The first rays of dawn rose over the horizon, waking Manhattan in soft, warm hues. The moment the alarm rang, Strange silenced its urgent chime before it could burst into song.
He had performed two difficult surgeries yesterday, especially the last craniotomy. Even for the finest surgeon, it would have been extremely challenging.
The patient had been declared brain-dead by other doctors, with a bullet lodged in their skull. Removing the alloy bullet near the brainstem required exceptionally profound surgical experience.
As everyone knew, the nerves around the brainstem were numerous and immensely complex, making the operation extraordinarily difficult. Yet without imaging guidance, Strange manually extracted the foreign object, preserved the patient's life, and completed a textbook-level procedure.
The entire hospital called it "another perfect performance." Everyone had gradually grown accustomed to the medical miracles Stephen Strange repeatedly created. After all, he bore the dazzling title of New York's youngest—and finest—neurosurgeon.
Neurosurgery was widely recognized as the pinnacle of medicine. Doctors needed an immensely complex foundation of knowledge, and before they were permitted to operate, they had to undergo at least six years of training. It was the most time-consuming and demanding specialty in all of medicine.
For a genius neurosurgeon like Strange, reaching the summit of the medical world was practically inevitable.
After silencing the alarm, Strange took a deep breath, got out of bed, and drew back the curtains. Morning sunlight streamed in, gentle but not glaring. Beneath him stood a magnificent forest of steel, where traffic steadily thickened amid the noisy bustle, brimming with the vigor of life.
He had always been highly punctual, waking just before his alarm was due to ring. It was a biological clock engraved into his body. Yet because he distrusted the human body and trusted machines, Strange still set his alarm