Anthony was carried into the ambulance by paramedics as he watched Winnie being escorted into a police car by officers.
He closed his eyes and allowed the nurse to perform preliminary hemostasis, but a strange smile curled at the corner of his lips.
He had indeed died.
It was just that this body was now inhabited by a soul from another world.
In his previous life, he had possessed a brain with specific abilities. Due to an equipment accident while cooperating with research at the Academy of Sciences, he had entered this world.
Anthony's so-called special brain was not some sci-fi superpower, but rather the abilities of Rapid Calculation and Compensatory Perception.
There had already been several similar cases in the real world.
For example, super memory, super calculation, metal adsorption, and enhanced digestion. These were not supernatural powers, nor were they a technologically assisted second brain.
The host's cause of death had not been the fruit knife, but a certain toxin in the alcohol.
Through the host's memories, Anthony already knew who had made a move against him.
The young master of the Tarasov Mob, Yusuf Tarasov.
That was right—the same man who once killed someone's dog and caused the entire Tarasov Mob to be wiped out.
"John Wick!"
The host's name had been Anthony Tarasov, the illegitimate son of the mob boss Viggo Tarasov.
He had joined the Marine Corps at seventeen, gone to Afghanistan at twenty, and within three years, due to multiple injuries and failing psychological evaluations, had retired. He had been back for less than a week.
Viggo had arranged for Anthony to join the military mainly to receive weapons training and expand the gang's influence.
He had intended to use military transport channels to smuggle drugs from Afghanistan back home and then ship domestic weapons to Afghanistan.
As for Yusuf, he had simply hoped Anthony would die in Afghanistan so he could completely take over the Tarasov Family.
Anthony also knew Winnie. They had once been high school classmates.
However, after nearly three years under the Afghan sun, and in her panic, she had not recognized him.
Recalling what had happened an hour earlier, Anthony could not help licking the corner of his mouth, as if savoring something.
After surgery, Anthony was taken to a hospital ward and, under the influence of anesthesia, drifted into a groggy sleep.
The events of last night replayed in his mind like a movie.
After familiarizing himself with the host's memories, Anthony had figured out the cause and effect of his death.
Just as he had been about to get up and leave the hotel, he had felt that his body was still somewhat stiff. The host had clearly been dead for some time.
Having just transmigrated, the body had still been losing heat.
Before long, he heard movement outside the door and had no choice but to close his eyes again.
The door was pushed open, and a scent of woody sandalwood mixed with the sweetness of autumn pears drifted into Anthony's nose.
Yusuf and another middle-aged man walked in, supporting a tall woman.
Her head hung low like a walking corpse. Her long chestnut-gold hair fell 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 recognized the voice of his half-brother, Yusuf.
Botulinum Toxin was ten thousand times more toxic than potassium cyanide. One nanogram could indeed make him die several times over.
Anthony heard footsteps approaching and held his breath.
In his current condition, he was not capable of killing these two. He could only continue playing dead.
A hand touched his arm. "He's been cold for a while. Rigor mortis has already set in."
"Black, this woman is about to become a murderer. I was thinking…" Yusuf said cautiously, yet excitedly.
"Fuck, do you know who she is?" the middle-aged man named Black hissed. "Even if she's sent in, once this is investigated, none of us will escape."
"Hurry up. Get her on the bed. Let's leave before she starts making a scene."
Suddenly, the woman let out a soft voice. "Hot… so hot…"
Anthony narrowed his eyes slightly and saw the woman beginning to tug at her clothes.
She was wearing a camel-colored cashmere double-breasted trench coat over a creamy white silk shirt.
Two buttons at the collar were undone, revealing a delicate diamond necklace resting between her collarbones.
A rose-gold watch on her wrist occasionally reflected blinding light under the lamps as her arms moved.
"Fuck, you even drugged her with an aphrodisiac?" Black roared angrily. "You idiot, are you trying to get me killed?"
Slap.
A crisp sound echoed in the room.
"Black, if you dare insult me again, see if I don't kill you," Yusuf sneered. "Pritzker is nothing in my eyes."
"If it weren't to make this bastard's death look like an accident, would I cooperate with you? If the two hundred thousand doesn't arrive by tomorrow, I'll expose everything you've done."
Yusuf shoved the woman heavily onto the bed. "What a waste."
He took out a cup stained with Botulinum Toxin from his pocket, forced the woman to hold it, then placed it on the small table.
After they left, the woman began tossing and turning on the bed, unconsciously and frantically tearing at her clothes.
Anthony slowly turned his head, silently watching her struggle.
The woman sat up, brushing her long hair back and revealing an exquisite oval face with a high nose bridge and deep-set eyes.
She was clearly only in her early twenties.
Her face was flushed, her eyes tightly shut.
Perhaps her consciousness had not completely faded. Her trembling hands clutched at her shirt, yet desire drove her to tear at it again and again.
Beyond the edge of her bra was warm ivory skin, still glowing faintly under the dim light.
Her scent drifted into Anthony's nostrils. It was pleasant.
Even seated on the bed, her tall and upright figure was evident.
Her shoulder and neck lines were elegant. She was slightly full-figured, yet her muscles were smooth and firm.
Anthony's throat felt dry.
"Winnie?" he murmured uncertainly.
At that moment, his body was still stiff. Even lifting a hand seemed to require all his strength.
While watching her struggle, he slowly flexed his fingers, trying to regain sensation in his arms.
Winnie's dazed eyes suddenly met another pair of bright eyes, and she froze for a moment.
"You… dare touch me… you'll… definitely die…"
She struggled to clutch her clothes over her burning chest.
Her red lips were bitten hard, and a thin line of blood slowly slid down.
However, she was only lucid for a few seconds before slipping back into confusion.
"Get away!"
Winnie hugged her arms and instinctively moved backward, trying to distance herself from the man she believed had set her up.
Thump.
She fell headfirst off the bed.
Anthony could not see clearly, but he heard her body hit against the bed legs.
After an unknown amount of time, a pair of strong yet slightly cool arms laboriously lifted her.
The clash of cold and heat seemed to trigger a reaction.
Winnie suddenly wrapped her arms tightly around the cold body, her legs entangling him.
Anthony could not stand steadily. Holding her, he stumbled and fell back onto the bed.
"Winnie, you—"
Her hot lips pressed against his, cutting off his words.
Amid heavy breathing, the weakened Anthony was unable to resist her drug-driven intensity.
As her nails scraped against him and her feverish closeness persisted, Anthony's physical strength gradually began to recover.
Three years in the military. Three years in the desert sands.
Anthony stopped thinking about the consequences and responded.
He heard the faint sound of fabric tearing and saw her brow furrow as if in pain.
Low sounds of strained breathing mixed with the whirring of the radiator.
After an unknown amount of time, Winnie fell into a deep sleep.
Seeing the faint tear marks on her face, Anthony let out a quiet sigh.
"Winnie, I didn't intend this… you forced my hand. Don't curse me when you wake up."
"Back in school, you always said I didn't study well, and you even pulled my ears."
Thinking of certain high school memories, Anthony laughed softly.
He picked up his clothes and was about to look for a cigarette when he heard a strange sound from the sleeping Winnie's throat.
Anthony turned and saw her muttering continuously, speaking too quickly to understand.
She suddenly opened her eyes, bloodshot, grabbed several items from the bed, and threw them at him as her voice grew louder.
"Who do you think you are?"
"You disgust me."
"Stop bothering me. Are you crazy?"
"I've had enough of your nonsense. I don't want to see you again."
Anthony caught whatever she threw at him, including a chair, a water cup, and an ashtray, feeling a chill in his heart.
"Damn… a mental disorder?" Anthony froze.
In America, sleeping with a mentally ill woman could be a serious crime.
The commotion alerted the hotel manager, who began pounding on the door.
Anthony quickly grabbed clothing to wrap around Winnie.
The manager opened the door, and Anthony kept his right hand behind his back.
"Fine. We were just joking…" Anthony explained hurriedly.
The man saw the beautiful woman struggling in Anthony's arms, shouting that she did not want to see him again, and even saw her grabbing Anthony's ear and pulling hard.
"Well, a woman hitting a man is nothing," the manager said with a wink. "I don't need to call the police for you, right?"
Anthony pried her hand from his ear. "No need. Thank you. Please don't disturb us."
"Alright. I'll hang the sign for you. Just keep the noise down and don't disturb the other guests."
The manager tucked his pistol into his waistband and closed the door.
During the struggle, Winnie suddenly grabbed a fruit knife and stabbed toward Anthony's neck.
Anthony caught her wrist. Originally, he intended to knock her unconscious.
Then he reconsidered.
A faint light flickered in his eyes. The gaps between his ribs, the position of his heart, the edges of his lungs, and the pulse path of his aorta all transformed into streams of data in his mind.
The length of the fruit knife, the sharpness of its blade, and the force of the stab formed a matrix of calculations.
If the angle deviated by five degrees, it might graze the lung, causing pneumothorax, with a mortality rate of twelve percent.
If the force increased by one percent, the blade might reach the intercostal artery, sharply increasing the risk of blood loss.
Anthony guided her hand, directing the fruit knife into his chest with surgical precision, creating only a shallow wound with controllable bleeding.
After knocking her unconscious, he carefully placed her on the bed and covered her with a quilt.
Anthony looked at the fruit knife embedded in his chest.
"I'm bleeding too."
"Hopefully, you'll feel some guilt when you wake up."