The Vice Director's Provocation

They were not just here to cause trouble.

They were preparing to use legal means to shut down the clinic.

When Griffin saw Lynn come out, he cleared his throat and turned toward the reporters' cameras first.

He made sure his stance and lighting were at the best angle before speaking.

"Mr. Lynn, or should I call you Dr. Lynn?" Griffin's tone carried undisguised condescension.

"You've been running this so-called clinic in this neighborhood for nearly two weeks. I have a few simple questions for you."

Lynn took a sip of coffee and said nothing.

Griffin continued, "First, where is your medical license? New York State law requires all practicing physicians to hold a valid license. Can you produce one?"

"It'll arrive next week," Lynn said. "My temporary license is already under review."

"A temporary license is still a license. Until you receive it, treating anyone here is illegal." Griffin glanced at the reporters.

After confirming that the cameras were recording, he continued, "Second, have your clinic's equipment and safety standards passed the health department's inspection?"

"As I understand it, your renovations took less than two weeks from start to finish. At that speed—no offense—it would be impossible to meet the safety standards for a medical facility."

More and more residents gathered around.

A few familiar faces who had been treated by Lynn last week looked somewhat uneasy.

Griffin raised his voice. "Third, and most importantly—I have received complaints from several residents alleging that you have engaged in false advertising and exaggerated diagnoses."

"A young man without a medical license opens an illegal clinic in a residential neighborhood and uses words like 'miracle' to deceive ordinary citizens who know nothing about medicine—this is a trampling of medical ethics!"

Several residents had complained?

Lynn swept his gaze over the crowd.

He could read every expression on their faces—confusion, hesitation, uncertainty.

Not a single face said, "I filed a complaint."

Griffin was lying.

The woman from the Community Medical Association stepped forward at just the right moment and pulled out a document from her briefcase.

"Mr. Lynn, this is an official investigation notice issued by the Community Medical Association regarding your clinic. We will request that the health department conduct a comprehensive review of your clinic. Until the results are released, we advise you to suspend all medical activities."

The reporters' cameras faithfully recorded it all.

Lynn stood in the doorway, his coffee still unfinished.

Super Intelligence ran three threads at once in his mind.

The first: Griffin's motive.

Since opening, the clinic had taken at least thirty percent of St. Mary's Hospital's primary care patients.

Griffin was not concerned about medical safety. His business had been stolen.

The second: legal risk assessment.

His temporary license truly had not arrived yet. That was his weak point.

If the other side really pursued legal action, the clinic might be forced to suspend operations.

But that would only be temporary—the license would arrive next week.

The third: the optimal way to break the deadlock.

If he argued with Griffin head-on now, whether he won or lost, he would look undignified in front of the cameras.

But if he did nothing, Griffin would seize the advantage in public opinion.

He needed a method that could end every argument.

A face-to-face, public, irrefutable display of overwhelming superiority.

Lynn set his coffee cup on the edge of the flowerbed outside the clinic.

"Vice Director Griffin," he said calmly, "the issues you mentioned will all be resolved once I receive my license next week. But I noticed that you have doubts about my medical skills—and I think that can be answered on the spot."

Griffin raised an eyebrow.

"If you have any doubts about my diagnostic abilities," Lynn said, looking him straight in the eyes, each word deliberate.

"You can bring any patient you want. I'll perform a free public diagnosis. Let the results decide who is right and who is wrong."

The crowd fell silent for a second.

The reporter adjusted the camera's focus, centering it on Lynn's face.

Griffin was silent for several seconds.

He had not expected Lynn to propose this kind of "challenge" himself—in Griffin's script, Lynn should have been scrambling to explain himself or meekly admitting defeat.

But he could not refuse.

Refusing a proposal for a "public diagnosis" in front of the cameras would be the same as admitting he was afraid.

"Fine." Griffin smiled, looking completely confident. "Then I'll bring a few patients. I'd like to see what exactly is so miraculous about your miracle."

Lynn nodded and turned back into the clinic.

After closing the door, the corner of his mouth curled up.

He had taken the bait.

Super Intelligence had already calculated the outcome—

This public diagnosis would be the best advertisement Miracle Clinic had received so far.

No matter what patients Griffin brought, Lynn was one hundred percent certain he could crush him.

Not because he was arrogant.

But because All-Things Diagnosis had never made a mistake.

The public diagnosis was set for Saturday morning, three days later.

Griffin had chosen that time deliberately—Saturday was when neighborhood residents were off work, with the greatest foot traffic and the best chance of drawing a crowd.

If Lynn embarrassed himself in front of so many people, Miracle Clinic's reputation would be completely ruined.

But Lynn did not care when Griffin chose to hold it.

Saturday, ten in the morning.

A long bench had been set up outside Miracle Clinic.

More than thirty residents stood in a semicircle in the open space before the clinic.

The reporter had come too, this time with two cameras—one fixed in position and the other for close-up tracking.

He had even started a livestream on his phone.

Griffin brought three patients.

The first was a white man in his forties. He looked anxious and kept rubbing his temples.

The second was a Latina woman around thirty-five. Her complexion was sallow, and she did not look well.

The third was an elderly man in his seventies, seated in a wheelchair and pushed by a family member. His face was filled with exhaustion and resignation.

Griffin stood to the side with his arms folded, a smile on his lips that seemed to say, Let's see how you perform.

Behind him stood three doctors from St. Mary's Hospital, including the two young men who had mocked Lynn before.

Lynn walked out of the clinic.

His white coat was spotless, and his gold-rimmed glasses gleamed.

Without wasting words, he walked directly to the first patient.

"Sir, what are your symptoms?"

The man rubbed his temples and said, "Headaches. I've had them for over a year. At first, I thought they were migraines. I took countless painkillers, had Computed Tomography scans, had MRIs—nothing showed up. It's gotten worse lately. Sometimes it hurts so much I feel like smashing my head into a wall."

All-Things Diagnosis activated the moment the man spoke his first word.

A system panel unfolded in Lynn's field of vision—the internal structure of the skull, the distribution of blood vessels, the paths of the nerves, all displayed in colored markings.