Two Million Dollars

Then he stood and faced Lynn.

"Joker's poisoned blade." Alfred's tone was not questioning, but confirming. "You treated the toxin?"

"A neutralizing agent improvised from three medications," Lynn said. "Epinephrine hydrochloride, sodium bicarbonate, and dexamethasone, at a ratio of three to one to zero point five. Heated for ninety seconds, then administered intravenously."

"More than eighty percent of the toxin has been neutralized. His body can metabolize the rest on its own."

Alfred's right eyebrow rose less than a millimeter.

For an elderly English gentleman who had controlled his expressions for decades, that was practically the equivalent of an ordinary person saying, "Wow."

"The Batcave's medical system would need at least two hours to analyze the molecular structure of Joker toxin." Alfred did not hide the weight of those words. "How long did you take?"

"I didn't time it." Lynn was telling the truth—the system had provided the formula almost instantly, and all he had needed to do was prepare and administer it. "A few minutes, probably."

Alfred looked at Bruce.

Bruce gave a slight nod.

The old butler took two items from the inner pocket of his suit jacket and placed them on the instrument table.

The first was a check.

A private check from the Wayne Family, with the amount left blank.

The second was a black square no bigger than a thumbnail, its surface bearing a faint outline of a bat—an encrypted communicator.

"The Wayne Family owes you a favor, Mr. Lynn," Alfred said.

"Please fill in whatever amount you consider appropriate. The communicator is for emergencies. Its frequency is encrypted, and its range covers the entire East Coast. If you encounter trouble you cannot handle in the future, simply hold it down for three seconds."

Lynn looked at the blank check.

Super Intelligence ran several lines of calculation through his mind at once...

First: Batman's wealth.

Bruce Wayne was the sole heir to Wayne Enterprises, with personal assets conservatively estimated at over ten billion dollars.

He could afford any number written on that check.

Second: pricing strategy.

Too little would make him seem cheap. Batman would not truly take him seriously.

Too much would make him seem greedy and lower their favorability.

He needed a reasonable number—high enough for them to remember the weight of this transaction, but not so high that it seemed like he was taking advantage of a crisis.

Third: his current circumstances.

He had no money, no identity, no license, and nowhere to live.

He needed startup capital to establish a foothold.

This money had to be enough for him to start from scratch in New York.

Two million.

The number took shape in his mind quickly.

Lynn picked up a fountain pen beside the check—Alfred's, with a subtle Wayne Family pattern on its barrel—and neatly wrote a number in the amount field.

2,000,000.

He turned the check around and slid it toward Alfred.

Alfred lowered his eyes to the number, his expression unchanged.

But Lynn noticed it—Alfred's gaze lingered on the figure 0.4 seconds longer than normal reading time.

That meant he had noticed, but did not consider the amount a problem.

Bruce, seated on the operating table, saw it as well.

Lynn had been observing Bruce's reaction from the corner of his eye.

The instant he saw the two-million-dollar figure, a muscle at the corner of Bruce's mouth shifted almost imperceptibly—not the purse of lips at an outrageous price, but something more... interested.

Two million dollars.

A man who knew his own worth without naming an absurd price—Bruce's assessment of him rose another notch.

"Take care of it." Bruce nodded to Alfred.

Alfred put away the check with swift, efficient movements.

Bruce slowly climbed down from the operating table, and Alfred immediately stepped forward to support his arm.

The damaged armor scraped with metal-on-metal sounds as he moved. Bruce frowned; clearly, every step sent pain through his ribs.

When he reached the door, Bruce paused.

He tilted his head and looked at Lynn.

"What are you planning to do?"

"Leave here," Lynn said. "Find somewhere to start over."

Bruce was silent for a second.

"If you plan to open a clinic, don't stay in Gotham."

The tone of those words was different from before.

Before, he had been testing and evaluating him. This was genuine advice—perhaps even a warning.

Lynn understood what he meant.

Batman was telling him in his own way: Gotham was unsafe. It was no place for him.

"I know," Lynn said.

Bruce nodded and turned toward the door.

Alfred gave Lynn one last look.

There was something in the old butler's gaze that Lynn could not quite read—not gratitude, not wariness, but more like approval after careful scrutiny.

Then he supported Bruce as they disappeared into the night beyond the doorway.

A car door shut. An engine started, and the sound gradually faded away.

Once again, only Lynn remained in the clinic.

And Leo, tied up in the corner.

Lynn leaned against the instrument table and looked down at the communicator.

Its black casing glinted coldly beneath the fluorescent lights, the bat symbol lightly engraved on its surface.

He slipped it into his pocket.

Then he walked into the front area.

He found Leo's phone in a drawer behind the reception desk.

Using Leo's phone, Lynn made a call.

"I want to report a homicide and illegal medical practice. The address is 18 West Bryant Street. The killer is at the scene and has been restrained. Please come as soon as possible."

He hung up, wiped the phone clean of fingerprints, and placed it back beside Leo.

Next came the safe.

It took him eleven seconds to deduce the password from the wear on the keypad.

Inside the safe were the passport belonging to Lynn's original body, twenty-three hundred dollars in cash, and a stack of forged documents and records of illegal clinic transactions that Leo had hidden away.

Lynn took only the passport and the cash.

He did not touch the forged documents or transaction records—he would leave those for the police and Kingpin's people to find, making Leo's situation even more complicated.

Lastly, the surveillance system.

He finished dealing with it in three minutes—backing up what needed to be backed up to an encrypted cloud drive, deleting what needed to be deleted, and overwriting it three times.

He stuffed the falsified surgical records back into Leo's white coat pocket.

Every trace connected to him had completely vanished from the clinic.

Lynn slung his only backpack over his shoulder and walked out of the illegal clinic.

The air outside was cold and fresh, carrying the damp, industrial smell unique to Gotham's East End.

Dawn was approaching.

He took out his phone and checked his bank account—

Two million dollars had arrived.

The Wayne Family's efficiency was absurdly fast.

Lynn leaned against the wall outside the clinic and looked up at the sky. Gotham's sky never showed many stars, but the moon was bright tonight.

He lowered his gaze to the system panel.

The label [Super Intelligence (Incomplete Version · 70%)] glowed quietly in gold within his vision.

The beginner's gift pack had already been automatically issued—100 starting reputation points and a copy of Clinic Operation Basic Guide.

Three days ago, he had transmigrated into this world with nothing. He had been treated as a scapegoat, locked in a sealed room, and left to die.

Now, he had an S+-rank talent, two million dollars in startup capital, Batman's encrypted communicator, and a favor from Bruce Wayne.

The corner of Lynn's mouth curved upward.

This was probably the first time since transmigrating that he had genuinely wanted to laugh.

He stepped forward.

Next stop: New York.