I scramble silently through the door at my back, taking the stairs three at a time back down. The Adjudicator might not have noticed me, but there's no way Mr. Wick won't. 

As I move, an automated male voice begins to echo through the hotel, warning the guests that the hotel is being closed for fumigation. I return to the balcony overlooking the lobby and find it swarming with people, most trying to check out as soon as they possibly can. A few look confused, but the anxious atmosphere is sweeping them away.

Everything in this world moves fast.

I settle myself into a dark corner, waiting and watching. Mr. Wick and Winston walk past, the pit bull falling into step beside his owner. I fiddle my hands in my lap, like I'm messing with a phone, but I needn't have bothered.

They have bigger problems than a girl who seems in no way panicked by the fact that business may now be done on company grounds.

Soon enough, the hotel is quiet. Empty save for Mr. Wick and the staff loyal to Winston. I slump farther down in my seat, flipping the thin blade of a dagger over my hand. Nerves are making my fingers shake, but I don't move. 

The sun has just set when something happens. I hear air brakes being pulled right outside the front door and the hurried sound of booted feet. I slip my dagger back into the sheath at my wrist and cover my ears, closing my eyes.

There is a muffled tinkling of metal skittering across stone.

A moment of stillness. Then bang bang bang. My teeth rattle at the percussion, light flashing against my closed eyelids, making them turn red. My ears begin to ache and I open my mouth, trying to get them to pop to relieve the pressure.

When silence once more reigns, I open my eyes to find smoke from the flash-bang grenades drifting toward the high ceiling. I hear the doors open and get to my feet, creeping forward to crouch beside the banisters.

Suddenly we are plunged into darkness. A band of green runner lights appears about waist high on the ground floor, just enough for me to make out dark shapes scurrying across the lobby, guns held ready.

I'm breathless with anticipation.

Then the quiet is split with an ear-shattering rattle of gunfire coming from deeper in the lobby. Muzzle-flashes light up the dark, revealing men in body armor. John Wick flows through them like a deadly wind, well placed bullets dropping the High Table lackeys one after the other.

I bit my lip as he throws one man to the ground, pinning him with a knee while he dispatches another coming up behind him. Then he turns and puts two in the head of the man beneath him. 

It's almost beautiful, despite the brutality. A dance of death that very few could appreciate.

I would feel bad, if they weren't trying to kill Mr. Wick. As more blood sprays, I can't help but think people should realize when they're so hopelessly outmatched.

My attention is glued to Mr. Wick, but a flicker of movement draws my attention. My mouth drops open as a man who had definitely been fatally shot struggles up to his feet.

I open my mouth, halfway to shouting a warning, but Mr. Wick has already noticed. He shoots the man one, two, three times, blood finally spraying when the bullet finds a chink in their body armor at the neck. I hiss in contempt. 

If this is supposed to be the High Table's finest, then the High Table must have lower standards than I had previously thought.

But now Mr. Wick knows where to strike. Bodies begin to fall and they stay on the ground. Gunfire roars, echoing off the marble which is quickly becoming slick with blood. But the High Table lackeys aren't the only ones taking hits. I see Mr. Wick flinch a few times and of the Continental staff, only the front desk clerk remains.

Perhaps it's time to even the score.

I see Mr. Wick start to backpedal, reaching toward his belt again and again. Spent magazines clatter to the floor almost as fast as he reloads. It takes him three to four bullets per man to keep them down long enough so he can deliver a killing blow.

Then he darts from the room, the High Table men giving chase. He must be out of ammunition.

My turn.

I place both hands on the banister and heave myself over the top. I tiptoe my way over to a marble column at the corner and brace my feet on either side of it, using the stone to help control my descent. Looking down one last time, I pick out three marks I can hit before they'll notice me.

Unlike Mr. Wick, my clothes aren't bulletproof. I'll need to keep that in mind.

I remove one of my knives from the belt at my waist, clamp it between my teeth and slide down the column, landing soundlessly behind one of the High Table men.

Dancing forward a few steps, I strike with all the conviction I possess. The blade shears through muscle, sliding between the vertebra to slice the spinal cord. He goes down without so much as a sound and I catch him, lowering him to the ground silently.

Blood slicks my fingers, warm and weighty. 

I don't have time to think about it. Darting forward, I find the same weakness on my second target, dropping him to the ground as well. He's heavier than I anticipated and he thuds to the ground, his gun clattering.

The third man I had planned to kill turns and gapes at me.

"Wha—"

I throw my bloody knife as hard as I can. He ducks out of reflex and I lunge forward, snatching up the rifle my last victim dropped. I don't think. I just pull the trigger. Each shot strikes him full in the chest, making him stumble backwards until he falls.

With a snarl and bared teeth, I jump on him, a knife already in my hand. He lets out a yell, coarse with fear or anger, but it doesn't last long. My blade finds a home in his throat. But now my window is up. I hear another yell and the snap of bullets going wide.

Ducking, I sprint toward the front doors, my fingers still clutched around the nearly spent rifle. My boots slide in a puddle of blood and I go down hard, my shoulder slamming into the floor. I hear something pop and pain spreads through my shoulder and up my neck.

I gasp in pain as I push myself back up to my feet, my head lowered as I finish my escape.

Fire burns through my leg and I nearly trip again, careening through the doors and out onto the city streets. Panting and limping, I scramble down the nearest alley and hole up behind a dumpster.

I collapse to the ground, clutching my leg where blood pulses from a bullet hole on my outer thigh.

But even as I sit there bloodied and scared, I can't help a grin.

Now Mr. Wick has three less men he needs to kill.