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Chapter 215 – John Wick
🕑 Added 2025-10-15 16:20:10 +0000 UTC> “Doctor, what just happened?”
The brooding Slavic man fixed Henry with a sharp, questioning stare.
> “He was running on pure adrenaline,” Henry replied calmly. “Now that it’s worn off, blacking out is perfectly normal.”
Henry pressed two fingers lightly over the man’s chest, feeling for the heartbeat, checking his breathing, then nodded.
> “Relax—he’s not dead. Just treat him like any post-op patient.
“Since I didn’t use full anesthesia, he’ll be easier to manage. If you’re unsure what to do, hang up some saline or glucose and let him rest.
“Anyway, this place doesn’t exactly look like a professional hospital.”
One of the onlookers blurted out,
> “What if he dies of infection?”
> “Then it was meant to be,” Henry said lightly, shrugging. “But it hasn’t spread to the lymph nodes, and anyone who can still curse that loudly isn’t someone Death can take easily.”
He peeled off his rubber gloves and tossed them into the bin, looking utterly unconcerned.
Only then did everyone realize—after saving four lives—there wasn’t a single drop of blood on him.
Watching that wild, reckless operation, everyone’s mind was spinning.
He’d claimed he had no medical degree, no license, yet the piece of lung he’d cut out lay there in the tray—black, diseased, unmistakably abnormal. It was hard to argue he’d made a mistake.
> “So… does that mean the surgery was a success?” the Slavic man finally asked.
By then, the Continental’s resident surgeon had finished his own patient and came over to take a look.
He hadn’t seen the entire procedure, but from the incision, suturing, and the removed specimen, Henry’s technique actually checked out.
Still… there were so many things wrong with it that the old doctor didn’t even know where to begin.
He looked at Henry with a strange expression—neither praise nor condemnation.
After all, it was his turf, and those Russian gangsters weren’t exactly gentle clients. If one of his patients had died, he’d be the one in trouble. Worrying about someone else’s mess was pointless.
But since it happened in his clinic, he had to maintain some order.
He barked orders to the paramedics:
non-critical patients were dismissed; the ones who needed rest were sent to recovery.
The gunshot victim who had somehow received an impromptu lung-cancer surgery was assigned special post-op care.
Though his specialty was cardiac surgery, the principles of thoracic aftercare weren’t much different—pain control, infection prevention, recovery management.
Meanwhile, Charlie, who had brought Henry to the Continental, and Manager Moonie Fisher had both witnessed the entire spectacle.
Now they had no idea how to handle this man.
Their original plan had been perfect on paper—find a mutant with useful powers, cultivate loyalty, and bring him into the fold.
In a world where mutants weren’t uncommon, recruiting the right one took luck and strategy.
Unlike Professor X or Magneto, they couldn’t appeal to ideology—they had to rely on money, favors, and manipulation.
It wasn’t fear of mutants “taking jobs”; in their brutal underground world, anyone with value was pampered with cash and comfort. Talent was a commodity, not a threat.
But what if that person turned out to be multi-talented?
After the incident with Congressman Michael Liddell Horton, Henry Brown had already sent a message to many powerful people:
Don’t underestimate him. He’s bulletproof—and anyone who keeps him close adds a new layer of protection.
A man who responds to kindness but not coercion.
And now, another factor entered the picture.
The Slavic man whose comrades Henry had just saved stepped forward, extended a hand, and said simply:
> “John Wick.”
Hearing the name, Henry’s eyes flickered with surprise.
The man didn’t look exactly like Keanu Reeves, but his charisma was just as strong—perhaps even purer.
Henry smiled and shook his hand.
> “Henry Brown.”
They released each other’s grip almost immediately.
Henry couldn’t help but think—so this was the melancholy that John had before his wife died. Maybe that quiet sadness was what had drawn a normal woman to him in the first place—and what had later inspired him to lay down his guns.
> “Thank you for saving my people,” John said.
> “I was paid for it,” Henry replied politely, raising his hand.
> “Still, I have a question.”
> “Go ahead. I’ll answer if I can.”
John’s brow furrowed.
> “If you could knock them unconscious that precisely, why wait until after the surgery? Why not do it before, instead of making us hold him down?”
Ah. That question.
Henry obviously couldn’t say it was because “Russians owe me,” and he was just collecting a little karmic interest.
He knew these men weren’t the ones responsible for old grudges—but still, they were Russians. And besides, he had saved them.
But no, that wasn’t something he could say aloud.
Instead, he replied evenly:
> “Knocking someone out before surgery isn’t the same as anesthesia. If he suddenly woke up in the middle of it and you couldn’t react fast enough, that would be far more dangerous.
“Rather than risk that, I kept him conscious so you’d stay alert and keep him restrained properly. Knocking him out afterward just helps his recovery.”
> “Does that answer your question?”
It was at least a reasonable explanation.
John Wick, straightforward by nature, didn’t press further.
> “If you ever come to New York and need help, look me up,” he said simply.
After all, his people were still alive—that was what mattered.
He didn’t notice that his friendly gesture had just ruined several people’s carefully-laid plans.
Henry, of course, didn’t refuse such goodwill.
You could never underestimate humans who had reached the peak of mortal capability—men who could fight until their last drop of blood.
Like Marvel’s Punisher, for instance: no powers, no serum, no mutant genes, no armor—just a man trained to perfection.
John Wick was the same kind of warrior.
His manner fit the saying perfectly:
> “A gentleman’s friendship is as pure as water.”
He wasn’t like those loudmouthed social butterflies so common in the West. After exchanging a few polite words, he turned back to his comrades, preparing to leave.
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