**Fisk Building**
Kingpin, holding a cigar, gazed out the window of his office, surveying the turmoil engulfing Hell's Kitchen.
"It's really lively in Hell's Kitchen today," Kingpin sighed.
"Boss, do you need me to get rid of them?" Bullseye, one of Kingpin's most loyal enforcers, asked.
Bullseye knew his boss was furious, so he immediately stood up, eager to prove his loyalty.
"No need. Notify the gangs in Hell's Kitchen to target all the businesses under the High Table's influence in New York. Whoever claims the most territory gets it. The one who contributes the most will be exempted from two months of protection fees," Kingpin instructed calmly.
"And the Marquis' people—his influence is in France, right? Send word to all our allied forces in France. Whoever kills the Marquis will receive a $15 million reward."
He paused before delivering his final order. "Also, spread the word to every resident in Hell's Kitchen. Anyone who delivers a head from the High Table or its affiliates will earn $10,000."
"Understood, boss," Bullseye and the other lieutenants received their orders and left.
Kingpin, hands clasped behind his back, looked out again at Hell's Kitchen, the territory he controlled. "The High Table prides itself on discipline, but they think they don't have to follow the rules here in *my* Hell's Kitchen. I'll show them what it costs to break my rules."
---
**The following day, Hell's Kitchen erupts into chaos.**
Hearing Kingpin's bounty, the people of Hell's Kitchen arm themselves and take to the streets. Gangs attack businesses under the High Table's protection. A group of tattooed thugs storm a supermarket, firing machine guns into the ceiling before robbing the place and setting it on fire.
Elsewhere, a High Table assassin is hit by a car and left for dead. The violence spreads like wildfire, with similar attacks happening across the city and the globe.
---
**France – Marquis' Mansion**
Gunfire echoed through the Marquis' estate as he fled, protected by his bodyguards.
"Damn it, why are these mercenaries coming at me like this? What's going on today?" the Marquis fumed.
"Sir, you're worth a lot now. There's a $15 million bounty on your head. Enough to drive every killer in the world mad," one of his men explained.
The Marquis' face twisted in anger. "How dare they! I'm one of the twelve elders of the High Table! They'll pay for this. I'll send every assassin from the High Table after them!"
Suddenly, a grenade rolled near them, and the Marquis froze in fear. His bodyguards dragged him away just as the explosion erupted behind them.
For the first time, the Marquis felt the terror of Hell's Kitchen.
---
**Good Luck Restaurant**
At that moment, Ted was interviewing chefs. He held a resume in his hand, eyeing the disheveled, white-haired Asian man across from him.
"Mr. Stephen Zhou, right? Why do you want to work at my restaurant?" Ted asked.
"I just got here and need a job. I heard this is the best restaurant on the block, and you provide food and accommodation," Stephen Zhou replied.
Ted looked over the resume, surprised. "You're an International God of Cookery? What brings you to the point where you're applying here?"
"Hahaha, that's all in the past. A hero doesn't mention his former glory. Can I start or not?" Zhou asked humbly.
"Cooking skill is the most important thing for a chef. What's your specialty?" Ted asked, curious.
"Well, I'm good at a lot of things. I can make Buddha Jumps Over the Wall and even the Manchu Han Banquet. But my best dish is probably Sadness and Ecstasy Rice," Stephen Zhou said proudly.
Ted raised an eyebrow. "Sadness and Ecstasy Rice? That's an interesting name."
Just as Ted was about to ask Stephen Zhou to demonstrate his skills, the door opened, and John Wick and Lao Ma walked in with an unexpected guest—Winston, the former head of the New York Continental Hotel.
Ted turned to Stephen Zhou. "You're hired. We'll test your skills later. Come back tomorrow; I've got business to attend to now."
Stephen Zhou nodded and left. Ted, however, was unaware of the culinary genius he had just recruited.
"Chen—" John Wick began, but Winston stepped forward to introduce himself. "Mr. Ted, I've heard much about you."
Ted shook hands with Winston. "People don't visit me without a reason. What do you need, Mr. Winston?"
"Mr. Ted, I'm here to help John with his current troubles. He told me you might assist him, so I came out of curiosity. Also, I have a business proposition for you," Winston said directly.
Ted, calm as ever, sat down, preparing tea. He gestured for Winston and the others to sit. As he poured the tea, he spoke, "This is Pu'er tea from China. I've already gathered why you're here. You want revenge on the Marquis and to reopen the Continental Hotel."
Winston blinked, surprised that Ted already knew his goals. Ted continued, "I'll deal with the Marquis and ensure the Continental reopens. But…"
Winston anticipated conditions. "I'll pay whatever you want, as long as you can get my revenge and help me reopen the hotel."
Ted shook his head with a slight smile. "I don't want money. I want your loyalty."
Winston and John's faces shifted. The request caught them off guard.
Ted noticed their reaction and clarified, "I'm not talking about anything like that. I want the Continental Hotel and its resources loyal to me, and I want it established in Hell's Kitchen. After all, your hotel has already been bombed."
Winston was silent. Ted leaned in, pressing further. "I'll handle the High Table. You just need to be loyal to me."
Winston voiced his doubts. "You know that without being one of the twelve elders of the High Table, it's impossible to secure the Continental's allegiance. Even if you kill the Marquis, others will come for you."
Ted sipped his tea calmly. "Don't worry about that. The Antonio family in New York is nearly wiped out, and I can replace them. I'll handle the rest, and Kingpin will back me up."
He grinned slightly. "Next, I'll issue a challenge to the High Table. And when I win, the Continental in Hell's Kitchen will belong to me."
Ted was certain of his victory. He'd claim his seat at the High Table, and nothing—not even the High Table itself—could stop him now.
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Thanks Joe Thigpen for your support.
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