Stephen Vincent Strange was one of the United States' top neurosurgeons in recent years, working at a famous private hospital in New York.
Many people knew him. Whenever they heard his name, they would tell anyone asking around:
"Strange is a good doctor, but not a good person."
His surgical skills were unmatched, and his hands were swift and steady. Doctors and patients alike called them the "Hand of God" or the "Hand of the Devil."
Surgeries that took other doctors three hours took him only fifteen minutes. Patients other doctors could not save, he could save. Things other doctors could not bring themselves to say, he could say without hesitation.
For example: "Why see a doctor if you have no money?" "I don't treat poverty." "Class A health insurance probably can't cover this. You have commercial insurance, right?"
Yes, money was his principle. When receiving patients, he barely looked at their medical records. He believed he could treat any illness anyway. What he mainly looked at was whether they had enough money to pay his consultation and surgical fees.
He was that blunt and realistic. He was a mercenary in the medical world, working only for money.
If the money was right, performing throwing knives anywhere in the world was no problem. If it was not enough, even if a patient smashed their head to death in front of him, he would not blink.
Nearly everyone believed he was a demon in a lab coat, cold-blooded and devoid of humanity. Yet his only friend, Nurse Darlene, knew something of the truth. Strange had not always been like this.
She believed that he was truly a good person inside, but his past experiences had deeply scarred him.
Strange was born in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. He had been a child prodigy from