The Strongest Security Guard

"Yes."

"How did you do it?"

"Good medical skills."

The other end of the line went quiet for a few seconds.

Then Murphy hung up.

Around five in the afternoon, while Lynn was organizing files at the front desk, he heard a conversation from two hundred meters away.

Two surviving Red Ghost Gang lackeys were smoking and chatting on a street corner.

"Did you hear? The Punisher is sitting outside Miracle Clinic."

"For real?"

"Absolutely. Old Liu saw him himself. He's sitting right at the entrance, armed."

"Who the fuck would dare cause trouble there? Anyone who goes dies."

"Didn't Red Ghost's people say they were going to smash that clinic?"

"Smash my ass. Red Ghost himself got taken away by Kingpin's people. Even if Red Ghost were still around, would he dare make a move in front of the Punisher?"

"No way..."

After they finished talking, the two went their separate ways.

Lynn set down the files in his hands, the corner of his mouth curling up.

Trading fear for safety.

The cost was zero—he had merely treated Frank's injuries and copied an ability while he was at it.

Frank needed no salary, food, or lodging—he had his own safehouse. All he had to do was sit outside the entrance for a few hours every day.

It was far too good a deal.

Frank sat at the entrance during the day and went out to work at night.

Lynn never asked where he went or what he did.

When Frank returned the next morning, he would occasionally have a few new scrapes on him—but with Lynn's treatment, such minor injuries healed in less than a day.

The two of them rarely spoke.

Not because they were uncomfortable around each other, but because neither needed pointless chatter.

Frank was not a social person, and Lynn did not enjoy meaningless small talk either.

But every now and then, they exchanged a sentence or two.

One afternoon, Lynn was examining an elderly woman's thyroid.

Frank got up from his folding chair at the entrance and came inside to pour himself a glass of water. As he passed the examination room door, he paused.

He watched Lynn palpate the old woman's thyroid—two seconds, and before he had even touched her, he began writing the diagnostic report.

"Your eyes," Frank said.

Lynn looked up. "What?"

"They don't look like a normal doctor's eyes."

"What do you mean?"

"Normal doctors look at patients to find the problem. When you look at a patient, it's like you already know the answer and are just confirming it."

Lynn adjusted his glasses and did not respond.

Frank took a sip of water, then turned and left.

This man's powers of observation were not weak.

Although he did not have Super Senses or Super Intelligence, the instinctive intuition he had honed through years of crawling along the line between life and death made him highly sensitive to anything "abnormal."

Lynn made a mental note—in front of Frank, he needed to make the "performance" part of his diagnoses more thorough.

He could not let anyone notice that his abilities came too easily.

During the time Frank was around, Lynn devoted more energy to upgrading the clinic's hardware.

Using Murphy's fifty thousand dollars and the consultation fees he had saved before, he bought a batch of better surgical equipment.

A portable ultrasound machine, an electrocardiograph, a better sterilization cabinet, and surgical lights.

He also designed a "VIP Operating Room" in the storage room at the very back of the first floor—adding an electromagnetic shielding layer and soundproofing foam, specifically for any superpowered patients who might come in the future.

While renovating the VIP Operating Room, Frank watched from the side for a while.

"Electromagnetic shielding?" Frank tapped the newly installed copper mesh layer on the wall. "What kind of people are you planning to treat that need their electromagnetic signals blocked?"

"Hard to say." Lynn secured the final soundproof panel. "But there's no harm in being prepared."

Frank did not ask any more questions.

But Lynn knew Frank had to be wondering—what exactly was this college dropout running a small clinic plotting?

The third week Frank had been guarding the entrance.

At four in the afternoon, a black-haired man entered the clinic.

His hair was slightly long, and he wore sunglasses with red lenses. In his left hand, he held a white cane.

He wore a dark gray suit jacket over a white shirt, buttoned all the way to the collar.

He looked energetic and alert.

He was completely different from how he had looked three weeks ago, curled up in an alley covered in blood.

Frank glanced at him from the entrance.

His hand instinctively moved toward his waist—not because he recognized Daredevil, but because there was something off about the way this man walked.

A blind man, yet his steps were excessively steady. The distribution of his center of gravity did not resemble someone reliant on a cane. Instead, he looked more like someone trained in combat deliberately slowing his movements.

Frank did not stop him.

Matt walked to the front desk, folded up his cane, and placed it on the table.

"Is Dr. Lynn here? I have a four o'clock follow-up appointment."

"Come in, Mr. Murdock." Lynn poked his head out of the examination room.

The two of them put on a show.

As though treating an ordinary patient, Lynn took out a stethoscope and had him breathe deeply, then measured his blood pressure with a cuff. The whole process took around five minutes.

In reality, All-Things Diagnosis had produced a complete report the instant Matt stepped through the door—the recovery of his sensory system had reached ninety-two percent, the self-repair speed of non-core pathways was about fifteen percent faster than estimated, and all other physical indicators were normal.

"You're recovering very well." Lynn hung the stethoscope around his neck. "Even faster than I expected. Your body's repair mechanisms are much stronger than an ordinary person's."

"I work out a lot," Matt replied.

Lynn glanced at him.

In that instant, Super Senses caught several scents on Matt at once—

The scent of linen fibers came from the material of the shirts he usually wore, but lingering around the inner shoulder area was the mixed scent of Kevlar and elastic fibers.

That was his red suit. He had worn it last night.

"You can reduce the intensity of your training a little lately," Lynn said, choosing his words carefully. "Your sensory system has only just recovered and needs time to adapt. If the amount of incoming information suddenly becomes too great, you may experience temporary overload."

Behind his sunglasses, Matt's eyes shifted slightly.

The words sounded like ordinary medical advice, but Matt heard the real meaning behind them—

Lynn was telling him: your Super Senses have not completely stabilized yet, so be careful when you patrol at night.

An ordinary doctor could not possibly know how to "train" Super Senses.

But Matt did not press the matter.

He had already noticed last time—this young Asian doctor understood the workings of his sensory system far too deeply. Deeply enough to be abnormal.

Yet he chose not to investigate.

Because Lynn had saved his life, repaired his senses, and never once tried to pry into his true identity.

In Matt's worldview, someone who knew your secret yet chose not to expose it

was more worthy of trust than someone who knew nothing at all.

"Dr. Lynn, there's something I want to tell you." Matt sat up a little straighter in his chair.