeply suppressed, vibrating calm. "I am absolutely unwilling to wait seven days."
The Adjudicator looked up from her ledger, her dark eyes projecting zero emotional fluctuation.
"The strictures of the law are absolute, Marquis de Gramont," her voice cracked through the silence like glacial ice. "The Bowery King's official eviction period currently possesses four remaining days."
"The law?" Gramont slowly turned around, a freezing, deeply cynical smile tugging at the corners of his bruised mouth.
"The law operates as a localized net strictly to capture the peasantry. It is not a religious artifact for apex predators like us to blindly worship. Furthermore..."
Gramont smoothly walked over to the antique liquor cabinet and poured himself a precise measure of raw whiskey.
"I am merely proposing that the mandated execution of his punishment be aggressively accelerated. The Bowery King explicitly violated a foundational High Table directive. Whether the sentence is carried out in seven days or three days, the geopolitical result remains mathematically identical. Since the ultimate result is identical, why can the execution not be brought forward?"
The Adjudicator watched him in absolute, unblinking silence.
Gramont took a slow, deliberate sip of the amber liquid.
"Your officially sanctioned localized agent completely refuses to respect the boundaries of my authority. He is actively making me deeply, violently angry. Can you not simply grant me the bureaucratic bandwidth to vent my localized frustrations?"
Gramont sneered. "Or is that pathetic, ragged pigeon-keeper currently hiding under a Brooklyn overpass another proxy agent you actively wish to politically support?"
"Your localized behavior will absolutely not frighten Anthony Tarasov, Marquis," the Adjudicator replied, her tone perfectly flat. "My psychological assessment indicates he operates on the exact same kinetic wavelength as you."
"The singular deviation is that you desperately attempt to maintain the kinetic initiative, whereas he violently seizes the kinetic initiative. He is currently acting with absolute, feral recklessness strictly to protect his own survival."
"Precisely," Gramont set his crystal glass down heavily on the marble and aggressively shoved his hands into his trouser pockets. "I merely wish to provide him with a highly visible, visceral demonstration of exactly what occurs when the rules are fundamentally broken."
"I want Anthony to watch with his own two eyes. I want him to fully comprehend that within our sovereign system, even if you are the undisputed underground monarch of the New York intelligence network... you are still mathematically required to drop to your fucking knees and accept your punishment."
The Adjudicator turned her gaze back out the window. "You wish to physically mutilate the Bowery King strictly to serve as a localized psychological deterrent against Anthony."
"Why not?" Gramont spread his arms wide, a dark, theatrical grin splitting his face. "Do I not possess the executive authority to do so?"
"The Bowery King operates as a localized 'monarch' entirely outside the sovereign system. Anthony operates as a localized 'noble' actively seated within the system. I explicitly wish to demonstrate to the nobility exactly what happens to the monarchs. Does that not perfectly align with the High Table's strict mandate regarding educational deterrence?"
Gramont slowly closed the distance, standing shoulder-to-shoulder beside the Adjudicator.
Their opposing reflections were perfectly cast against the reinforced glass, looking exactly like two violently opposing marble sculptures.
"Marquis de Gramont," she stated slowly, her voice dropping into a lethal whisper. "You are actively attempting to weaponize the foundational laws to settle your own petty, personal vendettas."
"No." Gramont shook his head softly. "I am aggressively upholding the absolute, terrifying authority of the laws. The Bowery King broke the rules; therefore, he mathematically requires punishment. Anthony Tarasov violently crossed my operational line; therefore, he mathematically requires a severe reprimand."
"I am simply combining the two localized tasks to maximize operational efficiency."
The Adjudicator slowly turned her head, staring intensely at his bruised profile for several agonizing seconds.
"So. You have successfully engineered an alternative vector to deal with Tarasov?"
Gramont smiled. There wasn't a microscopic trace of genuine human warmth in the expression.
"Regardless of what occurs in New York, the sovereign entity currently residing in the deep Sahara will undoubtedly provide John Wick with a catastrophic education. If the Elder genuinely grants the Excommunicado a pardon... wouldn't my existence in New York become incredibly boring?"
Gramont leaned closer. "Truthfully? I actively do not want John Wick to receive his salvation. But I deeply, desperately want to watch him be forced to personally execute Winston and Marcus with his own two hands."
He looked directly into the Adjudicator's expressionless face and grinned broadly.
"You have absolutely no idea how deeply conflicted my current psychological state is!"
The Bowery. Rooftop.
Upon receiving his formal "invitation" to serve on the Adjudicator's localized "jury," Anthony deliberately chose not to travel in the High Table's armored Maybach convoy.
He arrived at the Bowery King's geographical stronghold twenty minutes early. He casually strolled up to the rusted railing of the elevated rooftop, staring down at the sprawling, filthy intelligence kingdom below.
The Bowery King stood ten meters away, watching Anthony's relaxed posture with an incredibly cold, hostile glare.
"If it weren't for your localized connection to John Wick, my network would absolutely never have permitted you to breach this perimeter," the King rumbled deeply.
Anthony let out a short, highly condescending laugh. "Trust me, old man. Absolutely nobody actively desires to visit a localized rat hole that smells like pigeon shit."
Anthony didn't even bother turning his head to face the King. "You fundamentally do not need to grant me localized entry out of respect for John. You are granting me entry strictly out of terrifying respect for the Adjudicator."
Anthony casually raised a hand to shield his lighter from the freezing wind and sparked a cigarette.
"Bowery King. I am officially serving as a High Table juror today." Anthony exhaled a thick plume of gray smoke into the freezing air. "I highly suggest you prepare yourself to receive the Table's localized blessing!"
Anthony threw his head back and genuinely laughed out loud.
"You're nothing but a pathetic High Table lapdog," the King's massive right-hand enforcer hissed with absolute venom. "I fundamentally cannot comprehend how a man like John Wick associates with a corporate suit like you."
Anthony casually flicked a long ash over the rusted railing, a dark, freezing smile touching his lips.
"Then I strongly suggest you mount a localized resistance."
Anthony spun around abruptly, his eyes locking onto the massive enforcer with absolute, terrifying malice.
"Your sovereign king is scheduled to receive seven ceremonial, high-carbon cuts today. Do you possess the sheer, biological courage to draw your weapon and attempt to stop it?"
Anthony took a slow drag of his cigarette. "If you are too fucking terrified to execute a kinetic maneuver... then shut your mouth. I am the localized operator who possessed the audacity to beat Marquis de Gramont into a bloody pulp inside his own penthouse. What exactly are you attempting to prove to me?"
The Bowery King had historically treated Anthony with absolute, suffocating disdain, actively viewing the Russian as a low-tier street thug. Anthony absolutely refused to offer the old man an ounce of sympathetic respect.
During the buildup to the Hunting Ground assault, John Wick had been forced to aggressively leverage his relationship with the Bowery King multiple times simply to secure the localized architectural blueprints. In the end, the King had cowardly refused to deploy a single man to assist in the raid, explicitly citing his absolute terror of being politically implicated by the Tarasov Vanguard.
So when the Adjudicator formally requested Anthony's presence to witness the King's mutilation, Anthony accepted without a microsecond of hesitation.
The Bowery King stared at Anthony's relaxed posture. The ancient intelligence broker was completely overwhelmed by a profoundly complex mixture of emotions.
He genuinely never calculated that a localized Russian mob boss—a man he had actively dismissed as completely worthless—would successfully execute a series of terrifying kinetic "miracles" that left the entire global underworld completely bewildered.
Whether it was Anthony violently shattering Gramont's face, or his Vanguard flawlessly annihilating the Hunting Ground... the Bowery King mathematically possessed absolutely zero leverage to counter the Russian's arrogance.
The King had spent several sleepless nights violently analyzing the geopolitical board. He fundamentally could not comprehend how Anthony Tarasov could brutally assault a sitting Special Envoy and remain actively breathing.
Is this the absolute, terrifying advantage of serving as the Adjudicator's lapdog? Or is this Russian secretly the illegitimate bloodline of a seated High Table lord?
The rusted heavy metal door of the rooftop was smoothly pushed open.
The Adjudicator glided out onto the tar-paper roof. She was dressed flawlessly in a tailored, jet-black suit. Her face was an absolute void of emotion.
Her freezing eyes swept mathematically across the rooftop, lingering on Anthony for exactly half a second before moving on without a single microscopic reaction.
The Keeper—the Tick Tock Man—followed closely behind her, the rhythmic ticking of her pocket watch cutting through the wind.
Marquis de Gramont stepped out next. He was dressed in an opulent, deep-purple velvet topcoat, heavy gold-embroidered irises flashing brightly at the cuffs.
Gramont's dark eyes instantly locked onto Anthony. A highly violent, fiery smile stretched across his bruised face.
Zero and his three newly promoted, completely identical Shinobi disciples fanned out seamlessly across the perimeter, flawlessly locking down the fatal funnels.
Zero's dead, lifeless eyes lingered intensely on Anthony for several long seconds before smoothly pivoting toward the Bowery King.
Gramont turned gracefully toward the Adjudicator, executing a shallow, theatrical bow.
"Adjudicator. The localized audience is fully assembled. Pursuant strictly to the foundational laws of the High Table, those who willfully violate our sovereign prohibitions shall be violently punished in public as an absolute warning to others."
The Bowery King slowly surveyed the execution squad, a dark, deeply cynical, mocking smile creeping onto his scarred lips.
Anthony didn't even bother to lift his eyelids.
He casually reached into the breast pocket of his tailored suit jacket, produced a pair of highly expensive, mother-of-pearl nail clippers, and flipped the lever open.
The sharp, metallic snick of the steel jaws engaging sounded exceptionally loud and crisp on the silent rooftop.
Anthony slowly lowered his head, completely ignoring the High Table execution, intensely focused on meticulously trimming a microscopic fraction of dead callus from his left thumb. The tiny flakes of skin fell casually into the wind.
"Pursuant explicitly to Rule Twelve, Section Four of the High Table Codex," Gramont announced, his voice booming with arrogant authority.
"Those who actively harbor Excommunicado targets shall be punished with exactly seven ceremonial cuts. The executioner is explicitly mandated to bypass major arterial vessels and vital organs. The condemned subject must remain fully conscious for the entire duration of the punishment."
Seeing the Adjudicator remain perfectly silent, Gramont sneered.
"Executioner. Proceed."
Zero stepped smoothly forward. He accepted a highly specialized, surgical short-blade from the silver tray held by his lead disciple.
The high-carbon blade was incredibly slender and narrow, resembling a perfectly forged willow leaf. The ancient crest of the High Table was deeply engraved into the gleaming steel.
The absolute first cut violently pierced the Bowery King's left shoulder.
The razor-sharp steel sliced flawlessly through the heavy muscle tissue and aggressively struck the thick scapula bone with a dull, wet THWACK.
The Bowery King's massive body instantly went completely rigid. A thick layer of freezing sweat violently erupted across his forehead.
But the ancient monarch absolutely refused to scream. He aggressively locked his jaw, grinding his teeth together so hard the heavy veins in his neck violently bulged against his skin.
Anthony casually blew a speck of dust from the blade of his nail clippers, completely refusing to look up.
The second cut violently pierced the Bowery King's right shoulder.
The exact same wet, bone-crunching sound. The exact same rigid, silent reaction.
Gramont smoothly walked over to Anthony's position by the railing. He leaned in close, lowering his voice into a dark, arrogant chuckle.
"Isn't the absolute reality of this system utterly fascinating, Anthony?" Gramont whispered.
"The Bowery King. The mythic mastermind of New York's localized intelligence network. The undisputed emperor of the underground black market. Yet currently... he is mathematically reduced to standing completely still, allowing a blade to systematically butcher his biology."
Anthony entirely ignored him, executing a flawless clip on his index fingernail.
Zero's localized movements were mathematically precise, terrifyingly ruthless, and utterly devoid of any recognizable human empathy.
The third devastating cut was executed vertically, the blade plunging deeply into the King's heavy trapezius muscle.
The fourth agonizing stab violently pierced the localized flesh of his left waist. Zero deliberately angled the blade, aggressively scraping the heavy steel against the King's lower ribs, generating a horrific, teeth-grinding screech of metal on bone.
Anthony finally finished trimming his nails.
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