A Grain of Rice Beside the Cervical Vertebra

"Director Fury, you don't think I can treat those people of yours, who are laced with cosmic rays and genetic mutations, with a stethoscope from a supermarket, do you?"

Fury thought for a moment and nodded. "Reasonable. The fourth condition?"

Lynn looked into Fury's lone eye.

"I require access to the patients' complete files. Including the details of their abilities."

Fury didn't respond immediately.

His single eye became piercing in that instant.

"You want the capability files of superheroes?"

"To provide better diagnosis and treatment, I must understand all the physical information of my patients. If a person's cell density is ten times that of a normal human, and I use a standard dose of anesthesia to perform surgery on them, they'll wake up on the operating table and kill me."

The logic was impeccable.

Fury knew it was impeccable, but his intuition told him there was more to this fourth condition.

A young doctor requesting comprehensive knowledge of every superhero's physical capabilities—

The motive could be professional necessity, or it could be something else entirely.

But he weighed the options for five seconds.

A doctor who could heal any superhero and detect hidden injuries that even quantum imaging equipment couldn't find was invaluable.

If he drove him away over something like file confidentiality, that would be the true loss.

"Deal," Fury said. "But there's an additional condition—if you leak any hero's information, you'll bear the consequences. I won't warn you a second time."

"Director Fury." Lynn smiled, stood up, and extended his hand.

"I am a doctor. Patient privacy is my most fundamental professional code."

Fury stood up and shook his hand.

The moment their palms met, Lynn's tactile senses detected the calluses and scars accumulated on Fury's palm over decades.

This hand had signed countless orders that changed the course of the world.

"Pleasure doing business, Director Fury."

"Pleasure doing business, Dr. Lynn." Fury let go. "So, the first order—when are you available to perform surgery on Romanoff?"

"Anytime."

Fury paused as he walked toward the door, not turning back. "When does your clinic's security contract expire?"

"The day after tomorrow."

"I'll arrange for someone."

"No need," Lynn said. "I have my own methods."

Fury glanced back at him.

There was something complex in that look—appreciation, vigilance, and curiosity, all stirred together.

Then he left.

Lynn stood at the door, watching Fury's figure disappear around the street corner.

He sat back at the reception desk and opened his System Panel.

All four gold-standard conditions had been met.

The fourth was the core—from now on, he would know the capability details of every superhero sent to him in advance.

This meant he could evaluate their copying value before they even stepped through the door and decide whether to treat them with his full effort.

Fury thought he had bought a medical consultant.

In reality, he had opened a fast track for Lynn to a global library of super-powered abilities.

The surgery was scheduled for two days later.

The location wasn't Miracle Clinic—Fury had designated a S.H.I.E.L.D. safe house in Midtown Manhattan.

It was a standard three-bedroom apartment layout, but the moment Lynn stepped inside, he knew this place was anything but ordinary.

The wall thickness was wrong.

The tactile feedback from his Super Senses, transmitted through the vibrations in his soles, told him there were at least three layers behind this plain white wall—

The outermost was standard drywall, sandwiched with a lead layer, and the innermost was an electromagnetic shielding mesh.

The density of the window glass was also wrong, producing a dull sound when tapped—it was bulletproof.

Fury stood in the corner of the living room, his black trench coat still on, hands behind his back.

Lynn swept his gaze over the other personnel in the room.

Two S.H.I.E.L.D. medical technicians in white coats stood by a makeshift operating table, checking the equipment.

A man in his thirties sat on the sofa looking at a tablet, his work ID hanging on his chest reading "Phil Coulson".

There was one more person.

Natasha Romanoff sat on the edge of the operating table, wearing a black bodysuit, her reddish-brown hair draped over her shoulders.

Her posture was relaxed, but Lynn noticed her right foot wasn't touching the ground—her toes rested lightly on the metal leg of the operating table, ready to spring up at any moment.

A combat stance.

Even in a safe house among her own people, preparing for surgery, her body had never truly relaxed.

"The equipment has arrived." Fury nodded at Lynn. "Everything you asked for is here. If you need anything else, ask now."

Lynn walked to the operating table and checked the instruments prepared by S.H.I.E.L.D.

The High-Precision Microsurgery Kit, Micro-probe, and Bio-current Monitor—the specifications were decent, but not enough.

"I need a frequency-adjustable Microwave Ablation Probe," Lynn said. "The frequency range should be between 2.4 and 5.8 GHz, with power output precise to 0.01 watts."

Fury looked at the man named Coulson.

Coulson didn't even look up, swiping on his tablet. "We have it in storage. It'll be here in ten minutes."

Lynn used the waiting time to run through the surgical plan in his mind one last time.

All-Things Diagnosis had automatically refreshed its scan data the moment he came within three meters of Natasha.

The position of the micro-capsule of toxins hadn't changed: 2.1 millimeters beside the seventh cervical vertebra, 0.3 millimeters in diameter.

The bio-metal alloy shell of the capsule wall was intact, and the internal toxin release progress had risen slightly from 72% to 72.4% since last time.

It had increased by 0.4 percentage points in two days.

The speed wasn't fast, but it meant he didn't have much room for delay.

The Microwave Ablation Probe arrived.

Lynn spent five minutes checking and calibrating it.

"We can begin." He turned to Natasha. "Lie down, head turned to the left. Expose the back of your neck completely."

Natasha didn't move immediately.

She looked at Lynn, her gaze steady. "During the surgery, if my body has an involuntary reaction—"

"You'll instinctively fight back, I know." Lynn put on his gloves. "So I suggest you keep your hands within your line of sight and grip the handles on both sides of the operating table. If your body wants to move, squeeze the handles first."

"How do you know I'll—"

"Red Room training carves a set of stress-response programs into the nervous system of every trainee. Any physical contact near the neck will trigger your counter-instinct." Lynn adjusted the angle of the surgical light.

"You don't need to fight it; you just need to give yourself a delay—that half-second of squeezing the handles is enough."

Natasha's eyes narrowed slightly.

She didn't ask again.

She turned over onto the operating table, gripped the handles on both sides, and turned her head to the left.

The back of her neck was fully exposed.

Fury took a step forward.

Coulson put down his tablet.

The two technicians' breathing grew shallow.

Everyone in the room was watching Lynn.

Lynn paid them no mind.