The patient had been affected by a toxic bullet. Once the toxin entered his cerebrospinal fluid, it triggered an acute episode, shutting down his central nervous system's reflexes and making him appear dead.
He was not dead, but dying.
The brilliant neurosurgeon Stephen Strange quickly identified the cause and performed surgery.
He was the best doctor in this hospital... one of them, anyway.
Dr. House did not get along particularly well with him, because they were both proud men.
In some respects, however, they understood each other perfectly.
But to Doctor Murphy, Dr. House was better than the sharp-tongued Doctor Strange.
Although, by just about any measure, Doctor Strange could certainly be called a good doctor.
Strange removed the bullet through surgery.
A successful doctor never lacked wealth.
As one of the best in his field, Strange certainly had no shortage of money.
From a drawer full of luxury watches, he picked one he liked and put it on.
He was attending a neurology gala that evening.
His sports car accelerated along the road when a call came in at an inconvenient moment.
Strange was conceited and arrogant, and that attitude carried over into his everyday life.
He answered the phone without slowing down.
His sports car overtook one vehicle after another.
Distracted by the files he was reviewing as they came through, he failed to notice either his speed or the car that was far too close.
A moment's distraction was all it took for an accident to happen.
The car spun on a bend in the road, smashed through the guardrail, and plunged over the edge.
It rolled down the slope, all its windows shattering and its front end crumpling.
Strange's last memory was of being wheeled into an operating room.
Muffled calls and the piercing scrape of