Two Geniuses Meet

In those twenty seconds, he did three things:

First, he scanned the electromagnetic environment around the clinic with his onboard system—normal.

Second, he activated a device on his wrist that looked like a watch—in reality, a miniature holographic projector combined with a vital signs monitor.

Third, he took a deep breath.

Then he pushed the door open and walked in.

The clinic was not large.

White walls, brand-new medical equipment, clean in a way that didn't fit the style of Hell's Kitchen.

A white lab coat hung behind the front desk—no one was wearing it.

Lynn walked out from the exam room in the back.

Gold-rimmed glasses, a white lab coat, and a stack of medical records in his hand.

"Mr. Stark? The two o'clock appointment?"

"Five minutes early, you don't mind, do you?" Tony looked around. "Your place is smaller than my walk-in closet."

"But my clinic can save lives. Your closet cannot. Please, sit."

Tony sat down in the chair in the exam room.

He crossed his legs and draped his arms over the back of the chair—standard "I'm in control" body language.

He didn't say directly what he had come for.

"I did some research beforehand. You dropped out of community college, right? What was the reason?"

"Financial reasons."

"And then you opened a clinic in Hell's Kitchen with a one-hundred-percent diagnostic accuracy rate, overturning misdiagnoses from several major hospitals. A guy who didn't even get a degree?"

"A degree doesn't necessarily correlate with ability. Mr. Stark should know that better than I do—as far as I know, you didn't attend many classes when you were at MIT."

The corner of Tony's mouth twitched.

"Fine. Then let me test you." He sat up a bit straighter, peering over the top of his sunglasses.

"The application of quantum tunneling in biological membrane permeability—specifically, what is the relationship between the probability density function of a nanometer-scale drug molecule passing through a cell membrane's lipid bilayer and temperature, given a membrane potential of negative seventy millivolts?"

This question spanned three fields: quantum mechanics, biophysics, and pharmacology.

Lynn pushed up his glasses.

"Negative seventy millivolts is the standard value for a resting state."

"At this potential, the barrier height of the lipid bilayer is approximately zero point two electron volts. The de Broglie wavelength of a nanometer-scale drug molecule at room temperature—"

He paused, doing a mental calculation.

"It's between zero point five and one point two nanometers, depending on the molecular weight. The relationship between tunneling probability and temperature is not linear..."

Tony uncrossed his legs.

"Second question." His speaking speed increased. "The reaction kinetics of palladium in human serum—what is the binding constant of palladium ions to serum albumin? And what is the metabolic half-life of the resulting complex in the liver's P450 Enzyme System?"

"The binding constant of palladium ions to serum albumin is approximately ten to the fourth power per mole."

"This binding force isn't particularly strong—it's an order of magnitude lower than the binding constant for copper and zinc..."

"The metabolic half-life depends on the palladium concentration. At low concentrations, it's about forty-two to forty-eight hours."

"But if the serum palladium concentration exceeds fifty micrograms per liter—the activity of the CYP3A4 Subtype will drop to below thirty percent of normal, and the metabolic half-life will extend to over one hundred and twenty hours. At that point, the palladium isn't being metabolized; it's accumulating."

Lynn stopped there.

"Mr. Stark, what is your serum palladium concentration at right now?"

A crack appeared in the nonchalant expression on Tony's face.

He knew what Lynn was asking.

But he didn't answer.

He asked a third question, a fourth, a fifth.

Physics, chemistry, biology, engineering.

Every one of them was a tricky, interdisciplinary question, and every one required drawing on knowledge from at least three different fields to answer.

Lynn caught every single one without missing a beat.

After the eleventh question, Tony's mouth stayed shut for about five seconds.

Then Lynn spoke.

"Mr. Stark, what is the thickness of the palladium-anode electrolyte interface layer in your Arc Reactor?"

This question made Tony's body truly tense up.

Not because of the question itself—but because the internal structure of the Arc Reactor was a top-secret technical detail of Stark Industries.

Fewer than three people in the world knew this detail, and he was one of them.

"How do you know there's an interface layer?" Tony's voice dropped half an octave.

"All high-density energy cores require a buffer layer to isolate the core material from the casing. That's basic engineering common sense." Lynn leaned back in his chair. "But your interface layer has a problem."

"What problem?"

"If I'm not mistaken—the thickness is between zero point three and zero point five micrometers. That was sufficient for the initial design."

"But the coefficient of thermal expansion for palladium is eleven point eight parts per million per degree, while the electrolyte layer's coefficient is only about seven to eight parts per million. There's a difference of about zero point seven percent between them."

"This difference is negligible in the short term. But the Arc Reactor runs continuously—your chest cavity temperature is about one point three degrees higher than your skin temperature, and the reactor core's operating temperature is even higher."

"Over time, the interface layer will develop nanometer-scale cracks due to repeated thermal expansion and contraction. Palladium ions seep into your circulatory system through these cracks."

"That is the root cause of your poisoning."

The exam room went quiet.

Tony took off his sunglasses.

In his eyes, there was no anger, no defensiveness, but something very complex.

The expression that only appears when one genius meets another.

"JARVIS spent three months and only managed to pinpoint the palladium leak." Tony's voice was softer than before. "How did you deduce the thermal expansion difference in the interface layer?"

"I looked at your public photos from the last six months," Lynn said.

"Your skin tone's grayscale changes, your weight loss curve, and the frequency with which you switch your coffee cup from your right hand to your left—analyzed together, one can calculate the approximate progression of the palladium poisoning."

"Then, working backward from the progression to the cause—after ruling out direct contact and respiratory intake, only one possibility remained: the core material was continuously micro-leaking through structural defects."

Tony stared at him for a long time.

Then he said one sentence.

"Alright. You are definitely not an ordinary doctor."

He pulled his hand out of his pants pocket and placed it on the exam table.

His right hand was trembling slightly.

"Tell me. How do we treat it?"

The treatment plan was divided into two stages.

"The first stage is to purge the palladium toxins that have already accumulated in your body." Lynn closed the exam room door and pulled the curtains.

"This won't cure your problem; the root cause is the reactor itself. But it can extend your life from six months to at least two years, buying you enough time to solve the core issue."

"And the second stage?"