Anthony was loaded into the back of the ambulance by paramedics, his gaze tracking Winnie as officers escorted her into the back of a police cruiser.
He closed his eyes, allowing the EMT to apply preliminary hemostasis to his chest wound. A strange, subtle smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
He really had died.
It was just that the body was now inhabited by a soul from another world.
In his past life, he possessed a hyper-cognitive neurological mutation. During a disastrous equipment failure while cooperating with an Academy of Sciences research project, his consciousness was violently pulled into this world.
His so-called "special brain" wasn't a sci-fi superpower. It simply granted him two distinct traits: Rapid Calculation and Compensatory Perception.
These abilities existed in his original world—super-memory, rapid mental arithmetic, extreme sensory processing. They weren't magic, nor were they cybernetic enhancements. They were just the absolute peak of human neurological potential.
The original host of this body hadn't died from the paring knife. He had died from a lethal toxin slipped into his alcohol.
Sorting through the host's fragmented memories, Anthony already knew exactly who had orchestrated the hit.
The heir to the Tarasov syndicate, Iosef Tarasov.
That's right. The exact same idiot who killed a certain hitman's dog and doomed the entire Tarasov mafia to complete annihilation.
The host's name was Anthony Tarasov, the illegitimate son of the Russian mob boss, Viggo Tarasov.
Anthony had joined the Marine Corps at seventeen and deployed to Afghanistan at twenty. After three years of service, multiple combat injuries, and failing several psychological evaluations, he was discharged. He had been back in the States for less than a week.
Viggo had only sent Anthony into the military to acquire advanced weapons training and expand the syndicate's operational reach.
The old man wanted to exploit military transport logistics to smuggle narcotics out of Afghanistan and funnel domestic black-market weapons back overseas.
Iosef, on the other hand, simply hoped his half-brother would catch a bullet in the desert, ensuring he had sole control over the Tarasov empire.
Anthony also knew Winnie. They had been high school classmates.
However, after three years baking in the Afghan sun, his appearance had hardened. Combined with her drugged panic, she hadn't recognized him at all.
Recalling the events of the past hour, Anthony couldn't help but lick his lips, savoring the memory.
After a brief surgery in the trauma bay, Anthony was wheeled into a private ward. Under the lingering effects of anesthesia, he drifted into a groggy sleep.
The events of the previous night played out in his mind like a cinematic reel.
Upon crossing over and familiarizing himself with his new memories, Anthony quickly deduced the cause of his own murder.
He had tried to get up and leave the cheap hotel room, but his limbs were rigid. The host had clearly been dead for some time.
Having just transmigrated, the body was still fighting off the initial stages of rigor mortis and heat loss.
Before he could force his muscles to cooperate, he heard movement in the hallway. He immediately went slack and closed his eyes.
The door was pushed open. The scent of woody sandalwood mixed with sweet autumn pear drifted into Anthony's nose.
Iosef and a middle-aged man walked in, dragging a tall woman between them.
The woman's head hung limply, like a marionette with cut strings. Her long chestnut-gold hair spilled forward, obscuring her face.
"Are you sure he's dead?" the middle-aged man asked.
"One nanogram of Botulinum toxin is enough to kill him ten times over." Anthony instantly recognized the arrogant sneer of his half-brother, Iosef.
Botulinum toxin was exponentially more lethal than potassium cyanide. A single nanogram was indeed a massive overkill.
Anthony heard footsteps approaching the bed and held his breath.
In his current stiffened state, he was in no condition to kill these two men. Playing dead was his only tactical option.
A hand grabbed his arm. "He's been cold for a while. Rigor mortis is already setting in."
"Black, this bitch is about to become a murderer. I was thinking..." Iosef said, his voice laced with sick excitement.
"Fuck, do you have any idea who she is?" the middle-aged man, Black, hissed venomously. "Even if she takes the fall, once the Pritzkers start investigating, none of us will survive the fallout."
"Just get her on the bed. Let's get out of here before she starts making a scene."
Suddenly, the woman let out a breathless, feverish moan. "Hot... so hot."
Anthony peeked through his eyelashes. The woman was clumsily tearing at her own clothes.
She wore a camel-colored cashmere trench coat over a creamy-white silk blouse.
Two buttons at her collar had already been ripped open, revealing a delicate diamond necklace resting against her collarbones.
A rose-gold watch on her wrist caught the dim overhead light, flashing as her arms flailed weakly.
"Fuck, you dosed her with an aphrodisiac too?" Black roared, panic bleeding into his voice. "You idiot, are you trying to get us killed?"
A sharp slap echoed through the room.
"Black, if you ever disrespect me again, I'll put a bullet in your head," Iosef snarled. "The Pritzkers are nothing to me."
"If I wasn't getting paid to make this bastard's death look like a domestic dispute, I'd never work with you. If my two hundred grand isn't wired by tomorrow, I'm burning you to Viggo."
Iosef shoved the woman roughly onto the bed. "What a waste."
He pulled a glass tainted with the Botulinum toxin from his jacket, pressed it into the woman's hand to transfer her fingerprints, and set it on the nightstand.
Once the door clicked shut, the woman began to writhe on the mattress, her fevered hands frantically tearing at her blouse.
Anthony slowly turned his head, silently watching her performance.
The woman sat up, brushing her tangled hair back. It revealed an exquisite oval face with a high nose bridge and deep-set eyes.
She couldn't be older than her early twenties.
Her face was flushed crimson, her eyes squeezed tightly shut.
Her consciousness was fractured but fighting. Her trembling hands clutched her shirt together, only for the burning chemical desire to override her logic, forcing her to rip it open again.
Beneath her lace bra, her skin was the color of warm ivory, glowing with a feverish sheen in the dim room.
Her perfume drifted over him. It was intoxicating.
"Winnie?" Anthony rasped, uncertain.
His body was still fighting the stiffness of death. Just lifting a finger felt like moving a boulder.
As he watched her struggle against the drug, Anthony began rhythmically clenching his hands, forcing the blood to circulate and sensation to return to his limbs.
Winnie's dazed eyes fluttered open. She caught sight of a pair of bright, predatory eyes staring at her from the other side of the bed. She froze.
"If you... touch me... you're dead."
She clumsily pulled her ruined shirt together, trying to cover her flushed chest.
She bit down on her bottom lip so hard that a thin trickle of blood ran down her chin.
But her moments of clarity were fleeting. Seconds later, she descended back into the chemical haze.
"Get away!" Winnie hugged her knees and frantically scrambled backward, desperate to escape the man sharing the bed.
A loud thud echoed in the room.
She had tumbled headfirst off the mattress.
Anthony couldn't see her from his angle, but he felt the vibration of her body hitting the bed frame.
After an agonizing minute of forcing his muscles to obey, a pair of strong, unnaturally cool arms reached down and hoisted her up.
The collision of his cold skin against her fever-hot body triggered a violent chemical reaction in her brain.
Winnie suddenly threw her arms around him, clinging to his cool torso. Her legs wrapped around his waist like a vice.
Anthony's legs were still weak. Thrown off balance, he collapsed, taking her down onto the mattress with him.
"Winnie, you..."
Hot lips crashed against his, swallowing his words.
Amidst the heavy, desperate breathing, the physically depleted Anthony simply couldn't overpower a woman driven to peak manic strength by a military-grade aphrodisiac.
Fueled by Winnie's scratching nails and fiery aggression, Anthony's physical systems were forced to reboot rapidly.
Three years in the Marines. Three years bleeding in the desert dirt.
Anthony discarded the potential consequences and responded with equal intensity.
Hearing the sharp sound of tearing fabric, he noticed her brow furrow in pain.
Low growls and ragged breaths drowned out the rattling of the radiator.
Hours later, the drug finally burned out. Winnie collapsed against him, falling into a dead sleep like a puppet with its strings cut.
Noticing the tear stains drying on her cheeks, Anthony let out a heavy sigh.
"Winnie, I won't lie and say I didn't want this, but you forced the issue. Don't blame me when you wake up."
"Back in high school, you always lectured me about my grades. You even pulled my ears."
Remembering the uptight honor student she used to be, Anthony couldn't help but laugh.
He gathered his discarded clothes, searching his pockets for a cigarette, when a strange sound drew his attention.
Winnie was thrashing, muttering incoherently in her sleep. The words spilled out so fast they bled together.
Suddenly, her eyes snapped open. They were completely bloodshot. In a flash of chemically-induced psychosis, she grabbed whatever wasn't bolted down and hurled it at him.
"Who do you think you are?!"
"You make me sick!"
"Leave me alone, are you psychotic?!"
"I'm done with your bullshit! I never want to see you again!"
Anthony dodged and caught the incoming projectiles—a chair, a glass, a heavy glass ashtray. His blood ran cold.
"Fuck, a psychotic break?" Anthony was stunned.
In the United States, sleeping with a woman experiencing a severe mental episode was a one-way ticket to a rape charge.
The crashing alerted the night manager, who began pounding on the splintering door.
Anthony grabbed a sheet and wrapped it around Winnie's thrashing body. As the manager pushed the door open, Anthony kept his right hand hidden behind his back, ready to strike.
"It's fine, we're just having a disagreement," Anthony explained smoothly.
The manager took one look at the beautiful woman screaming in Anthony's arms, currently trying to rip his ear off.
"Hey, a domestic dispute is none of my business." The manager winked conspiratorially. "No need to call the cops, right?"
Anthony gently but firmly pried Winnie's fingers off his ear. "No need, thanks. Just give us some privacy."
"Alright. I'll hang the 'Do Not Disturb' sign, but keep the noise down."
The manager adjusted the pistol tucked in his waistband and pulled the door shut.
In the chaos, Winnie had blindly grabbed the paring knife from the nightstand. She lunged, driving the blade directly toward Anthony's throat.
Anthony caught her wrist in a vice grip. His first instinct was to strike her jaw and knock her unconscious.
But then, a thought crossed his mind.
A faint, data-like light flickered in his eyes.
Compensatory Perception. Rapid Calculation.
The world slowed to a crawl. The gaps between his own ribs, the exact location of his heart, the borders of his lungs, and the rhythmic pulsing of his aorta—every biological detail mapped itself out in his mind as a three-dimensional schematic.
Simultaneously, the length of the paring knife, the sharpness of the steel, and the kinetic force behind Winnie's arm formed a mathematical matrix.
If the angle deviates by five degrees, it grazes the lung. Pneumothorax. Mortality rate: twelve percent.
If the force increases by one percent, the blade severs the intercostal artery. Blood loss becomes critical.
Adjusting his grip on her wrist, Anthony guided Winnie's hand downward. With the cold precision of a master surgeon, he drove the blade perfectly into his own chest cavity.
It was a meticulously calculated superficial puncture. High visual impact, totally controllable blood flow.
He immediately struck the nerve cluster at the base of her neck, knocking her unconscious. He carefully laid her back on the bed, pulling the quilt up to her chin.
Anthony looked down at the knife protruding from his chest, blood soaking his shirt.
"Well, I'm bleeding too."
"Hopefully, you'll feel guilty enough to owe me a favor when you wake up."