When I arrive at the Continental, everything is calm. A thrill of nerves and excitement dances through me as I realize nothing has begun yet. I have time to get inside. I unzip my leather jacket and undo the tight bun holding my hair up. Dark curls fall down around my face, making me look younger, softer—less dangerous.

 I skirt past the men working to clear two wrecked motorcycles from the front entrance and dart up the stairs.

The lobby is peaceful. Breathtaking in its grandness.

I have never been inside the Continental before.

People mill about or lounge in the comfortably stuffed chairs arranged around elegant statues, waiting to meet someone. I wonder idly how many of them are like me. How many of them are killers or thieves? How many of them are under the Table?

The marble floors shine brilliantly beneath my boots as I skirt around the edge of the lobby, making sure not to look at the man at the front desk. I start up a set of stairs, letting a small sigh of relief escape when no one stops me.

I get to the top of the stairs, then stop in shock. 

The man I saw talking to Mr. Wick in Grand Central is sitting on a low sofa upholstered in black leather, staring at a pitbull. The dog is sitting patiently, floppy ears pricked, eyes trained down the hallway leading toward an elevator.

Like he's waiting for something. Or someone.

As I walk past, the man looks up. The sharp movement draws my eye unwillingly. He points at the dog. "That's John Wick's dog. That's the dog."

I blink twice at him, letting a puzzled frown slip over my face. "Who's John Wick?"

"Oh." He gets up and walks away without another word. As I turn, I let a brief smile touch my lips. The Continental provides services to civilians too, which works nicely for me.

I make my way to the elevator, then glance over my shoulder. No one is on this level, so I slip into the access stairwell. I make my way up to the very top floor, taking the stairs two at a time until I come to an unmarked door. 

Taking a moment to calm my breathing, I tie my hair back up and re-zip my jacket before checking the knives sheathed at my wrists, my waist and my thighs. They're all firmly in place and I open the door quietly, making sure that the lock doesn't click too loudly.

I step out into a room that seems impossible.

Everything is made of glass and light. I'm immediately uncomfortable. It's impossible to tell the dimensions of the room. The glass warps my vision and the reflection of light makes it hard to see more than a few feet in front of me.

I do not like this room.

The only place that feels solid is the black walls and floor of the entrance. So that is where I stay, blending into the darkness, and not a moment too soon.

There's a soft ding and the wall beside me cracks open, revealing an elevator. I lower my head to make sure my hood is hiding my face. A clack of heels makes me peek up, just in time to watch a severe looking woman with cropped black hair stride briskly into the glass room and up a set of stairs.

I lean back against the wall, closing my eyes so I can listen more closely.

The clack of heels against glass soon stops and then a crisp, female voice cuts through the quiet. "Have you decided to step down?"

There have been rumors that Winston was being pushed out of management.

A genteel sort of voice answers, "I think not."

I blink once in surprise. Is that why Mr. Wick came here? To help an old friend fight an impossible battle?

"And you? Will you be putting a bullet in his head?"

Or not.

"No," John Wick answers. His voice is a little deeper than I expected. "I don't think I will."

I gather that Mr. Wick was sent here to kill Winston. Why he would do that, I haven't the slightest idea, considering how Winston helped him, giving him an hour before he was declared excommunicado. Something must have changed after Mr. Wick's trip.

I make another mental note. This all seems like something the Bowery King will want to know.

The woman's voice rings out again. "Very well." There is a brief silence. Then: "Administration."

As she says it, I crack the door behind me open, getting ready to make my escape so I can report to the King. Her next words stop me.

"I'd like to change a designation." A pause. "Adjudication one-zero-one-one-nine-seven-nine. The Continental Hotel, New York."

A bad sort of feeling crawls up my spine. Not fear, exactly. Just awareness that something is about to happen. Something important.

"Deconsecrated."

The word seems to ripple through the room. I shut the door and turn back into the welcoming arms of the shadows. I need to hear what they are going to do. I'm not paying very much attention to what the Adjudicator is saying. It sounds vaguely threatening, which is all I need to know. My attention is once more on the knives secreted about my person.

I loosen each slightly in their sheath, knowing I will want easy access. My heart thumps so loud I'm almost afraid one of them will hear it. If there is going to be a battle here—and I suspect there will be—I want to be a part of it.

It will be my first.

A decisive stride makes me go stock still. The Adjudicator passes me, getting into the elevator. There is a sort of smugness about her that I don't care for. Just because she works for the High Table doesn't make her invulnerable.

Mr. Wick has proven that already.

I hear Winston say, "This haven is safe no more."

"Are services still off limits to me?"

"Under the circumstances, your privileges are reinstated immediately. What do you need?"

I start to smile before Mr. Wick even answers. It's kind of a silly question.

Mr. Wick's voice is matter of fact. "Guns. Lots of guns."

(John's, the Adjudicator's and Winston's dialogue is taken directly from John Wick 3: Parabellum. All credit due goes to the writers, directors, creators and actors of the movie).