While waiting for dinner, John reached across the bar, picked up a wine bottle, and casually tossed it to Matt.
Matt caught it with practiced ease, brought it to his nose, and inhaled the aroma before setting the bottle down and taking a seat at the bar beside John.
"So you were not going to tell me?" Matt asked, his tone a blend of accusation and curiosity.
"Tell you what?" John replied, feigning surprise as he poured himself a drink.
Matt rubbed his forehead, his patience thinning. "Who are you, really?"
"John Wick," John said with a small chuckle as he opened the bottle. "Your employer. Is that not enough?"
"That is not enough," Matt said, shaking his head, his voice dropping into a more serious register. "Why are you here? You did all this…" He gestured vaguely at the aftermath of violence and chaos around them, then searched for the right word. "Magic?"
John considered the question, rubbing his chin as if weighing the answer. "Yes, it is magic," he said at last. "But does it matter?"
He poured the wine into a glass and slid it across the bar to Matt, who picked it up and drank it in one long gulp. The aroma and taste conjured a list of ingredients in Matt's mind, a habit from years of relying on his remaining senses.
"What did it taste like?" John asked, watching Matt's reaction closely.
"What?" Matt was caught off guard by the question.
"That glass of wine," John clarified, a hint of amusement in his voice.
Matt thought for a moment. "Nice tequila. Why do you ask?"
John shrugged, "Because I got that glass at the bar. I have no idea if any drug addict or someone with a contagious disease drank from it before you."
Matt's grip tightened on his guide stick, and he shot John a glare. John took a step back, raising his hands in mock surrender. "You took it yourself, remember?"
As Matt considered this, he realized John was right. He was the one who had reached for the glass, and now he could not help but feel a bit foolish.
Before Matt could reply, the sound of a bell echoed through the bar. An old man entered, moving with a certain rhythm, as if he carried his own music wherever he went. He strolled into Hell and Heaven as if it were his own home, removed his hat, and greeted the two men at the bar with a graceful nod.
"Gentlemen, I believe you made dinner reservations," the old man announced, a hint of humor in his eyes.
A blind man and a young man, sitting together in a bar filled with the aftermath of violence—it was a strange combination, and the corners of the old man's mouth curled with amusement as he pressed his hat back onto his head.
Simon's influence in Hell's Kitchen had been considerable, but these two, the old man thought, were something else entirely.
"I ordered dinner," John said, placing another glass on the bar and pouring tequila for the old man. "You may want to count the number of guests tonight."
"We would be delighted, sir," the old man replied, his demeanor more that of an art collector than a corpse collector. He had brought a large team, all of whom began to work efficiently and without surprise, preparing the tools and methodically removing bodies wrapped in bags.
John handed the wine glass over, and the old man took a sip before setting it down. It seemed the drink was not to his taste, but he did not comment.
"Today is a good day," the old man said, extending his hand. "Hume."
John shook his hand. "John."
The two men exchanged a knowing look, a brief moment of understanding between professionals. As for Matt, the old man seemed to think there was not much to know about a lawyer.
Hume watched his team at work and smiled. "In our line of work, we do not ask too many questions. But I am curious," he said, turning to John with a searching gaze. "You are not a killer registered at the hotel."
John's expression remained unchanged. "You cannot remember everyone."
"But I remember everyone in my New York City," Hume replied, his smile never faltering. "Still, as I said, I cannot ask too many questions."
Some problems, he knew, were best left unsolved. That was Hume's way of surviving in a dangerous business.
The cleanup crew was quick and professional. As they worked, bodies were carried out in bags, one by one, the evidence of violence disappearing as if it had never happened.
"What about the ones who are not dead?" Hume asked, glancing at John. "We are not responsible for the living."
John shrugged. "Then do not worry about it."
Hume tapped the rim of his glass with a finger and chuckled. "By the way, are you registering at the hotel?" he asked. "For the sake of me buying you a drink?"
John smiled. "Even though I only drank a little, there are some tough guys who work outside the hotel, but they do not dare to mess with the hotel."
Hume nodded in understanding. He, too, was curious how many enemies John's father still had. It seemed Simon had been an exception—the only one willing to take a contract on John's father.
The dinner mission was soon over. The bags of "kitchen waste" were loaded onto a truck. John and Matt stood at the door, watching the frozen meat truck drive away.
Matt asked, "What do we do now?"
"Are you familiar with this place?" John replied, holding out the address he had gotten from Simon.
Matt did not take it. "I am blind."
"Oh, sorry." John retracted his hand, a bit embarrassed. "You act so normal, I forget sometimes."
Matt gave him a dry look. "What about you, magician? Or should I call you Night Devil?"
John took out his pocket watch and checked the time. "It has been two hours," he said, then started walking in the direction of their next destination, Matt following close behind. Still, Matt did not get the answers he wanted.
Meanwhile, Ferdinand was having a terrible night. He was about to cry, still shaken by John's warning not to leave. In Hell's Kitchen, even parking was dangerous. Now he was being robbed by three men who looked just like him.
He always carried a switchblade, but one of the robbers pressed a gun to his head. "Take out the money, and do not try anything!" The robber demanded, clearly furious at the meager haul of sixteen dollars and some change.
Ferdinand turned his pockets inside out, his voice trembling. "I really have nothing left."
"Give me the car keys!" The robber, frustrated, struck Ferdinand on the head with the butt of his gun.
The blow left Ferdinand dazed, his clothes torn as he was thrown against the car door. It was a sad sight—three men beating up someone who could have been their brother.
Just as the robber was about to drive off in Ferdinand's car, a guide stick appeared in front of him. Before he could react, Matt delivered a swift blow to the man's face. The other two rushed in, but Matt dodged, twisted one man's arm, and kicked the other aside.
John picked up the car keys from the fallen robber and tossed them back to Ferdinand. "Let me introduce you. This is Ferdinand," John said, then gestured to Matt. "And this is Matt, a lawyer."
Ferdinand stared in disbelief, still bleeding from his forehead. "Is there really a lawyer in Hell's Kitchen?"
"Send us to this address, and wait for us," John instructed, handing Ferdinand the slip of paper with the address. Then he turned to Matt. "Do you need to change clothes? Do not superheroes usually have combat uniforms?"
Matt nodded. He understood that wherever John was headed, it would be dangerous. "Take me home first," he said.
Ferdinand touched his head, surprised to find his wound had stopped bleeding. He listened as John and Matt talked about superheroes and lawyers, wondering what the connection was between the two.
John showed no sympathy, urging Ferdinand to get moving. "Hurry up, Ferdinand."
"I am on it," Ferdinand replied, dragging himself off the ground and into the driver's seat. If he could do it all over again, he thought, he would never have tried to stand out during the day.
He was still lost in thought when John slapped him gently on the head. "Is there a problem?"
"No problem!" Ferdinand forced a smile as the car started.
After a quick stop at Matt's place to change into his Daredevil outfit, the group piled back into the pickup. Ferdinand's jaw dropped when he saw Matt's new look.
"You—you're Daredevil?" He stammered.
Matt turned to John. "He does not know?"
John shrugged. "We just met today."
Matt's face darkened. It was the second time he had revealed his identity in one night, but now was not the time to dwell on it. He told Ferdinand to drive.
The pickup wound its way through the streets of Hell's Kitchen, finally stopping in front of a church.
"There is a church in Hell's Kitchen?" Ferdinand asked, staring at the building with its cross.
John replied, "The more chaotic the place, the stronger the faith. No matter how many people they kill, those villains still hope their souls can be saved."
Matt looked at John, sensing a change in him. "Let's go. Maybe we can have breakfast before dawn."
Matt and John walked to the church, leaving Ferdinand alone outside. A gust of wind blew a bottle across the pavement. Ferdinand hesitated, unsure whether to wait or leave. The thought of John meeting Daredevil made his teeth ache with anxiety. In the end, he got back in the car, locked the doors, and decided to wait.
Inside the church, it was quiet. Midnight had come and gone; no one was here to pray.
John and Matt walked side by side down the aisle.
"It's quiet here," Matt said. "But there is a smell."
"What kind?" John asked.
"Chicken," Matt replied.
John raised an eyebrow. "It seems they do not have much respect for their Lord."
"Let's split up," Matt suggested, vanishing into the darkness.
A priest entered, his face kind and grandfatherly. "I would rather you came back during the day," he said, not at all angry at John's intrusion.
But John could sense the malice beneath the surface.
He walked forward slowly, smiling. "Father, I hope you can swear to your Lord that you do not want to kill me."
A flash of cunning lit the priest's eyes. With exaggerated innocence, he replied, "Of course, my child. I definitely do not want to kill you."
"Shh." John raised a finger to his lips. "Liars cannot enter heaven."
With a flick of his right hand, the priest was pulled toward John by an unseen force-object magic.
John grabbed the priest by the neck, his eyes turning into vertical pupils. "You lied to your Lord. I can see it."
He stared straight into the priest's eyes. "Tell me why you tried to assassinate Wick."
The priest's expression changed, and he shouted, "Do it!"
"Do it? You should look around," John replied, his tone almost playful.
All those who had been hiding in the church fell, one by one.
Matt emerged from the shadows, his superhuman senses having made short work of the priest's men.
With his manpower gone, the priest's face turned ashen.
John grabbed the priest's sleeve and pulled it up, revealing the tattoo of the Ten Rings Gang.
"Tell me, or I will pry your mouth open," John warned, his vertical pupils glowing with menace.
The priest struggled to breathe, feeling as if the darkness itself was swallowing him.
"I will tell you," he gasped.