New York Continental Hotel

The Continental Hotel in New York City is a distinctive triangular building located in the middle of a Y-shaped intersection in Lower Manhattan.

The main entrance is located at the apex of the triangle, so the facade is not large. A waiter in uniform stands inside the door. With his burly physique, he looks more like Bodyguards for a nightclub than a hotel employee.

The main entrance has been replaced with an automatic door, so there's no longer a need for servants to open and close it. Although one less way to collect tips has been lost, that small amount of money is probably nothing to the staff of the Continental Hotel.

Henry was a stranger at the Continental Hotel in New York, but he walked in with an air of nonchalance, nodding slightly to the page beside him, and everything seemed so natural.

For a moment, the gatekeeper's servant wondered if this unkempt man with his ridiculously long hair was some acquaintance in disguise.

While it's true that buying and selling is prohibited inside Continental Hotel, it doesn't prohibit assassins from disguising themselves.

Upon arriving at the hotel counter, the concierge was a refined and very handsome Black man.

When he saw Henry approach, although he was a stranger, he didn't directly mention that the hotel was members-only. It seemed that he already knew Henry's identity.

The Black concierge greeted him warmly, "Good day, sir. How can I help you?" Although he guessed his identity, he didn't reveal it, demonstrating a precise grasp of the nuances of the situation.

If someone calls out your name at first glance upon first meeting you, no assassin operating in the Underworld wouldn't suspect that they have more information or leverage over you. Reducing this sense of threat is a wise move.

This time, instead of using Gold Coin to pave the way, he gently placed the invitation on the counter and moved it over. "Mr. John Wick delivered this invitation during the day. Where should I go to meet the owner of the invitation?"

The concierge opened the invitation and checked its contents. He then said, "Mr. Brown, we've been waiting for you. Please follow me to the manager's office to meet with Mr. Winston Scott, the hotel's head manager."

Please lead the way.

The Black concierge handed the counter over to someone else and personally led Henry deeper into the Continental Hotel in New York.

This old building still retains the old style of the first half of the 20th century, a time when United States were not yet confident in the new culture that was born on their own soil and were learning from Europe aristocratic culture in every way.

Ornate carvings, thick carpets with beautiful patterns, and 19th-century Impressionist paintings are all displayed harmoniously.

It doesn't give off the feeling of nouveau riche showing off. On the contrary, it makes you feel that these beautiful things should be in such a place, to be used and appreciated by people.

Logically speaking, these antiques or replicas are not of any extraordinary value, and their style is even more understated than the France Rococo style. However, the overall combination gives a surprisingly low-key feeling.

Such taste reflects the attitude and philosophy of the local business owners. Compared to the Continental Hotel in Los Angeles, this one in New York is more understated.

The hotel manager's office, which is essentially the fortress of the person in charge of this Continental Hotel, is a rather luxurious room with a high ceiling. Numerous bookshelves and the books on them make it resemble a small library, though it's unclear whether these books have actually been read or are simply for decoration.

However, such a room is not comfortable at all; on the contrary, it gives people a sense of oppression. Especially in the mezzanine section, all the bookshelves reach the ceiling, as if one is being embraced by giants, making one feel how insignificant one is compared to the owner of this place.

Winston Scott is an elderly gentleman with a classic British style, estimated to be around fifty or sixty years old, with neat short curly hair and deep-set features that make him unforgettable at first glance.

Upon seeing someone enter, Winston Scott rose to greet him. The black concierge introduced him only after the two had come to a certain distance, "Sir, this is Mr. Henry Brown, who has come at your invitation."

He then introduced Henry, "This is Mr. Winston Scott, the manager of the Continental Hotel in New York. He is the hotel owner who invited you here."

"Nice to meet you." "It's an honor to meet you." The two shook hands and greeted each other politely.

After leading his invited guests to the sofa area, Winston Scott asked, "Red wine? Whiskey?"

"Red wine, thank you. Actually, I don't really like the taste of strong liquor."

A Black concierge then served the two men whiskey and red wine, one to the hotel manager and the other to Henry.

In fact, it would be quite rude to emphasize what one dislikes during such a polite inquiry. But Henry said it anyway, to demonstrate his assertiveness. He was no longer a mere tool like a contract gunman, someone the hotel could manipulate at will.

Whether or not he caught the second meaning, Winston Scott, swirling his whiskey glass, casually asked, "Why don't you like the taste of spirits?"

"Whether it's the strong aroma or the impact of the taste, moderate consumption can actually stimulate brain activity. As long as you don't drink until you're unconscious or talking nonsense, Mr. Brown, don't you think this is the water of life for men?"

He picked up the wine glass, swirled it with the gusto of a connoisseur, and inhaled its aroma. Henry's elegant demeanor was in no way inferior to his opponent's; he smiled and said, "In Russia, 'water of life' refers to vodka."

"Mr. Scott, you yourself said that moderate drinking is good; but too much can lead to incoherent speech or even unconsciousness. But how many people know when to stop and find the right balance?"

"However, I'm not that averse to the taste of strong liquor; it's just that it's so overpowering. To me, alcoholic beverages are just drinks."

"It can be used to accompany meals and soothe the throat, add interest to conversations, and quench thirst and cool you down in hot weather. Wine should only play a supporting role, not the main one."

"But once the strong liquor is served, it seems to become the center of everything, making everything else seem bland. In that case, it loses its charm."

"Besides, you said it yourself, this is the lifeblood of a man." When strong liquor becomes the standard for fighting spirit, then drinking it loses its meaning. It's just about saving face.

Winston Skell asked, deliberately, even bluntly, "Is this your attitude, Mr. Brown?"

Henry sipped the fine red wine in his glass. Although he couldn't see the label or price, the rich flavors that red wine should have were perfectly displayed in this glass.

After tasting the flavor, Henry said, "Charlie Fisher from Los Angeles, I don't know if Mr. Scott knows him."

He once told me that I should leave if I had the chance, because this wasn't a good place.

"Because they can't get their mark on the big stage, they run to the backstage to try and survive. Even though I've resigned now, being the CEO of a mid-sized film company is better than being stuck doing business in the shadows."