MARVEL/DC: DOCTOR IN THE MULTIVERSE

Bruce's eyes shifted subtly.

The second probe began.

His fingers brushed lightly against one of the treated wounds on his arm, as if checking discomfort.

"Your extraction of the shrapnel was precise," he said. "You followed the entry path and sutured along the muscle fibers. That technique is standard in military field surgery. It isn't taught in civilian medical programs."

Another test.

Two layers.

First—he exposed knowledge no "businessman" should possess.

Second—he pushed for confirmation of Lynn's background.

Lynn shook his head.

"I don't know anything about military systems. I just chose what seemed like the most logical approach."

A clean deflection.

He attributed skill to instinct.

And instinct—

Couldn't be easily disproven.

Bruce said nothing.

But Lynn could see the shift.

Minute changes in breathing rhythm.

Subtle adjustments in eye focus.

The evaluation was updating.

From unknown variable—

To controlled variable.

Possibly useful.

Possibly dangerous.

Lynn's attention, however, was elsewhere.

Bruce's hands.

Since waking, they had remained relaxed at his sides.

Too relaxed.

The index and middle fingers of his right hand were slightly separated—a pre-engagement posture, ready to close into a strike or grip.

Calluses lined the palms.

Even distribution.

Heavier at the outer index joint.

Signs of repeated grappling, tool usage, climbing.

Not athletic conditioning.

Operational conditioning.

Then—

Musculature.

Under the damaged armor, every muscle group was optimized for function: compact, responsive, built for explosive movement and endurance.

Not aesthetic.

Practical.

Finally—

His face.

Perfect control.

Too perfect.

A man recovering from near-fatal trauma—

Yet no visible instability.

Only one flaw.

A slight contraction at the right corner of the mouth whenever he reinforced the "businessman" persona.

A tell.

All variables converged.

Bruce Wayne.

Batman.

Probability: effectively certain.

Lynn suppressed the conclusion.

Recognition was irrelevant.

Trust—

Was not.

"Your body will need at least forty-eight hours before regaining basic mobility," Lynn said, retrieving fresh bandages. "Your ribs are stabilized, but not fixed. You need proper facilities."

He stepped forward and began replacing the blood-soaked gauze.

Hands steady.

Precise.

Controlled.

Bruce watched him closely.

The owner of those hands—

Too young for that level of control.

"What's your name?"

"Lynn."

"Doctor Lynn."

"Not yet." He discarded the used gauze. "Assistant."

Bruce didn't correct him.

"What about them?" he asked, nodding toward Leo and the covered corpse.

"Police," Lynn replied. "Anonymous call. Nothing here leads back to me."

"You're composed."

"I treated an injured man and restrained someone who tried to kill me. That's all."

Bruce's mouth shifted slightly.

Not a smile.

Acknowledgment.

"You're not curious?" he asked, tapping the bat insignia faintly.

"No." Lynn leaned back against the table, arms folded. "Patients come first. Background doesn't matter."

Silence followed.

Measured.

Evaluated.

For someone like Batman—

Absence of curiosity wasn't suspicious.

It was stabilizing.

No probing.

No opportunism.

No deviation.

Trust increased.

"Thank you, Dr. Lynn," Bruce said.

This time—

Genuine.

Lynn gave a small nod.

Then glanced toward the destroyed rear entrance, where cold air pushed into the room.

Then—

Calmly—

He added:

"Professional obligation."

A pause.

"However…"

"My consultation fee isn't low."

Bruce looked at him.

No humor.

No exaggeration.

Pure negotiation.

For a brief moment—

The dynamic shifted.

Patient.

Doctor.

To—

Two operators assessing value.

Bruce didn't respond immediately.

Footsteps interrupted.

Measured.

Even.

Deliberate.

Not hurried.

Not concealed.

Leather soles against broken glass.

Clean.

Controlled.

Lynn analyzed instantly.

Weight distribution—balanced.

Stride—consistent.

Age—advanced, but with maintained physical conditioning.

Threat level—

Low.

An elderly man stepped into view.

White hair, combed back neatly.

Three-piece grey suit.

Impeccable.

His gaze swept the room once.

Everything registered:

Bruce.

Leo.

The corpse.

Lynn.

No visible reaction.

"Master Bruce."

His voice was steady.

Unshaken.

"Your signal deviated from its expected route by forty-seven minutes."

Bruce exhaled.

"I'm fine, Alfred."

Alfred Pennyworth stepped inside.

He paused at the threshold.

Two seconds.

Scanning.

Confirming.

Only then did he proceed.

Glass crunched underfoot.

Ignored.

Lynn noticed immediately—

Alfred's right hand.

Relaxed—

But not idle.

The inner lining of his jacket was slightly displaced.

Weight distribution suggested a concealed firearm.

Likely compact.

Quick-draw accessible.

Not ornamental.

Operational.

Alfred approached Bruce.

"Let me assess."

He crouched.

Examined the sutures.

Methodical.

Efficient.

Not the movements of a servant—

But of someone trained.

Field medicine.

Combat-adjacent.

After several seconds, his hand hovered just above the wound.

He turned slightly toward Lynn.

"You performed the procedure?"

"Yes."

Alfred didn't respond immediately.

He continued inspecting—

Checking wound cleaning.

Pressure integrity.

Rib stabilization.

Every detail.

His silence—

Was evaluation.