Twelve Heartbeats

His focus had completely submerged into the surgical state.

The perspective markers of All-Things Diagnosis unfolded in his field of vision—the bones, muscles, blood vessels, and nerves of Natasha's cervical spine region were peeled away and presented layer by layer.

The spinous process of the seventh cervical vertebra was clearly visible, and 2.1 millimeters to the right of it, a tiny bright spot flickered.

That was the "grain of rice."

Lynn picked up the Microwave Ablation Probe.

"Step one, neutralize the toxin." He spoke, his voice not loud, but everyone in the clinic heard him clearly.

"The capsule wall is a bio-metallic alloy. If I extract it directly, the pressure from the forceps could cause the wall to deform and rupture."

"So, I need to use microwave directional heating first to denature and deactivate the toxin proteins inside the capsule. Then, I will extract it."

"Heat it to what temperature?" Fury asked.

"Seventy-two degrees. For four seconds."

"Heating to seventy-two degrees right next to the cervical spine?" Coulson's voice came from the direction of the sofa, carrying obvious unease. "The surrounding nerve tissue—"

"The focal range of the microwave is 0.15 millimeters," Lynn said. "Outside of this range, the temperature of the tissue will not rise by more than 0.3 degrees."

Coulson did not speak again.

Lynn's left index and middle fingers pressed onto the skin of the back of Natasha's neck.

His sense of touch penetrated the surface layer; he could feel the contours of the cervical vertebrae, the fiber orientation of the paraspinal muscles, and the extremely subtle metallic texture emanating from the micro-capsule.

Holding the microwave probe in his right hand, he pierced it in from a point seven millimeters to the right of the midline at the back of the neck.

The needle was extremely fine, so the pain of the puncture should have been very slight.

Yet, Natasha's hands still gripped the armrests tightly—the stainless steel armrests emitted a muffled sound under her grip.

She did not move.

Lynn's hand did not stop either.

The probe advanced eleven millimeters under the skin, and his sense of touch precisely located the outer wall of the micro-capsule—a hard texture that did not belong to the human body.

"Microwave, activate."

The tip of the probe began to release directional microwave energy.

Frequency 4.7GHz, power 0.08 watts.

Four seconds.

He counted the time.

His Super Senses monitored the molecular vibration frequency changes of the toxic liquid inside the micro-capsule—when the frequency jumped from the normal value to a specific threshold, it meant the protein denaturation was complete.

Four seconds passed.

The toxin was deactivated.

"Step two, extract the capsule."

Lynn switched to a pair of micro-forceps.

The tips of the forceps reached in through the puncture channel, precisely clamping both sides of the micro-capsule within the 0.3-millimeter operating space.

Slowly, at a constant speed, and without any wasted force, he pulled it out.

The capsule detached from the surrounding tissue.

Lynn's hand withdrew from the back of Natasha's neck.

Clamped in the tips of the forceps was a silver-gray particle almost invisible to the naked eye.

He placed it into a petri dish.

Seventeen minutes.

"All done."

Natasha sat up very quickly.

Her hand pressed against the puncture point on the back of her neck—there was only a needle-prick-sized wound, with almost no bleeding.

She rotated her neck.

Ninety degrees to the left and right.

No discomfort.

Fury walked forward, looking down at the "grain of rice" in the petri dish.

The surface of the silver-gray micro-capsule reflected a cold light under the lamp.

Fury picked up a magnifying glass—a tiny pattern was engraved on the shell of the micro-capsule.

A dancing ballerina.

The symbol of the Red Room.

Fury's lips tightened.

He put down the magnifying glass and looked at Natasha.

Natasha was also looking at the grain of rice.

Her expression was calm, but the knuckles of the hand gripping the edge of the surgical table turned white for a moment—then she let go.

"Agent Romanoff, there are no more toxin micro-capsules in your body," Lynn said, removing his gloves.

"The toxin that was already released requires a natural metabolic process, about three to four weeks. During this period, you may experience occasional soreness in the back of your neck, which is a normal reaction."

"Understood." Natasha jumped off the surgical table, her landing so light it didn't look like someone who had just undergone a procedure near her cervical spine.

After standing still, she looked at Lynn.

"Thank you, Dr. Lynn."

She rarely said thank you.

Fury, standing to the side, raised an eyebrow slightly.

The system panel flickered at the edge of Lynn's vision—

[Ding! Treatment complete! Rating: S-Class Extraordinary!]

[Saintly Hands Copy initiated... Scanning target ability library...]

[Core talent detected: Super Agent Skills—Combat and Infiltration (A-Grade)]

[Based on treatment contribution (S-Grade), automatically copying the highest quality talent—]

[Copy progress: 14%... 41%... 68%... 100%!]

[Ding! Copy complete! Obtained A-Grade talent: Super Agent Skills—Combat and Infiltration (Incomplete Version · 70%)!]

[Ability Details: Master muscle memory and instinctive reactions for over ten combat systems, including Krav Maga, Sambo, and Aikido, while also gaining agent skills such as infiltration, stealth, and anti-tracking.]

The moment the ability was infused, Lynn's body shuddered.

He braced himself against the instrument table next to him with his right hand, pretending to organize the equipment.

But a drastic change was occurring inside his body.

Muscle memory—a massive, dense amount of combat instincts from over a dozen different fighting systems was being written into his motor nervous system.

The core force-generating methods of every fighting style, the angles of joint locks, defensive stances, the timing of counterattacks—these things were not knowledge; they were things his body remembered.

The Super Intelligence he had previously copied from Batman included combat theory.

He knew how a front kick should be thrown, and he knew the leverage principle of an armbar.

But there was a chasm between knowing and doing.

Now, that chasm had been filled.

Theory and practice were one.

Lynn withdrew his hand from the instrument table and flexed his wrists.

He could feel his body's stance subtly adjusting on its own.

His center of gravity was lower, there was more weight on the balls of his feet, and his shoulders were slightly tucked in. This was the instinctive posture of a fighter.

"Dr. Lynn." Fury's voice pulled him back. "Good work. As for the payment—you mentioned before that you wanted special materials?"

"We can talk about that next time. For this payment, I want to trade for something else," Lynn turned around. "Information."

"What information?"

"The Hand. Their activity records and known strongholds in the New York area over the last three months."

Fury's single eye narrowed.

"Do you have a grudge against The Hand?"

"Not yet," Lynn said. "But I have a feeling I will soon."

[Reputation change: +80 (Healed Black Widow · Superhero-level treatment). Current reputation: 490.]

The last three days of Frank guarding the door.

To be precise, the last two and a half days.

Frank sat at the door during the day and went out to "work" at night; this routine had been maintained for nearly a month.

Lynn didn't ask where he went at night, didn't ask what he did, and when he returned in the morning with occasional scrapes and the smell of gunpowder on him, Lynn acted as if he didn't notice.

But tonight, Frank did not return.