"Ryan," Wesley said.
Kingpin did not answer immediately. He sat there, thinking for a long time.
"Make the arrangements."
Miracle Clinic. Ten o'clock in the morning.
Lynn was conducting a routine blood pressure check on a middle-aged woman when the bell at the front desk rang.
A white man in his early thirties pushed open the door and walked in.
He was about six feet one, wearing a dark blue hoodie and jeans. He looked like an ordinary resident of Hell's Kitchen.
His face carried a perfectly measured look of fatigue, and his right shoulder dipped ever so slightly when he walked, as though he suffered from chronic shoulder pain.
"Hello, I'd like to register."
"The registration fee is ten thousand dollars."
The man did not even blink.
He pulled out a stack of cash from his pocket, counted out one hundred hundred-dollar bills, and placed them on the counter.
"My right shoulder has hurt for more than half a year. I went to several hospitals before. They said it was frozen shoulder, but physical therapy didn't do much."
"Have a seat."
After Lynn finished treating the middle-aged woman, he had the man enter the examination room.
The man sat down in the exam chair.
His movements were natural, and his expression relaxed—the picture of an ordinary person who had suffered from shoulder pain for a long time and had finally found a doctor rumored to be exceptionally skilled.
But the instant he entered the examination room, Lynn's Super Senses had already picked up every abnormal signal.
Heart rate: fifty-six beats per minute.
A normal patient with frozen shoulder should have had a heart rate somewhere between seventy and eighty.
Fifty-six indicated that his cardiovascular system had undergone intense training, and that he felt not the slightest bit nervous in