Chen Ye left Pietro to handle the restaurant and took the elevator up to the apartment with Old Ma. His unit was on the fifth floor, in a building with about ten rooms per floor—some two-bedroom units, others one-bedroom with a living space. Old Ma's place was a modest one-bedroom apartment, just under 50 square meters.
Thoughtfully, Chen Ye had provided his tenants with washing machines and dryers—something rare in American apartments, where most rely on shared, coin-operated laundry facilities.
As soon as they stepped inside, the sharp stench of alcohol and blood hit them.
A man in a suit, wrapped in bandages, stirred from the sofa. His movements were tense, his expression guarded, and his right hand gripped a gun, ready to fire at any sign of hostility.
"Relax. This is my landlord. I brought him here to help," Old Ma reassured him. "How are you holding up?"
Hearing this, the man's stiff posture eased, though he still looked weary. "Sorry... I thought you were from the High Table."
Chen Ye studied him carefully. The middle-parted hair, the sharp yet worn-out features—no doubt, this was John Wick. The man who slaughtered an entire mob family over a dog.
"You really shouldn't have come here," Chen Ye said flatly. "You know Old Ma saved you. He's the one who's in trouble now."
John Wick's expression darkened slightly, guilt flickering across his face.
"Old Ma almost died because of you once—have you forgotten that?" Chen Ye continued.
John Wick lowered his head. "It's okay," Old Ma interjected, dismissing the tension. "We're friends."
He then asked, "What exactly happened? Why is the High Table after you?"
John Wick hesitated, his eyes darting toward Chen Ye.
"It's fine," Old Ma assured him. "He's one of us. He won't betray you. I promise."
Chen Ye let out a cold chuckle. "If Old Ma weren't my tenant, and my tenants weren't my friends, do you think I'd be standing here listening to this?"
With that, John Wick finally relented, recounting his recent troubles in a low voice.
Ten minutes later, Old Ma sat in stunned silence.
"So… the Elder of the New York branch had your house blown up. You retaliated by killing those siblings. Then you broke the Continental's sacred rule by executing someone inside. And Winston let you walk?" Old Ma whistled in disbelief. "Man, your life's turning into an action movie."
Chen Ye, however, remained silent, lost in thought. He wasn't dwelling on the danger—he was thinking about the opportunity.
The High Table's New York branch was now missing an Elder. Could Kingpin take the position?
The High Table wasn't just some assassin guild—it was a global syndicate, ruled by twelve seats, each occupied by the world's most powerful criminal organizations: the Mafia, the Yakuza, and, until recently, the now-deceased Antonio siblings.
And what if Kingpin could slide into one of those vacant seats?
More importantly, the Continental Hotel and the High Table had access to some highly valuable resources—clean-up crews, elite assassins, intelligence networks, and even those damn bulletproof suits. If there was ever a time to rewrite the rules, it was now.
John Wick misread Chen Ye's silence.
Mistaking his contemplation for fear, John stood up abruptly. "I'm sorry—I shouldn't be here. I'll leave now. If I go, they won't come after you."
Before he could move, Chen Ye pressed a firm hand on his shoulder.
"Sit down," he ordered. "I'm not afraid of the High Table. I was just thinking." His lips curled into a smirk. "You took out one of their Elders. That means there's a vacancy."
John Wick furrowed his brows. "You're joking."
"Do I look like I'm joking?" Chen Ye glanced at Old Ma. "Why the hell would you leave? Do you really think walking away makes you any less of a target? You stepped into my territory—that makes you one of mine now. And I don't like outsiders messing with what's mine."
Before John could argue, Chen Ye's phone rang. He raised a finger to his lips, signaling them to keep quiet as he answered.
"It's me," he said, his voice calm. "Yeah. Here. A rat showed up? Whose people? … The New York Continental got bombed? The High Table's Elder was taken out? Go check—see if there's a way to play this to our advantage."
Three minutes later, he hung up.
He turned to John Wick. "The New York Continental's been leveled. And because of you, Winston's right-hand man, Charon, is dead."
John clenched his fists. "Who did it?"
"The Marquis."
John's expression darkened.
"And he knows you're here. His assassins are already on their way."
John immediately stepped forward. "Then I have to go. I'll draw them away. You shouldn't be involved in this."
Old Ma shot a glance at Chen Ye, silently pleading for him to help.
"Why would you leave?" Chen Ye asked coolly. "You think if you run, the Marquis will just forget about us?" His gaze sharpened. "This is Hell's Kitchen. If his people come here, they're not leaving alive."
At that moment, a sharp chill ran down Chen Ye's spine.
Murderous intent.
Then—
A gunshot rang out.
A sniper's bullet shattered the apartment window, sending shards of glass flying. The three of them moved instantly, dodging out of harm's way.
Chen Ye's expression turned ice-cold.
Without a word, his right hand flicked outward, releasing a streak of crimson light. It shot through the broken window like a bolt of lightning.
A second later, a dull thud sounded from the building across the street.
The sniper was dead.
John Wick and Old Ma stared at Chen Ye in shock.
"Landlord… you… you can use magic?" Old Ma stammered, pointing at him.
Chen Ye rolled his eyes. "Is that really what you're focusing on right now?" He exhaled sharply. "And by the way—this broken window? It's coming out of your deposit. If it's not enough, you're covering the difference."
John Wick, still processing what had just happened, stepped forward.
"I can fight," he said, his voice firm. "Let me help."
Chen Ye waved him off. "You're injured. I don't care if you're the damn Boogeyman—I'm not letting a half-dead man fight in my battle. Just sit tight and watch."
His lips curled into a dangerous smile.
"This won't take long."