Chen Ye hung up the phone and slowly closed his eyes. Those damn rats were probably the same S.H.I.E.L.D. agents who had been watching him before. This only deepened his distaste for S.H.I.E.L.D., and he resolved that if they dared to interfere again, he wouldn't hesitate to cause them trouble.
Glancing at the clock in the restaurant, he noted that it was almost dinnertime—time to get ready for business.
"Pietro, get the ingredients ready. We're about to start," Chen Ye instructed.
"Chen, I'm not coming back for dinner tonight. I'm heading to the bar next door to pick up girls," Deadpool chimed in.
"I really should hire a chef for the restaurant," Chen Ye muttered to himself. "Doing everything myself is exhausting. And I need a waiter too, or I'll be overwhelmed."
As night fell, the once-empty "Good Luck" restaurant gradually filled with patrons.
"Old Chen, the usual for me—General Tso's Chicken, pan-fried dumplings, and Yangzhou fried rice," said Butler, a regular and a snakehead smuggler from Hell's Kitchen.
With him were two shy Asian girls. After a moment, Chen Ye brought out the dishes, wiped his hands, and looked at the girls.
"So, bringing two girls to pay respects today?"
"They just smuggled over and insisted on staying," Butler explained as he picked up some food with his chopsticks. "They came here to make money, so I brought them to pay respects. Everyone knows that in Hell's Kitchen, you're the only one who can let them do business safely."
"Alright, take them to Ginny's place. It's no big deal," Chen Ye said nonchalantly.
Butler nodded at the two girls, as if they'd already discussed it. They took out some scattered bills from their bags, totaling less than a thousand dollars, and handed it to Chen Ye.
"No need, keep the money for yourselves. Do I look like I need this little bit of cash?" Chen Ye waved his hand dismissively.
The girls, unfazed, insisted on giving him the money.
"Take it," Butler said between bites of General Tso's Chicken. "Every other street collects payments, and if you don't, people will talk. Besides, if you don't take it, these girls won't feel secure. Just consider it helping them out."
"Fine, fine. I'll take the money and hold onto it for you. When you've saved enough to leave Hell's Kitchen, come find me. Now eat, both of you. Want anything else? I'll make it," Chen Ye said, reluctantly taking the cash and signaling them to eat.
While he was chatting with the two girls, a figure approached from the direction of the apartment.
"Yo, isn't this Old Ma? Rare to see you at the restaurant today. Didn't you always say you didn't like Chinese food?" Pietro teased as Marcus walked in.
Hearing Pietro's voice, Chen Ye stopped talking and looked up.
"It's not time to pay rent yet, is it? What's up, Old Ma?"
Marcus found a seat near the bar, his expression serious.
"Chen, I need your help," he said gravely.
"Speak up. What kind of problem can't the Continental Hotel solve that you have to bother your little landlord?" Chen Ye immediately sensed trouble.
Marcus was in his fifties and an assassin affiliated with the Continental Hotel. At first, Chen Ye had mistaken him for the Green Goblin from Marvel, but he later realized Marcus just looked like him.
By chance, Chen Ye had once saved Marcus, and since then, the assassin had been living in his apartment, keeping a low profile and avoiding unnecessary interactions.
The Continental Hotel was an all-purpose agency—if you had money, you could buy intelligence, hire assassins, or get bodyguards. They didn't use dollars but a special gold coin currency.
About eighty percent of the assassins in New York were registered with the Continental Hotel, making it the most dominant assassin network. Other assassin organizations existed, but none could rival its influence, thanks to the powerful entity behind it—the High Table.
"I have an old friend who's in trouble," Marcus said quietly. "Assassins are hunting him, and he came to me, hoping to rest for a few days."
Chen Ye's eyes widened.
"Don't tell me the High Table and the Hand are frantically searching Hell's Kitchen for someone—and it's your friend they're after?"
Marcus nodded apologetically.
Chen Ye exhaled sharply, staring at Marcus.
"You wouldn't happen to be telling me that your friend is in our apartment right now, would you?"
He prayed Marcus would say no.
But Marcus slowly nodded.
"Damn it, why did you bring this mess here?" Chen Ye groaned. "I'm raising your rent. A lot."
Still, there was no point in complaining.
"So, what did your friend do to end up on the High Table's hit list? And why didn't he just stay at the Continental Hotel instead of coming here?"
"My friend's name is John Wick," Marcus explained. "He's an assassin, like me. An old friend. As for why he came here, I haven't figured that out yet. But he was shot and hasn't woken up. I came to tell you right away."
The name sounded familiar.
Chen Ye frowned, trying to recall where he had heard it before. It had been over twenty years since he'd crossed into this world, and even with his sharp mind, he couldn't remember everything.
After a moment, he asked uncertainly, "Does your friend have a middle-part hairstyle?"
Marcus nodded.
"Does he really like dogs?"
Another nod.
"And does he have a nickname—the Boogeyman?"
Marcus nodded yet again.
Pietro, listening in, couldn't help but chime in.
"The guy who wiped out an entire Russian mob over a dog? That's so cool."
Marcus turned back to Chen Ye, eyes full of expectation.
"So, will you help us? If not, I'll take him and leave right away. We won't drag you into this."
Chen Ye was silent for a moment.
Marcus watched him, waiting for an answer.
Finally, Chen Ye took off his apron.
"Where can you even go? The High Table sent assassins—he must have pissed off someone high up. And as for dragging me into this, the moment you stepped into my territory, you became one of mine. Old Marcus, you're my tenant. I have to check on that guy for your sake. Besides, our apartment lobby could use a security guard."
"Won't it be too much trouble for you? Considering it's the High Table?" Marcus asked, uneasy.
Chen Ye rolled his eyes.
"You already brought him here, and now you're asking if it's troublesome? I don't care about the High Table or the Low Table. This is Hell's Kitchen. Let's go upstairs."