MARVEL/DC: DOCTOR IN THE MULTIVERSE

Falcone.

One of Gotham's oldest and most entrenched crime families.

Lynn registered the name without reaction.

No follow-up questions.

Not necessary.

He retrieved nylon rope from the storage room and secured Leo with methodical precision—three separate knot structures, each serving a different purpose: restraint, redundancy, and failure prevention.

Leo wouldn't be moving again.

Then—

Cleanup.

His thoughts accelerated.

Within seconds, he simulated multiple outcomes, branching into seventeen distinct procedural paths.

He selected the most efficient.

Surveillance system—accessed.

Critical footage—Snake Eyes' surgery—copied and encrypted to an external cloud node as leverage.

All segments containing himself—

Deleted.

Overwritten.

Three passes.

Then the entire local drive—

Formatted.

Irrecoverable.

The forged surgical record—

Returned to Leo's person.

Placed deliberately.

Let Kingpin's men draw the conclusion themselves.

The safe—

No code given.

Didn't matter.

Wear patterns on the keypad revealed the sequence in eleven seconds.

Inside:

Passport.

Cash.

Just over two thousand dollars.

Collected.

Secured.

By the time he finished—

There was no trace left of Lynn in the clinic.

Clean.

Efficient.

Contained.

Leo lay on the floor, bound tightly, head tilted at an awkward angle.

The fear in his eyes had deepened.

No longer bargaining.

No longer calculating.

Just fear.

"Who… are you…?" he whispered.

Lynn crouched briefly.

Met his gaze.

There was no hostility there.

No anger.

Only the detached indifference of someone reviewing a completed case.

He didn't answer.

He stood.

Brushed dust from his knees.

Behind him—

The cardiac monitor changed.

The rhythm shifted.

Faster.

Sharper.

Lynn turned.

On the operating table—

A finger moved.

…

The ECG spiked.

Jagged.

Irregular—

Then stabilizing into heightened activity.

Batman's eyes opened.

Not gradually.

Instantly.

Pupils contracted.

Focus established.

Ocular tracking engaged.

Full situational awareness—

Within two seconds.

No confusion.

No hesitation.

The first action—

Assessment.

His gaze swept the room with predatory precision.

Lynn remained still.

His own mind, enhanced by the copied cognition, dissected every micro-adjustment in Batman's movement.

Chest first.

Sutures.

Placement.

Compression integrity.

He drew a controlled breath—testing lung capacity.

Then—

The monitor.

A glance.

Data absorbed instantly.

Then—

Environment.

Lighting.

Structural decay.

Blood traces.

Used gauze.

Leo—bound, immobilized, breathing shallowly against the wall.

Snake Eyes' body—covered, but incomplete concealment.

Finally—

Lynn.

The gaze stopped.

Locked.

It wasn't passive observation.

It was analysis.

Age.

Posture.

Hand positioning.

Blood distribution.

Distance—

Less than two meters.

Threat potential—

Evaluated.

Five seconds.

Complete.

"You saved me."

His voice was hoarse.

But precise.

Not gratitude.

Conclusion.

Lynn gave a slight nod.

No elaboration.

Batman attempted to rise.

Pain followed immediately.

Rib displacement.

He suppressed it—barely.

Forced himself upright.

"What's happening outside?"

"Unclear," Lynn replied evenly. "The explosion stopped about forty minutes ago. I've been sealed inside."

True.

But incomplete.

Batman's gaze dropped briefly to his armor.

Damaged.

But functional.

Identity implied—

Not confirmed.

"You recognize this?" he asked, eyes lifting again.

Direct.

Controlled.

Lynn responded without hesitation.

"The symbol? Everyone in Gotham does." He gestured toward the chest emblem. "Who you are beyond that—I don't care."

Silence.

Three seconds.

Batman watched him.

A subtle shift—

A minute contraction at the corner of his mouth.

Evaluation.

Truth detection.

Partial acceptance.

"I'm a businessman," he said finally. "Operating in Gotham. I encountered resistance. I don't remember how I got here."

A businessman.

Lynn allowed a faint, fleeting expression of uncertainty to surface.

Controlled.

Measured.

"Clinic," Lynn said. "Illegal one. I assist. The owner ran."

"Ran?"

Lynn tilted his chin toward Leo.

"Because of him."

Batman's gaze shifted.

Leo.

Bound.

Panicked.

Neutralized.

"Who is he?"

"The owner. Botched a job. Tried to disappear. Didn't get far."

Flat delivery.

No embellishment.

Batman glanced once more toward the covered corpse.

He didn't pursue it.

Not yet.

Silence settled briefly.

Then—

A shift.

"Your surgical work," Batman said, examining the sutures, "is far beyond assistant level. Where did you train?"

Probe.

Direct.

Lynn had already prepared for this.

"Two years. Community college. Couldn't afford to continue."

"Two years produces this?"

"I learn fast."

Batman didn't challenge it directly.

But his eyes indicated—

Rejection.

The probe continued.

Casual tone.

Layered test.

"It's dangerous outside," he said.

Then, lightly—

In French:

"It's hell out there."

A linguistic trap.

Unsignaled.

Subtle.

A test of education.

Background.

Cognitive reflex.

Lynn understood immediately.

Not just the language—

The context.

Upper-class phrasing.

Intent.

But he suppressed it.

"What?" he asked, tilting his head slightly, confusion precisely calibrated.

No delay.

No overacting.

Just enough imperfection.

The test—

Deflected.