The Red-Haired Woman

Lynn closed the news page.

He would not take the initiative to seek out Tony.

Besides, given Tony Stark's personality—arrogant, suspicious, and distrustful of strangers—

a doctor from a nameless little clinic showing up at his door would likely be dismissed as a con artist or a spy.

He needed his reputation to reach Tony's ears naturally.

Batman, Daredevil, Punisher, Luke Cage, Jessica Jones—these people formed a preliminary social network.

Information would flow through this network.

The name of Miracle Clinic would pass from one superhero to another.

Sooner or later, it would reach the man living on the top floor of Stark Tower.

Lynn picked up his coffee cup and found it had gone cold again.

He swapped it for a fresh hot one and opened the medical journal in front of him.

There were still 90 points of reputation to earn.

Outside the clinic, the "creak" of Frank's folding chair sounded.

A voice familiar enough to recognize without Super Senses—Frank had stood up.

Then came footsteps.

Many footsteps.

Coming from the east, at least six people.

The zipper of Frank's canvas bag was pulled open.

Lynn set down his coffee cup.

Six people.

Lynn's movement in setting down the cup was slow, but his mind raced.

Within a second, he locked onto all the information—six sets of heartbeats, approaching from the eastern street corner in pairs.

The cadence was uniform, about 1.2 steps per second; it was not the rhythm of ordinary pedestrians.

The soles of their shoes were hard leather, the sound of them hitting the ground crisp and sharp.

But there was no metallic clinking.

No guns.

Frank stood up.

The zipper of the canvas bag was pulled open a bit further.

Lynn walked to the door and glanced outside.

Six people.

All in dark suits, communicators stuffed in their ears, their formation meticulous—the front two split to the sides of the street, the middle two covering the blind spots of the two in the back.

A standard VIP security detail.

But the person being guarded was not in the center of the formation.

"They aren't here to fight," Lynn said to Frank.

Frank didn't let go, but he didn't draw his gun either.

He watched as the six people stopped on the sidewalk in front of the clinic, fanning out to the sides and clearing a space.

Then a woman walked out from the street corner.

She was alone.

She didn't stand with the six bodyguards, but walked over alone from another direction.

Gray sweatshirt, ordinary jeans, her hair a deep reddish-brown, tied back in a casual ponytail.

Her way of walking was relaxed, like an ordinary woman out for a stroll while running errands.

But Lynn's eyes began to work the moment she stepped onto the stairs.

Heartbeat—sixty-two beats per minute.

Resting heart rate.

This number didn't fluctuate at all when she faced Frank Castle's face.

A normal person seeing the Punisher sitting at the door would have a heart rate of at least eighty.

Gait—center of gravity pressed onto the balls of her feet, heels only lightly touching the ground.

This wasn't walking; this was the gait of a fighter ready to sprint or side-step at any moment.

Hand calluses—her right hand was exposed for 0.3 seconds when she pushed the door.

The webbing between her thumb and index finger, the second joint of her index finger, and the outer edge of her palm—the callus distribution in these three areas was completely different.

The callus on the webbing was formed by gripping a gun, the index finger's was from pulling a bowstring or pressing a trigger, and the one on the outer palm was worn down from long-term combat palm-strike training.

And the scent.

She had three different perfume residues on her—not sprayed together, but layered.

The outermost layer was an affordable supermarket perfume, the middle layer was a classic Estée Lauder, and the bottom layer was a limited edition Dior.

Three perfumes represented three sets of clothes.

She had changed at least three times before coming here.

Anti-surveillance tactics.

One last detail—there was an extremely tiny hard bump inside her right ear.

Located on the cartilage inside the tragus, it was impossible to spot without looking closely.

A micro-communicator.

Someone was listening in real-time.

The entire analysis took less than a second.

This woman was no ordinary guest.

She was an agent.

And the kind of agent whose rank was so high she didn't need bodyguards for protection; rather, the bodyguards were ones she had arranged to distract others.

A name popped into Lynn's mind.

Natasha Romanoff.

Black Widow.

Someone from S.H.I.E.L.D. had finally arrived.

"Hello." The red-haired woman pushed the door open and walked in, flashing a polite smile at Lynn.

"My name is Natalie Rushman. I've been feeling like something is wrong with my body lately, and I've had so many checkups but nothing shows up. I heard you're very good, so I wanted to give it a try."

"Please, sit, Ms. Rushman."

Lynn maintained his gentle expression and ushered her to the chair in the exam room.

He quickly ran through the current situation in his mind.

S.H.I.E.L.D. sent Black Widow not to see a doctor, but to test him.

Fury wanted to know exactly how much weight Miracle Clinic carried.

Sending a top-tier agent to get a "physical" as an ordinary person allowed them to observe his diagnostic abilities up close while relaying information in real-time through the communicator in her ear.

Smart.

But not smart enough.

Because Fury didn't know that Lynn had already seen through everything.

He had two choices.

First, play dumb, treat her like an ordinary patient, and go through the motions.

That was safe, but it would waste an excellent opportunity to show off.

Second, show her something real.

Without exposing her identity, he could diagnose secrets she didn't even know herself—letting her go back with a report that would change the entire landscape of their cooperation.

He chose the second.

"Ms. Rushman, let me give you a comprehensive examination first."

Lynn walked behind her and picked up the stethoscope.

This was for the person on the other end of the communicator—standard procedure, reasonable protocol.

But his actual diagnostic method didn't require a stethoscope.

All-Things Diagnosis automatically initiated full-scan mode.

Surface information appeared first—multiple old scars distributed on her forearms, ribs, and outer thighs, all left by combat.

Bone density was abnormally high, exceeding that of a normal woman by 41 percent.

There was a very faint surgical scar on her lower abdomen—a hysterectomy.

These were all within expectations.

Standard Red Room procedure.

But as the scan delved into a more microscopic level—

The system panel exploded with a red warning in his field of vision.

[Warning! Abnormality detected!]

[An unknown micro-capsule exists next to the 7th cervical vertebra in the target's body! Diameter 0.3mm! Composition analysis: slow-release neurotoxin micro-capsule! Release cycle approximately 15-20 years! Current release progress 72%!]

[Judgment: Man-made implant. Function speculation—control device for Red Room defectors. Once fully released, it will cause acute nervous system collapse, 100% mortality rate!]

Lynn's hand paused for a fleeting moment.

The Red Room had planted a ticking time bomb next to Black Widow's cervical spine.

A slow-release toxin micro-capsule, only 0.3 millimeters in size, buried deep in the soft tissue next to the 7th cervical vertebra.

No routine imaging exam could ever detect something of this size.

It had already silently released 72 percent of the toxin.