Chapter 7 – Two Million Dollars
Alfred straightened.
Then turned to face Lynn fully.
"The Joker's toxin," he said, tone measured, not questioning—confirming. "You neutralized it."
"A temporary inhibitor," Lynn replied. "Epinephrine hydrochloride, sodium bicarbonate, dexamethasone. Ratio three to one to zero point five. Heated briefly, then administered intravenously."
"Over eighty percent neutralized. The remainder is within metabolic tolerance."
A pause.
Alfred's right eyebrow shifted—barely perceptible.
For a man with decades of disciplined composure, it was equivalent to visible surprise.
"The Batcave's medical systems require significant time to isolate Joker compounds," Alfred said. "How long did your analysis take?"
"I didn't measure," Lynn answered. "A few minutes."
That was accurate—from his perspective.
Alfred glanced toward Bruce.
A small nod.
Confirmation accepted.
Without further comment, Alfred reached into his inner jacket and placed two items on the table.
First—
A check.
Wayne private issue.
Unsigned.
Amount blank.
Second—
A compact, matte-black device, no larger than a thumbnail. A faint bat insignia was embedded into its surface—subtle, but unmistakable.
"Wayne Enterprises acknowledges the debt," Alfred said. "Enter a figure you consider appropriate."
He indicated the second item.
"Encrypted communicator. Secure channel. East Coast coverage. Press and hold for three seconds if assistance is required."
Lynn's gaze settled on the check.
His mind accelerated.
Multiple calculations ran in parallel.
Bruce Wayne's personal wealth—effectively unconstrained for practical purposes.
But this was not about capacity.
It was about positioning.
Too small—
He becomes forgettable.
Too large—
He becomes opportunistic.
The number needed to signal value.
Competence.
Restraint.
Then—
His situation.
No identity stability.
No legal standing.
No infrastructure.
He needed capital.
Enough to establish independence—
Without overreaching.
The answer stabilized quickly.
Two million.
Lynn picked up the pen.
Wrote cleanly.
2,000,000.
He turned the check.
Pushed it forward.
Alfred glanced down.
No visible reaction.
But Lynn observed—
A delay.
Less than half a second.
Acknowledgment.
No objection.
Bruce saw it as well.
At the corner of his mouth—
A faint shift.
Not irritation.
Recognition.
A man who understood leverage—
And limits.
"Process it," Bruce said.
Alfred folded the check and secured it without comment.
Bruce moved.
Slowly.
He stepped down from the table.
Alfred immediately supported him—subtle, unobtrusive.
The damaged armor shifted with a dull metallic scrape.
Bruce's expression tightened briefly.
Pain.
Controlled.
They reached the doorway.
Bruce paused.
Turned.
"What will you do next?"
"Leave," Lynn said. "Start over."
A brief silence.
Then—
"If you're opening a clinic," Bruce said, "don't do it in Gotham."
The tone had changed.
No longer evaluation.
Advice.
Implicit warning.
Lynn understood.
Gotham wasn't a place for someone like him.
Not yet.
"I won't."
Bruce nodded once.
Turned.
Alfred gave Lynn a final look.
Measured.
Not gratitude.
Not suspicion.
Assessment—
Resolved.
Then they exited.
Footsteps.
Car door.
Engine ignition.
Gone.
Silence returned.
Only Lynn—
And Leo.
Lynn leaned briefly against the table, then glanced at the communicator.
Compact.
Minimalist.
Efficient.
Wayne design.
He pocketed it.
Then moved.
To the front.
Leo's phone—
Recovered.
Dialed.
"I'm reporting a homicide and illegal medical operation. Address: 18 West Bryant Street. Suspect restrained. Respond immediately."
Call ended.
Phone wiped.
Returned.
Next—
The safe.
Eleven seconds.
Wear patterns revealed the code.
Inside—
Passport.
Cash.
Forged documents.
Transaction records.
Lynn took only what he needed.
Left the rest.
Evidence—
Had its own purpose.
Final step—
Surveillance.
Three minutes.
Selective backup.
Encrypted storage.
Total local purge.
Triple overwrite.
Unrecoverable.
The forged records—
Returned to Leo.
Placed deliberately.
Everything—
Clean.
Lynn shouldered his bag.
Walked out.
Cold air met him.
Sharp.
Industrial.
Typical of Gotham's East Side.
Dawn approached.
He checked his account.
Two million dollars.
Transferred.
Immediate.
Wayne-level efficiency.
He leaned briefly against the wall, looking upward.
Few stars.
But the moon—
Clear.
Bright.
Then—
The system panel.
[Super Intelligence (Incomplete – 70%)]
Stable.
Active.
The beginner reward—
Already processed.
Reputation: 100.
Basic operational knowledge acquired.
Three days.
From nothing—
To this.
Money.
Capability.
Connections.
And—
A future.
Lynn allowed himself a faint smile.
Then stepped forward.
Destination—
New York.