The day after the news aired, a black SUV pulled up outside the clinic.
Lynn was seeing a patient.
The woman sitting in front of him had come in with knee pain. She had a worn meniscus and mild synovitis; anti-inflammatory medication and rest would be enough to fix it.
As he explained why she didn't need surgery, he picked up the sounds outside: four people getting out, their steps heavy and their strides long.
One person's gait was heavier, his right shoulder lowered. He was either carrying something heavy or trying to manage some kind of pain.
A faint metallic clink—firearms.
The sound of a car door closing—solid, not like an ordinary SUV door.
Armored.
Lynn's expression didn't change.
He handed the woman her prescription. "Take these as directed and apply a warm compress for twenty minutes each day. Come back next week for a follow-up."
The moment she left, four men walked in.
Three burly men led the way, each two sizes bigger than Lynn.
They wore black leather jackets, and their necks were adorned with either gold chains or tattoos.
They entered in a disciplined formation: two went in first and split to either side, checking the room before the third followed.
A standard VIP security detail.
Behind the third bouncer, a pale, middle-aged man walked in.
He looked to be around forty-five, of average height and sturdy build, wearing a brown leather jacket. His hair was slicked into place with pomade.
Several layers of gauze wrapped his left arm, dark red blood seeping through.
Super Senses completed a full scan the moment he stepped into the clinic.
Three bodyguards, carrying three guns.
The first man had a Springfield XD-S under his left arm, chambered in .45 caliber, with a nine-round magazine.
The second had a Glock 19 tucked behind his waist, chambered in 9mm.
The third had a PPK in a holster strapped to the outside of his right ankle, a small-caliber weapon.
The middle-aged man himself: a gunshot wound to the left arm.
All-Things Diagnosis popped up: a 9mm Parabellum Bullet, embedded 2.7 centimeters deep, on the outer side of the midshaft of the humerus.
It hadn't damaged the radial or brachial artery, but fragments had lodged in the bone.
A note popped up at the same time: [Target: ordinary human, no special talents detected. Saintly Hands Copy will not activate.]
An ordinary person.
No value to copy.
But he had cash value.
The middle-aged man looked around the clinic: white walls, brand-new equipment, and a cleanliness that didn't belong in Hell's Kitchen.
His gaze finally settled on Lynn.
"You're the doctor who was on the news?"
"Depends what kind of doctor you need." Lynn remained seated.
The man pointed at his left arm with his right hand. "Took a bullet last night. It's stuck in the bone. I can't go to a regular hospital—you understand. None of the other back-alley clinics will take me, either. Someone said you could fix anything here."
"What's your name?"
"Murphy." He said it as casually as if he were giving his address.
Lynn skimmed through the criminal intelligence he'd acquired from Batman's knowledge bank: Murphy, a mid-level drug distributor in Hell's Kitchen.
Not a big fish, but no small-timer, either.
His supplier had loose ties to Kingpin's organization.
"I can treat your injury," Lynn said, his gaze moving from Murphy's face to the bandaged arm and back. "But I have three rules."
Murphy's brow twitched.
"First, you're the only one who goes into the operating room. Your men wait outside."
The three bodyguards exchanged glances.
"Second, I hold onto your weapons during the surgery."
"Third—my fee is $50,000."
Murphy's expression changed in an instant.
"Fifty grand?" His voice rose half an octave, then dropped again.
He seemed to realize that losing his composure in front of his men wouldn't look good. "Do you know how much it costs to get a bullet removed on the black market? Two grand, tops. And you're charging me fifty?"
"Can a back-alley doctor guarantee they won't damage a nerve?" Lynn's tone didn't change. "That bullet is only four millimeters from your radial nerve."
"Ordinary back-alley doctors use brute force to remove bullets. They stick in a pair of forceps, grab the bullet, and pull it out."
"But with a wound like yours, there's a thirty percent chance brute force will hit the radial nerve."
"If that happens, you'll lose the use of your right hand. You won't even be able to pull a trigger."
Murphy's expression shifted.
Lynn continued, "There's something else you may not know."
"The bullet shattered a small piece of the outer cortex of your humerus, and the fragment has come loose. If it isn't removed, it'll cause osteomyelitis within forty-eight hours."
"By then, the question won't be whether to remove the bullet. It'll be whether you can keep the arm."
The clinic fell silent for a few seconds.
Murphy watched Lynn.
Lynn held his coffee cup and met his gaze.
"How do you know the fragment came loose?" Murphy's voice was much lower now. "You haven't even taken an X-ray."
"I don't need one."
Murphy fell silent for a few seconds more, tapping his right fingers against his thigh twice.
Then one of the bodyguards behind him suddenly reached inside his leather jacket.
The other two moved almost simultaneously.
Three guns appeared at once.
They weren't aimed at Lynn. Instead, they were pointed generally toward the room, a show of force that said they were ready to fire at any moment.
The atmosphere in the clinic plunged below freezing.
Lynn didn't move from his chair.
He took another sip of coffee.
In 0.3 seconds, he had assessed the threat: the angles of the three guns, the positions of the men's trigger fingers, and the direction of Murphy's gaze.
Conclusion: they wouldn't shoot.
The reason was simple—Murphy had come for treatment.
A bullet and several bone fragments that could cause osteomyelitis at any moment were lodged in his arm.
He'd come here because he had no other options.
What would he gain by killing the only doctor who could save his arm?
The guns were meant to intimidate.
But the tactic had no effect on Lynn.
"Mr. Murphy." Lynn set down his coffee cup, his voice quiet but every word clear.
"Your men can put their guns away. Flashing weapons in my clinic won't get you a discount. It'll only put me in a bad mood."
"And when I'm in a bad mood, my hands aren't as steady. If my hands aren't steady, who knows what might happen to your radial nerve?"
Murphy stared at him for three seconds.
Then he waved his right hand.
The three bodyguards holstered their guns at once.
"Fine. Fifty grand."
The surgery began fifteen minutes later.
Murphy went into the operating room alone, leaving his gun and phone outside.
Lynn closed the operating room door and drew the soundproof curtain.
All-Things Diagnosis provided complete surgical guidance.
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