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At two o'clock in the afternoon, Lynn was on the first floor supervising the installation of soundproofing in the operating room.

Footsteps and laughter drifted in from outside.

Three people in white coats walked over from across the street.

Leading them was a man in his fifties with graying hair, a name tag pinned to his white coat that read: "St. Mary Community Hospital, Deputy Director, Howard Griffin."

Two young doctors followed behind him, chatting while holding takeout coffees.

Griffin paused at the entrance of Lynn's clinic, looking at the storefront under construction and then at Lynn.

"Opening another clinic?" he said to the young doctors behind him. "In a place like Hell's Kitchen, they go bust every three months. It's like changing clothes."

One young doctor laughed and chimed in, "Looks like a massage parlor run by a Chinese guy, doesn't it?"

The other laughed as well. "The kind that can't even tell where an appendix is?"

Griffin didn't stop their teasing; instead, he tilted his chin toward Lynn. "Young man, the waters in Hell's Kitchen run deep. You won't survive opening a clinic in a place like this without some real skill."

Lynn stood at the entrance, holding a set of renovation blueprints, his gaze calm behind his gold-rimmed glasses.

He looked at Griffin.

He looked at the "Deputy Director" title on his name tag, the half-protruding prescription pad in the left pocket of his white coat, and the particles from the hospital's specialized disinfectant floor mats on the soles of his shoes.

In 0.5 seconds, he completed an assessment—there was a small discolored patch on the inside of Griffin's collar.

It was worn down from long-term tie-wearing, indicating that he often wore formal attire to certain events even outside of work hours.

There was a faint indentation on his left ring finger but no ring—he was divorced.

The skin texture on his right wrist had a nearly invisible layer of pale yellow pigmentation—a sign of long-term contact with Betadine disinfectant, suggesting that despite being a deputy director, he still occasionally performed surgery.

A manager with actual clinical experience.

Not a fool, but someone who thought highly of himself.

Lynn did not respond to Griffin's words.

It wasn't that he was holding back.

It was that there was no need.

Super Intelligence had already calculated a clear conclusion: arguing with this kind of person in this kind of setting would yield no points for winning, and losing would only result in a loss of face.

The only valuable form of retaliation was to use an absolute gap in strength to make him shut up on his own.

And that opportunity would present itself soon enough.

Lynn nodded with a smile, turned, and walked back into the clinic under construction.

Griffin glanced once more at the sign that hadn't been hung up yet—it bore three words: "Miracle Clinic."

He chuckled, shook his head, and walked away.

The day Miracle Clinic opened was an ordinary Tuesday.

The storefront renovation was complete; the white walls were clean and tidy, and the floor-to-ceiling glass windows were polished to a shine.

The four characters for Miracle Clinic on the sign were deep blue, with a line of small text underneath: "Dr. Lynn, General Practitioner."

Lynn wore a crisp, ironed white coat, sitting in the chair behind the front desk.

In front of him sat a cup of black coffee and a copy of Human Anatomy—not for study, but for review.

He had absorbed the entire four-year medical school curriculum in three days with photographic memory, but he was accustomed to using physical books for final cross-verification of knowledge.

The clinic opened at nine in the morning, and by twelve noon, the number of people who had walked in was—zero.

To be precise, not zero.

An old lady had pushed the door open to ask for directions to the Social Security Office.

A delivery driver had also walked into the wrong door.

Residents of Hell's Kitchen would glance inside as they passed the clinic—a young Chinese doctor sitting in a brand-new, clean office with a gentle smile.

But no one stopped.

No one entered.

In this area, being new and clean were actually drawbacks.

The people of Hell's Kitchen had seen too many scams with pretty signs—insurance fraud, illegal pharmacies, money-laundering fronts.

A clinic that popped up out of nowhere, with a boss so young and an Asian face—who would believe it?

Lynn wasn't in a hurry.

He just sat behind the front desk, drinking coffee, reading, and occasionally looking out the window.

At two-thirty in the afternoon, he got up to go buy coffee.

Across from the clinic was St. Mary Community Hospital, a gray four-story building with one or two ambulances always parked at the entrance.

As Lynn turned left out of the door and walked to the coffee shop on the corner, he passed the emergency entrance of the hospital.

An ambulance was parked in front of the ER, its rear doors open.

Two paramedics were lifting a middle-aged Black man off a stretcher.

The man was about forty-five, slightly overweight, and wearing dark blue work clothes—like a construction or warehouse worker.

His face was pale, his forehead covered in sweat, his right hand clutching his left chest tightly, his breathing rapid and shallow.

The ER doors opened, and a young emergency physician hurried out.

Lynn recognized him—he was one of the two young doctors who had mocked him a few days ago for "not knowing where the appendix is."

The young doctor took a quick look at the man on the stretcher and asked the paramedics, "What's the situation?"

"Chest pain, accompanied by profuse sweating and difficulty breathing. It started suddenly at the construction site fifteen minutes ago."

The young doctor pushed the man into the ER, hooked him up to an ECG monitor, and ran an electrocardiogram.

Lynn happened to be walking by the ER entrance.

He didn't deliberately stop, but his peripheral vision caught a glimpse as he passed.

In a fraction of a second, he captured the waveform on the ECG monitor screen.

Then, the diagnosis triggered automatically.

The system panel popped up a red warning in his field of vision—

[Automatic diagnosis initiated—]

[Target: Average human male, approx. 45 years old.]

[Condition: Acute anterior myocardial infarction! Complete occlusion of the left anterior descending artery! The golden window for rescue has been entered!]

[Warning: The current on-site doctor's diagnosis of "acute anxiety attack" is a severe misdiagnosis!]

[Reason: ECG leads V1 and V2 are swapped, causing the ST-segment changes to fail to display correctly!]

[Cardiac arrest expected in 8 minutes! Mortality rate 87%!]

Lynn's footsteps stopped.

He stood at the ER entrance, watching the scene inside—the young doctor was talking to the nurse beside him:

"No ST-segment changes on the ECG, it's a typical anxiety attack. Give him two milligrams of Lorazepam intravenously, observe for half an hour, and if his condition improves, let him go home."

The nurse took the medication and prepared to administer the injection.

The man lying on the bed was still gasping for air, his left hand continuously pounding his chest.

He was in too much pain to form complete sentences, only managing to choke out intermittent words: "Pain... here... very painful..."

The young doctor patted his shoulder, his tone soothing but insincere: "Relax, sir. You're just too nervous. You'll be fine after an injection."

Lynn turned his head to look around.

Four or five people were gathered at the ER entrance—some community residents waiting for medical care, others just passing by.

A few people were also standing at the entrance of the coffee shop across the street, watching the commotion.

More importantly, Deputy Director Griffin happened to be walking out of the hospital's main entrance.

He held a cup of coffee and was chatting with a middle-aged man in a suit.