Old York was keeping busy inside the pizzeria, tossing dough and yelling at apprentices, while Ethan Cole was out tearing through the streets of Manhattan on his delivery route.
Thanks to his exceptional riding skills and familiarity with New York's alleyways, backroads, and shortcuts—not to mention his almost unnatural reflexes—Ethan could complete an entire batch of deliveries in just 10 to 15 minutes. Compared to most delivery riders, he was practically a blur.
"Just one last order left," Ethan muttered, glancing at the receipt in his hand. "After this, I'm done for the day."
He looked around to get his bearings, then strapped on his helmet and throttled the motorcycle down a side street.
The sun had already sunk behind the skyline, and the golden glow of the city was fading into twilight. It was the tail end of the pizzeria's dinner rush, and Old York always insisted on closing the shop at a reasonable hour.
"Money never stops coming," Old York often said, "but if you don't stop to breathe, you'll spend it all on hospital bills instead of cold beer."
Ethan fully agreed. For him, money was just a tool. If chasing it too hard ruined your life, what was the point? He wasn't in this world to be a corporate drone or a gear in the machine. He had other plans.
Buzz buzz~! Ethan casually hummed along with the bike's low roar as it zipped down a narrow street like a silver streak. This shortcut, carved through a construction site and between dumpsters, was one he'd found himself after a dozen late-night deliveries. It always shaved a few minutes off the clock.
Before long, he reached the final destination. After delivering the order, he found himself face-to-face with a curvaceous blonde in a satin robe. The woman flashed a sultry smile and invited him inside to share the pizza.
Ethan, with a polite chuckle and the faintest tinge of red on his face, declined. "Thanks, but I've still got to close out my shift."
"People are really friendly these days," he muttered as he stepped back onto the bike. Her wink and the way she'd leaned on the doorframe had been… a bit much. Shaking his head and smiling helplessly, he strapped on his helmet again.
By now, the sun had fully vanished, and a slim crescent moon hung above the rooftops, casting a silvery glow across the quiet street.
With fewer cars and people out, Ethan figured he could get back to the shop quickly. He revved the engine and sped off again.
"My stomach's starting to complain…" he said, pressing a hand lightly to his abdomen. After tearing through the city all afternoon, his energy reserves were tanking. Time to get home and cook something decent—Old York's pizza only went so far.
Buzz! The bike tore through the quiet streets like a panther. Riding at top speed always gave him a rush. It was the closest thing to flying.
Ever since arriving in this world, Ethan's brain had worked differently—faster, sharper. It was like his body ran on instinct, his perception heightened. In moments like this, the world slowed around him, like bullet time. Everything became clear. Streets, turns, wind, shadows. He'd read about this kind of spatial awareness in comics—characters like Spider-Man relied on "spider-sense" to react faster than physics allowed. Ethan didn't have that exactly, but something close.
Like Takumi from Initial D, the street became his canvas. But no comic or anime had prepared him for what happened next.
At the next intersection, a black cat staggered into view.
It looked sick. Its fur was matted, and its limbs twitched unnaturally as it dragged itself forward. Its pitch-black eyes locked onto Ethan's headlight with eerie precision. White foam leaked from its mouth, trailing down its whiskers.
The way it moved—disjointed, twisted, almost glitching—sent a chill down Ethan's spine. Rabies? Possession? Mutant infection?
Whatever it was, it was not normal.
But Ethan didn't see it until the last second.
The moment he approached the crossing, the cat suddenly launched at him like a missile—straight at his helmet.
"Sh*t!"
Ethan swerved and hit the brakes hard, but the sheer inertia launched him off the seat. His body sailed forward through the air while the bike flipped, skidded, and crashed into a roadside drainage ditch.
He hit the ground rolling—hard.
Dust and pain clouded his senses as he tumbled across the sidewalk, scraping against gravel and debris until he finally came to a stop.
He lay there for a moment, groaning. Everything ached. His shoulder throbbed, and his hip felt like it had been tackled by the Hulk himself. But nothing felt broken.
"What the hell was that? Did a cat just dive-bomb me?!"
He pulled himself upright with a grimace, panting from the impact. The street was dead silent. The black cat had vanished.
It had probably slipped off into the park or the nearby overgrowth between buildings. Typical New York—full of rats, roaches, and now possibly demonic cats.
"This is insane…" Ethan winced as he removed his helmet, brushing debris from his hoodie and pants.
Under the moonlight, he checked for wounds. His sleeves and pant legs were torn and covered in grime, but his skin underneath was mostly intact.
"No blood. Just bruises and dust. Lucky, I guess…"
He inspected his elbows and knees. No cuts. No sprains. Considering the crash, it was almost too lucky.
If not for his enhanced durability—or whatever weird genetic cocktail the universe had given him after he'd reincarnated—he'd probably have snapped a bone or two. Still, the adrenaline was fading, and the pain was setting in.
He groaned again, limping toward the wrecked motorcycle.
In the shadows behind him, a pair of black eyes blinked once, deep in an alley. Watching. Waiting.
Staring at the motorcycle half-submerged in the drainage ditch, Ethan Cole gave a wry chuckle. "Most people use ditches to make U-turns. Me? I go into them headfirst."
Shaking his head with a sigh, he jumped down into the ditch, squinting in the dim moonlight. The canal wasn't very deep—only waist-high—but the bike was heavy, easily over 300 pounds with modifications. Still, he figured it was worth trying. Worst case, he'd call a tow truck. Again.
He pulled out his phone, half-expecting it to be busted, but it lit up with a familiar flicker.
"Still works… Tough little guy," he murmured. "If this were one of the phones from my old world, it would've shattered into confetti by now."
He remembered how fragile tech had been in his previous life—screens cracking from a 2-foot drop, batteries exploding in the cold. In contrast, even the most basic smartphones in this world, influenced by decades of post-Stark industry innovation, were surprisingly durable. Military-grade glass, water-resistant casing—he was grateful for the difference.
As he tucked the phone away, a sudden spark of thought crossed his mind.
What if I actually use that knowledge gap to my advantage?
He'd considered making money before—basic stuff like trading tips, high-yield investments—but had put it on hold to help Old York rebuild the pizzeria after that rough winter. But now, the idea returned with sharper clarity. What if he focused on tech, food, or entertainment ideas that didn't exist in this timeline yet?
Touchless payments, battery-stabilization tech, maybe even predictive search engines… There were plenty of gaps in this version of Earth—despite being in the Marvel Universe—that he could exploit to create a legacy for himself and for Old York.
Grinning faintly, he planted the thought in his mental vault. First, get out of this ditch. Then, world domination.
With renewed focus, Ethan scoured the nearby wooded patch beside the road. He gathered a few logs and large flat stones, arranging them to form a crude but functional ramp up from the ditch. He jammed the stones on each side to stabilize the logs as much as possible.
"It's a little sketchy," he muttered, inspecting his makeshift slope, "but it should hold long enough."
He grunted as he began pushing the motorcycle forward, carefully aligning the wheels. To his surprise, the weight didn't fight him as much as expected. In one smooth motion, he rolled the bike up the incline and back onto the road.
"Huh… that wasn't so bad." He leaned against the bike to catch his breath. "Guess I forgot wheels are meant to roll."
Flexing his sore arms, Ethan sighed again. This day had been chaos, but he'd gotten out of it without a scratch. It had started with a weird black cat nearly taking his head off and ended with a personal strength test in a ditch. Unlucky… but also kind of lucky.
Once the bike was back on level ground, he gave it a quick once-over. The headlights still worked. The chain hadn't snapped. Frame intact. Scratches, sure, but no real damage. It was good to go.
Satisfied, Ethan put on his helmet and straddled the motorcycle, twisting the throttle.
Gugugu~! His stomach rumbled louder than the engine.
"Okay, that's new… I'm starving. Thank god I'm almost back."
The trip back to Old York's Pizzeria was uneventful, and the city had mostly settled into its nighttime calm. Streetlights flickered overhead, casting long shadows across the sidewalk. A few taxis zipped past, and somewhere nearby, sirens wailed faintly in the distance—just another night in Manhattan.
When Ethan finally arrived, the shop was quiet. Only Old York remained, cleaning up behind the counter. The rest of the staff had closed up and gone home hours ago.
As soon as Ethan stepped inside, the smell of food overwhelmed his senses—melted cheese, baked crust, garlic, and something fried. His instincts took over. He made a beeline for the plate of pizza resting on the prep counter and devoured a slice in two bites.
Hearing the commotion, Old York emerged from the kitchen carrying a steaming plate of golden French fries.
He paused when he saw Ethan inhaling food like a ravenous beast. For a second, he smiled—happy to see the kid eating with such enthusiasm. But his expression changed when he noticed the rips in Ethan's hoodie, the dirt and grime on his jeans, and the bruises along his jawline.
Storming forward, Old York slapped the fries onto the counter and gripped Ethan's shoulder with alarm. "What the hell happened to you?!"
Mouth half-full, Ethan quickly waved him off, took a swig of soda, and mumbled, "I'm fine. Just… almost ran over a cat. Hit the brakes too fast. Took a spill. That's all."
Before he could finish, Old York's palm came down hard on his head.
Smack!
"OW! What was that for?!"
"For being a damn idiot, that's what!" Old York barked, face red with frustration. "How many times have I told you not to drive like a lunatic?! You're not Ghost Rider!"
"But it was a cat! I had to—"
"I don't care if it was a Skrull wearing a fur coat! You don't slam the brakes at that speed, ever! What if you'd flipped into traffic? What if a bus was coming? You're lucky this time—what about next time, huh?!"
Old York's anger wasn't loud, but it cut deep. The kind of anger that came from someone who cared too much to be calm.
"I'm grounding you," he continued, reaching into his apron and yanking out a thick roll of bills. He threw it onto the table. "You're not working here tomorrow. Go home. Sleep. Hang out with your friends. You're not stepping foot in this shop until I say so."
"York, come on—" Ethan started, but Old York had already turned his back and walked into the kitchen, muttering curses in Italian under his breath as he returned to prepping late-night pasta orders.
Left alone, Ethan sat quietly and returned to his food. The adrenaline was wearing off, and so was his pride. Still, the smell of fresh fries and pizza was comforting. He let out a breath, chewed slowly, and tried to push down the guilt with garlic sauce.
As he sat there, he noticed something strange—he was really hungry. Like, more than usual. His stomach felt like a black hole.
Weird… Am I burning more calories lately? Is this some kind of delayed mutation? Or am I just… finally growing again?
He glanced down at his legs and arms. He did feel slightly stronger lately. A little leaner. Maybe his body was still adapting to the strange cosmic transfer that brought him here.
Still chewing, he filed the thought away. First, food. Then, answers.