He was in an armchair. It was not what he expected.
A lamp lit the chair, the light just indirect enough not blind him. Another chair was facing him, lit the same way.
Just loud enough not to suggest stealth, a middle-aged man crossed the carpet into view. "Drink?" he offered amiably.
"I... should be dead."
"You are." The sound of crystal class. "Drink?" he offered again, unphased. "I'm having one."
"Bourbon," he requested. "This is...?"
The man, his host - he was too comfortable here for this not to be his space - handed him a glass before taking the opposite seat. "Hell."
"Ah." Well, that made sense. He sipped from the glass and grimaced. It was dreadful.
"Hell," the man repeated apologetically. He was middle-aged, balding. Didn't look dangerous... except around the eyes. "We don't get good things here."
He exhaled slowly. "I expected..."
"Nothing?" A shake of the head. "That would be almost as kind to you as a reunification with your wife. Who is, I assure you, in a better place. I hope that that offers some solace."
A little. He threw back the rest of the glass. It was no better this time, but even bad bourbon was still bourbon. "What do you want?"
His host reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out a handful of gold coins, stacking them one by one on the table by his chair. Each coin clinked into the neat stack one by one, letting him count them without even looking.
Twelve coins, with an imprint that he didn't need to see to recognise. "I'm not that man, any more."
There was a pause. "These are not your payment. They are your... starting budget. Use them, or do not. The choice is yours, just as every choice that brought you here was." He snapped his fingers and a blind snapped open, revealing a glittering neon city-scape through a window, the slats of the blind carving dark lines across the bright lights.
"I expected more... fire."
"Hell is made by people." The man sipped from his own glass without any sign of distaste at whatever was in it. "In this case, people who place ambition above any morality. You can make it better or make it worse." He smiled thinly. "Welcome to Night City, Mr Wick. I hope you're ready for it."
John Wick picked up the coins and let them slide into his own jacket pocket. Then he turned and walked out the door that he knew was behind him, never looking back.
"'Be seeing you," the man in the chair said before the door clicked closed.
A lamp lit the chair, the light just indirect enough not blind him. Another chair was facing him, lit the same way.
Just loud enough not to suggest stealth, a middle-aged man crossed the carpet into view. "Drink?" he offered amiably.
"I... should be dead."
"You are." The sound of crystal class. "Drink?" he offered again, unphased. "I'm having one."
"Bourbon," he requested. "This is...?"
The man, his host - he was too comfortable here for this not to be his space - handed him a glass before taking the opposite seat. "Hell."
"Ah." Well, that made sense. He sipped from the glass and grimaced. It was dreadful.
"Hell," the man repeated apologetically. He was middle-aged, balding. Didn't look dangerous... except around the eyes. "We don't get good things here."
He exhaled slowly. "I expected..."
"Nothing?" A shake of the head. "That would be almost as kind to you as a reunification with your wife. Who is, I assure you, in a better place. I hope that that offers some solace."
A little. He threw back the rest of the glass. It was no better this time, but even bad bourbon was still bourbon. "What do you want?"
His host reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out a handful of gold coins, stacking them one by one on the table by his chair. Each coin clinked into the neat stack one by one, letting him count them without even looking.
Twelve coins, with an imprint that he didn't need to see to recognise. "I'm not that man, any more."
There was a pause. "These are not your payment. They are your... starting budget. Use them, or do not. The choice is yours, just as every choice that brought you here was." He snapped his fingers and a blind snapped open, revealing a glittering neon city-scape through a window, the slats of the blind carving dark lines across the bright lights.
"I expected more... fire."
"Hell is made by people." The man sipped from his own glass without any sign of distaste at whatever was in it. "In this case, people who place ambition above any morality. You can make it better or make it worse." He smiled thinly. "Welcome to Night City, Mr Wick. I hope you're ready for it."
John Wick picked up the coins and let them slide into his own jacket pocket. Then he turned and walked out the door that he knew was behind him, never looking back.
"'Be seeing you," the man in the chair said before the door clicked closed.