My hands, clutching the steering wheel, grew clammy. My heart pounded against my ribs like a trapped bird.
What should I do? Who is this? What do they want from me?
Thoughts raced in a panicked whirlwind, each more terrifying than the last. Was I really going to die? So stupidly and ingloriously, just a week into my time here, when life was just beginning to improve?
Okay, okay. Inhale. Exhale. Calm.
I forced myself to take a deep, ragged breath, feeling my lungs burn. Panic wouldn't fix the situation. Logic. I needed logic. If they'd wanted to kill me, they probably would have already. They would have shot up the car at one of the intersections. But if they were just watching, that meant they had another goal. That meant I had time. I needed to get rid of my pursuers.
How do they do it in those cool spy thrillers? Turn sharply into an alley? Break away at speed? As luck would have it, my head was ringing with emptiness. All sensible thoughts evaporated, leaving me alone with a panicked, useless brain.
Thoughts... Exactly. The Potion of Intellect. My trump card. I'll definitely come up with something with it. But to take it, I need to buy at least a few minutes.
Spotting a small café with open windows, I tried to conceal my nervousness as I smoothly changed lanes and parked. I got out of the car without looking back, as if it had been planned, and went inside. I ordered a salad and coffee—the most mundane thing I could think of. While they were preparing my order, I sat down at a table by the window. A black Land Cruiser didn't pass by. It parked a little further away on the other side of the street. They were waiting. Waiting for me to come out. And apparently, barging in and causing a scene in the middle of Manhattan wasn't their style. This gave me a break.
I went into the restroom. The cold water on my wrists calmed my feverish pulse a bit. Looking at my pale reflection in the mirror, I pulled a vial of the potion from my Inventory. I drank the tart, tasteless liquid in one gulp.
The effect didn't set in immediately. I returned to the table, and for the first few seconds, nothing happened. And then... It was as if someone had turned a dial in my head. The panicked noise began to fade, dissolving into distinct, clear signals. Emotions receded into the background, turning from all-consuming terror into a variable in an equation. My brain accelerated to incredible speeds, completely detached from the world. All that remained was the problem and the solutions.
Problem: A group of unknown pursuers in a tinted black Toyota Land Cruiser. Targets: Unknown. Composition: Unknown.
Stalker Analysis: Average or below professional level. High-level professionals (S.H.I.E.L.D., FBI) wouldn't use the same high-visibility vehicle for surveillance. They would drive in a box, constantly changing cars. Their tactics are crude and direct. This is either a show of force or incompetence. Probability of a meta-trap (they wanted me to notice them): <5%. Too complex for amateurs, too crude for professionals. Discard as unlikely. Conclusion: I'm not dealing with a top-level government intelligence agency.
Motive Analysis (WHY?): I need to analyze all of my recent abnormal actions.
Ghost Orchid (~70% probability). A unique, mystical resource. Its "theft" is my most notorious "statement" in this world so far. The flower likely had guardians, and it took them several days to find me using standard methods (cameras, witnesses).
Selling Gold (probability ~25%). Less likely. Gold is a common criminal target. The bandits who tracked me from the pawn shop would likely have attempted a robbery rather than conducting discreet surveillance. But it can't be ruled out—perhaps they believe I have a source and want to take it from me.
Another Factor (probability ~5%). My meeting with Parker? A brief conversation with Osborn? My nature as a "time traveler"? Too many unknowns. We'll assume this is a statistical error until more data becomes available. Conclusion: The most likely cause is the Ghost Orchid.
Persona Analysis (WHO?): If the Orchid is the cause, then the pursuers are those who know of its existence. The circle is narrowing but still wide. Descendants of the Lenape? A magical order? An elite gang using it for their rituals? The Hand? I probably wouldn't have noticed the latter. I need to look for clues in what I see.
A black Land Cruiser. 100% tint. Front side windows. Also tinted. Wait. That's a direct violation of New York State traffic laws. I quickly opened the browser on my phone. "New York Window Tint Law." Exactly. Front side windows cannot transmit less than 70% of light. Full tint is prohibited. But there is an exception. Just one. A medical certificate of high photosensitivity.
My brain instantly built a chain. High Photosensitivity -> Diseases -> Porphyria, Albinism, Systemic Lupus... Sun Allergy. In the Marvel universe, there is at least one intelligent race with a similar diagnosis. A nocturnal race with superhuman strength and speed. And an aversion to sunlight. Vampires.
The hypothesis instantly explained everything: their reluctance to leave the car during the day, their preference for brute force over stealth, and their interest in a mystical ingredient like the Orchid. They were unlikely to be interested in gold in such a primitive form.
Result: There is a >80% chance that I am being pursued by a clan of Vampires for stealing the Ghost Orchid.
Okay. Let's assume, just let's assume, that they really are Vampires. What then? My brain, freed from fear, began calculating the options. A direct confrontation would guarantee death. Their physical abilities are orders of magnitude superior to mine. But they have weaknesses. The sun. And maybe silver.
But all their physical advantages paled in comparison to one key weakness. A vulnerability I probably wouldn't have even considered if not for the potion. Now, my doped-up brain was calculating hundreds of possible scenarios, weeding out the losers, and searching for that one, unique opportunity. And it seemed to have found it. The plan was crazy, risky, and relied on a single assumption I'd never tested in practice. But it was there.
"Your order, sir," the pretty waitress placed a plate of salad and a cup of coffee in front of me, momentarily pulling me out of the whirlwind of tactical calculations.
Having thanked the girl, I began to eat slowly, using the time to go over every detail of the upcoming adventure in my head again and again. Vampires in this world weren't the pompous hermits of teen romance novels. They were apex predators, killing machines capable of mentally dominating their victims. It was this latter trait that made them especially dangerous. One look, one command, and I could give them whatever they wanted. Therefore, direct contact had to be avoided at all costs. My plan didn't involve dialogue. It didn't even involve eye contact. It was either me or them. There was no middle ground.