The screen's glow fell across Yang Ming's face. A seven-digit figure sat quietly in an anonymous Swiss Bank account.
Ones, tens, hundreds, thousands, ten thousands, hundred thousands, millions. A full million dollars.
Yang Ming leaned back in his chair, which creaked under the strain.
The money was enough to buy every abandoned apartment building on Lake Street in the East End. Gotham, this hell that devoured people whole, had finally shown him a sliver of the warmth money could buy.
Only now did the nerves that had been stretched taut for three whole months finally relax.
Taking his fingers off the keyboard, he rubbed his throbbing temples. Last night's emergency treatment, followed by hand-to-hand combat with Bruce Wayne, had drained far too much of his strength.
Even with the system forcibly instilling master-level combat instincts in him, this body, subjected to years of late nights and too little sunlight, was still sending protests to his brain.
Aching soreness spread from his spine through his entire body, and his calf muscles twitched uncontrollably.
I won't get far working alone.
The thought sprang into his mind.
During last night's abdominal surgery to stop the bleeding, if Bruce had developed a second hidden bleeding site in his spleen instead of suddenly attacking him, Yang Ming wouldn't even have had a spare hand to grab another hemostat.
Surgery was never a one-man show.
The lead surgeon, first assistant, second assistant, scrub nurse, and anesthesiologist formed a precisely functioning set of gears.
Right now, he was both lead surgeon and scrub nurse, with a side job as the provider of physical anesthesia.
Sooner or later, he would drop dead at the operating table.
I need an assistant. Someone who can pass instruments and dispose of postoperative medical waste. Most importantly, someone who can keep their mouth shut when they see things they shouldn't.
Yang Ming pushed the keyboard aside and pulled two sheets of A4 printer paper with yellowing edges from the back of a drawer. He uncapped a black marker, its tip scraping across the paper with a harsh scratching sound.
"Medical assistant wanted. Room and board provided. Salary negotiable. Requirements: basic medical knowledge or nursing experience. Tight lips, tough constitution. The overly curious need not apply."
The few lines conveyed a perfunctory indifference that kept everyone at arm's length.
He picked up a nearly empty bottle of office glue and pushed open the clinic's heavy, rusted iron door.
The rain had stopped.
The air in the alley at 22 Lake Street carried the sour stench of industrial exhaust mixed with fermenting sewage.
Yang Ming slapped one notice onto the weathered redbrick wall and pressed its edges flat with his palm.
He turned around and locked the iron door behind him.
He placed his palm against the strictly off-limits "Medical Supplies Storeroom" door deep inside the clinic and pushed down the handle.
A deep-blue vortex swirled silently.
He stepped through, and the sour stench gave way to the smell of cheap marijuana and grilled hot dogs. This was Hell's Kitchen, New York, in the Marvel Universe.
With the same motions, he pasted the same notice onto a bullet-riddled utility pole outside his New York clinic.
Cast a net on both sides, and I'm bound to find someone useful.
Once he had finished, Yang Ming returned to the basement in Gotham. The wall clock read seven in the morning.
Sunday.
This was an ironclad rule Yang Ming had set for himself. Sunday was his day off, no exceptions. Even if the sky fell, even if Captain America or Superman knocked on his door holding his own intestines, he would refuse to see patients.
He walked to the sink and turned on the faucet. Cold water washed over his callused hands.
Suddenly, a jumble of footsteps sounded outside the door, accompanied by the squelch of combat boots trampling puddles.
"Move, move, move! Look alive, you bastards!"
The rough, hoarse voice carried through the iron door, tinged with unmistakable eagerness to please.
Yang Ming shut off the faucet and grabbed a towel to dry his hands.
Outside, an old acquaintance from Hell's Kitchen, a man of Russian descent named Vasily Grekov, was leading four or five gang members gathered around the freshly posted recruitment notice. They craned their necks as though admiring some priceless painting.
"Boss, what's it say? I can't read." One of the underlings scratched his multicolored bird's nest of hair.
"Idiot!" Grekov slapped him across the back of the head. "Doctor Yang is hiring! He wants an assistant!"
The iron door opened from inside with a piercing scrape.
Dressed in his wrinkled old shirt, Yang Ming leaned against the doorframe with a poorly washed mug in his hand.
"Need something?"
Grekov jolted, hurriedly plastering on an ingratiating smile as he rubbed his hands and stepped forward. "Morning, Dr. Yang! The boys and I happened to be passing by and saw your notice. If you're hiring, leave it to us!"
He thumped his bulletproof vest, brimming with conviction.
"Don't you worry. I can get the word out across the whole East End in ten minutes. No, all of Hell's Kitchen! Just say the word, and we'll find whatever kind of person you want!"
Eager to prove himself, the bird's-nest-haired underling who had just been slapped hurriedly cut in:
"Yeah, yeah! Doctor Yang, how about the head nurse at New York Hospital? I heard there are two real pretty blonde chicks in surgery, and they're damn good at their jobs! Tonight, I'll take a few boys over, grab them, and strip them naked for your inspection!"
Yang Ming's gaze turned abruptly cold. The mug in his hand didn't so much as tremble.
His right leg rose without warning, his thigh muscles gathering and unleashing their strength in a tenth of a second. A dull thud of flesh striking flesh rang out.
The bird's-nest-haired thug didn't even have time to scream before he flew three meters backward and slammed into a trash can in the corner of the alley. Sour swill drenched his head, and he passed out on the spot.
The ingratiating smiles froze on Grekov's and the other underlings' faces. Their Adam's apples bobbed as they swallowed with difficulty.
Yang Ming lowered his leg and scraped nonexistent dust from his sole against the threshold.
"My rules are posted on the wall in black and white. If you want to spread the word, go ahead. But if you dare use filthy tricks like kidnapping or coercion and ruin my reputation..." He raised his eyes, his gaze scraping across Grekov's neck like a scalpel.
"You know the consequences."
Cold sweat poured off Grekov. He nodded frantically like a chicken pecking grain, then scrambled to haul up his unconscious companion and fled Lake Street as though running for his life.
With those idiots dealt with, Yang Ming turned and went back into the clinic.
Sunday was his official day off, but saving Bruce Wayne, that two-hundred-pound beast, last night had nearly exhausted the storeroom's supplies of medical bandages, high-concentration alcohol, and povidone-iodine.
There wasn't even half a length of suture left. To prepare for the potentially deadly missions that could arise at any moment, he had to go uptown himself to restock.
So Yang Ming used the Anywhere Door to cross over to Gotham again.
Gotham's sky remained a lifeless lead gray, heavy clouds pressing down on the spires of its skyscrapers. Fortunately, for once, there was no downpour.
Yang Ming changed into an inconspicuous black trench coat, pulled his hat brim low, and blended into uptown's relatively bustling streets.
There were none of the ubiquitous bullet holes or foul odors of the East End here. The air carried a blend of freshly ground coffee and expensive perfume.
Yang Ming had just reached the entrance of a large chain pharmacy. Before his fingers could touch the glass door's metal handle, a piglike squeal erupted from the crowd behind him.
"My wallet! Damn it! Thief! Who stole my fucking wallet?!"