The answer had come to him in the very first second.
But Lynn didn't speak right away.
He pretended to examine the man for three seconds—watching his eye movements, pressing the area around the Fengchi Point at the back of his neck, and lightly touching his temple with a finger.
He did all this to make the onlookers think he was "diagnosing" the man, not "reading the answer."
"Your headache isn't a migraine," Lynn said, his voice steady and loud enough for everyone present to hear clearly.
Griffin's expression didn't change.
He'd expected Lynn to start by rejecting the existing diagnosis. How else would he show off?
The key was whether his new diagnosis was right.
"There's an abnormal network of blood vessels at the base of your skull."
Lynn continued, "Normally, the middle cerebral artery branches into two main vessels at its base. But at your branching point, there's a cluster of abnormal, tiny blood vessels. They can't withstand normal blood pressure, so they cause persistent headaches..."
He paused.
"Moyamoya Disease. Early stage. I recommend getting a DSA as soon as possible to confirm it."
The scene fell silent.
The three doctors behind Griffin exchanged glances.
One of the older attending physicians turned pale. He was in charge of this patient, and neither the CT nor the MRI had picked it up.
Moyamoya Disease—he'd considered it, but ruled it out because the CT and MRI were normal.
"How did you know it was Moyamoya Disease?" the attending physician couldn't help asking.
"Your CT slices were too thick. Standard CT scans use five-millimeter intervals. In early-stage Moyamoya Disease, the abnormal blood vessels may only be one or two millimeters in diameter, so they can easily be missed between five-millimeter slices. DSA has more than twenty times the resolution of CT. That's what you need to see them." Lynn delivered this as casually as if he were commenting on the weather.
Griffin's smile faded a little.
The second patient came over.
A Latina woman with sallow skin and a listless air.
"Low-grade fever. I've had it for over two months, always between 37.5 and 38 degrees. I've had my blood counts checked so many times, and my white blood cell count isn't high. I've taken three kinds of antibiotics—cephalosporins, roxithromycin, things like that—but nothing's worked."
All-Things Diagnosis appeared.
Super Senses simultaneously picked up a key signal—the surface temperature around the woman's thyroid was about 0.8 degrees higher than the surrounding skin.
An ordinary person couldn't feel such a small temperature difference, but Lynn's sense of touch was twenty times more sensitive than an average person's.
"Your low-grade fever isn't caused by an infection," Lynn said.
"Huh?"
"Your thyroid is inflamed. Subacute Thyroiditis. It's not the kind of inflammation caused by a bacterial infection. It's due to an autoimmune response."
"You've been looking for an infection and treating it with antibiotics, so of course you haven't found anything. Check your thyroid function and get a thyroid ultrasound, and you'll have your answer."
The woman froze.
Another young doctor behind Griffin began to blush. He'd written one of her antibiotic prescriptions.
Two diagnoses, in less than two minutes.
The residents watching had already started whispering among themselves.
A middle-aged man murmured to the person beside him, "Is this for real? He figured it out without even touching him?"
The third patient was wheeled over.
An old man in a wheelchair.
Seventy-four years old, thin, with a sallow complexion.
A man in his forties stood behind him—his son.
His eyes were red.
"My father," he said.
"Late-stage lung cancer. Small Cell Lung Cancer. The hospital said he has three months at most. He's had radiation and chemotherapy, but they didn't work."
His voice was a little hoarse.
"We've already... already given up hope. We saw the news about your public diagnosis event and wanted to try our luck."
The crowd fell quiet.
Lynn looked at the old man in the wheelchair.
All-Things Diagnosis completed its scan in one second.
Once you see an ad asking, "Are you a real person?", just ignore it and close it. Don't scan the QR code or send a text message!
Then Lynn frowned.
He didn't speak right away.
Ten seconds passed.
Everyone held their breath.
"Who told you this was Small Cell Lung Cancer?"
The son hesitated. "St. Mary's Hospital... uh, the one across the street."
Something in Griffin's expression flickered.
"Your father doesn't have Small Cell Lung Cancer." Lynn crouched down to meet the old man's eyes.
"I haven't seen your biopsy slides, but based on your overall condition, your tumor is growing far more slowly than Small Cell Lung Cancer typically does. Small Cell Lung Cancer has a doubling time of about thirty days, but over the six months since your initial diagnosis, your tumor has grown by less than twenty-five percent."
He stood and looked at the doctors behind Griffin.
"That growth rate points to Adenoid Cystic Carcinoma, not Small Cell Lung Cancer. They're in completely different categories of malignancy. And—"
He turned to the old man's son.
"Your father currently has only two metastatic lesions: one in the lymph nodes at the right lung hilum and one in the left sixth rib."
"Both are within the scope of surgery."
"If the pathological diagnosis is corrected and he switches to a treatment plan for Adenoid Cystic Carcinoma, his five-year survival rate will be at least sixty percent."
The entire scene fell silent.
The old man's son stood with his mouth open, unable to speak.
Several seconds passed before tears began to fall.
He wasn't crying from grief. He was crying because the "death sentence" of three months might have been wrong.
His father might still have many years to live.
The old man clutched his son's hand. The veins stood out on the back of his hand, which was covered with brown spots, and it trembled too.
At first, the crowd was as silent as the grave.
Then someone started clapping.
One person's applause became two, then swelled to more than a dozen.
It wasn't polite applause. It was the kind that burst out when people were too stunned to hold it back.
Vice President Griffin stood off to the side.
His face went from red to white, then from white to ashen.
His lips pressed into a thin line.
The three doctors behind him looked even worse.
They were the ones who had diagnosed the lung cancer. If Lynn was right, they hadn't just misdiagnosed the old man—they'd also given him months of chemotherapy based on that wrong diagnosis, causing additional harm to his body.
This wasn't just an embarrassment.
It was a public humiliation.
The reporter's camera captured the entire thing.
The livestream's viewership climbed from a few dozen at the start to more than two thousand.
Griffin said nothing.
He turned and left with his people, their tails between their legs.
As he went, his back was as stiff as a board.
Lynn stood where he was, watching Griffin disappear around the corner.
Then he turned, went back into the clinic, and closed the door.
He picked up his coffee, which had gone cold, and took a sip.
The system notification rang out in his mind—
[Reputation Points change: +80 (public diagnosis influence bonus). Current Reputation Points: 330.]
That evening, a local news station clipped footage from the livestream.
They edited it into a three-minute video titled "Young Chinese-American Doctor in Hell's Kitchen Overturns Three Misdiagnoses in Three Minutes."
It aired during the social affairs segment of the evening news.
Ordinary viewers weren't the only ones who saw the report.
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