My Consultation Fee Isn't Cheap

Bruce's gaze flickered.

The second probe concerned the gunshot wound.

Bruce casually brushed a shrapnel wound on his arm.

"You handled the shrapnel cleanly. You removed it backward through the entry wound, then sutured along the direction of the muscle fibers. That's a method used by military medics. Medical schools don't teach it."

Another information trap.

He had exposed his knowledge of military medicine... no businessman could possibly know such things.

At the same time, he was pressing Lynn about his military background.

Lynn shook his head. "I don't know anything about military medics. I just thought that was the most reasonable way to treat the wound. I guess it was a coincidence."

This answer attributed his expertise to talent.

And talent was the hardest thing to refute.

Bruce fell silent.

Lynn could see the other man's internal assessment shifting drastically.

Super Intelligence analyzed Bruce's breathing rhythm and changes in his pupil focus.

It deduced that the man's opinion of him had risen... from "a stranger who required caution" to "an unknown but powerful ally/potential threat."

But what Lynn truly cared about were Bruce's hands.

Ever since waking up, he had kept both hands at his sides.

They looked natural, but they were anything but.

His right index and middle fingers were slightly spread apart, a combat-ready stance that allowed him to clench his fist and exert force in an instant.

The calluses on his hands were evenly distributed across his palms, especially thick along the outside of the second joint of his index finger. Those were traces left by years of using a grappling gun or climbing tools.

These were not an athlete's hands. They were hands that killed.

Then there were his muscles.

Beneath the damaged armor, every muscle group existed for function—tight, streamlined, brimming with explosive strength and flexibility. This was a body forged through countless real battles, not something put on display in a gym.

Finally, there was his face.

Bruce's control over his expression was practically perfect.

A man who had just clawed his way back from the brink of death was unnervingly calm.

His only tell was the depressor anguli oris muscle at the right corner of his mouth. Every time he switched into the "businessman" persona, it gave an almost imperceptible twitch.

All the data pointed to one conclusion.

Bruce Wayne.

Batman.

Certainty: 99%.

Lynn buried that conclusion deep in his heart, his face betraying nothing.

What he needed was not to expose him, but to earn his trust.

"Your body needs at least forty-eight hours before you can regain basic mobility." Lynn picked up a roll of clean bandages and walked toward the operating table. "I gave your ribs temporary stabilization, but there's no cast. You'd better get to a proper hospital as soon as possible."

As he spoke, he began changing the blood-seeping gauze on Bruce's chest.

His movements were gentle, his technique professional.

Bruce lowered his head and watched Lynn's terrifyingly steady hands.

The owner of those hands was merely a twenty-two-year-old Chinese-American college dropout.

"What's your name?" Bruce asked.

"Lynn."

"Doctor Lynn."

"Not yet." Lynn tossed the old gauze into the trash. "I'm just an assistant."

Bruce glanced at him but did not correct the form of address.

"How do you plan to deal with this situation?" He gestured toward Leo and Snake Eyes.

"Call the police," Lynn said decisively. "An anonymous tip. I've already cleaned up my traces. Nothing that happened here has anything to do with me."

"You're very calm."

"I only saved an injured man who broke in, and dealt with a former boss who wanted to harm me while I was at it. I didn't break the law."

The corner of Bruce's mouth twitched.

It was not a smile, but there was the faintest curve to it.

"You're not going to ask why I'm dressed like this?" He tapped the bat symbol on his chest.

"No." Lynn leaned against the instrument table, arms crossed over his chest. "I don't ask about my patients' pasts. I'm only responsible for treating them."

That sentence left Bruce completely silent.

Not from awkwardness, but from assessment.

Lynn could feel the invisible scales tipping in his favor.

Seriously injured, his armor damaged, and his backup yet to arrive.

Batman was lying on a stranger's operating table.

And that stranger had saved his life while displaying extraordinary calmness and restraint.

There was no admiration, no prying, not even any unnecessary curiosity.

To the suspicious Batman, "not curious" was itself the highest proof of trustworthiness.

"Thank you, Doctor Lynn," Bruce said.

This time, there was warmth in his voice.

Lynn nodded without any polite response.

He glanced at the back door that had been smashed off its hinges. Cold wind was pouring through the opening.

Then he said the most important thing of the night.

"It's just a doctor's duty."

"But..."

"My consultation fee isn't cheap."

Bruce looked at him.

Behind his glasses, those eyes were so calm that they did not belong to a young man barely in his twenties, but rather to a seasoned veteran who had spent years navigating negotiating tables.

He was not joking.

Bruce did not answer immediately.

Just then, footsteps came from outside the doorway.

They were not the footsteps of a criminal.

A pair of expensive custom leather shoes stepped over the shattered glass, producing a steady, even sound, carrying an elegance utterly at odds with this filthy clinic.

Lynn completed his analysis in an instant: medium weight, even stride, advanced age but excellent physical fitness.

Not a threat.

A white-haired old man in a gray three-piece suit appeared outside the doorway.

His hair was impeccably combed back, and his eyes were sharp yet gentle.

In a single second, his gaze swept across the scene—Bruce on the operating table, Leo in the corner, the corpse on the floor, and Lynn beside the instrument table.

The old man's expression did not change in the slightest.

"Master Bruce."

When he spoke, his voice was as steady as stone.

"Your tracking signal deviated from its planned route for forty-seven minutes."

"I arrived late."

Bruce sighed.

"Alfred, I'm fine."

Alfred Pennyworth entered in a very deliberate manner.

He did not rush straight toward Bruce. Instead, he stood at the doorway for two seconds first.

Only after confirming that there were no other threats inside did he step in.

As his leather shoes crossed broken glass and bloodstains on the floor, he did not even frown.

Lynn noticed a detail—Alfred's right hand remained at his side, but his fingers were not naturally relaxed.

The lining on the right side of his suit bulged slightly. Its shape and position outlined a compact self-defense pistol.

Only after confirming the safety of the room did the old butler approach Bruce.

"Let me see." Alfred crouched down and examined the sutured wound on Bruce's chest.

His movements were excessively practiced—not like those of a butler, but of someone who had provided battlefield care for decades.

After about ten seconds of examination, Alfred's fingers paused above the sutures.

He turned to look at Lynn.

"Did you do this?"

"Yes."

Alfred said nothing and continued examining him.

He lifted a corner of the gauze to inspect the debridement at the base of the wound, then pressed the stabilizing bandage around Bruce's right ribs.