MARVEL/DC: DOCTOR IN THE MULTIVERSE

The answer was immediate.

Complete.

But Lynn didn't speak.

Not yet.

He allowed three seconds to pass.

Observed the patient's eye tracking.

Applied light pressure to the occipital region.

Briefly palpated the temples.

Not necessary—

But necessary.

For perception.

To the crowd, this was examination.

Not conclusion.

Then—

He spoke.

"Your condition isn't migraine."

His voice carried clearly across the gathering.

No hesitation.

"There's an abnormal vascular formation at the base of your brain."

He paused deliberately.

"In a typical structure, the middle cerebral artery branches into defined trunks. In your case, there's a diffuse collateral network—fragile, disorganized."

"Moyamoya disease. Early stage."

"Confirm with digital subtraction angiography."

Silence followed.

One of the attending physicians behind Griffin stiffened.

This case—

Had been evaluated.

Imaging—

Negative.

"On what basis?" the physician asked, unable to remain silent.

"Resolution limits," Lynn replied calmly.

"Standard CT slices at five millimeters. Early-stage vascular proliferation may be one to two millimeters."

"Your imaging didn't miss the disease."

"It lacked the precision to reveal it."

"DSA will."

No emphasis.

No defensiveness.

Just conclusion.

Griffin's expression shifted slightly.

The smile diminished.

Second patient.

Seated.

Pale.

Fatigued.

"Symptoms?"

"Persistent low fever. Two months. Antibiotics ineffective."

The system resolved instantly.

Simultaneously—

Lynn's tactile perception registered a subtle anomaly.

Localized heat.

Thyroid region.

Marginal—

But consistent.

"This isn't infection," Lynn said.

The woman frowned.

"Then what is it?"

"Subacute thyroiditis."

"Inflammatory. Likely post-viral or autoimmune. Not bacterial."

He continued:

"Antibiotics won't help. Thyroid function tests and ultrasound will confirm."

Behind Griffin—

A younger doctor stiffened.

He had prescribed the antibiotics.

Two cases.

Under two minutes.

The crowd began to shift.

Whispers.

Reassessment.

Third patient.

Wheelchair-bound.

Elderly.

Cachectic.

His son stood beside him.

Voice strained.

"Small cell lung cancer. Late stage. Three months."

The atmosphere changed.

Heavier.

Quieter.

Lynn looked at the patient.

The system completed its scan.

Then—

He frowned.

Not for effect.

For verification.

Ten seconds passed.

Long enough to create tension.

"Who diagnosed this?"

"St. Mary's," the son replied.

A subtle movement—

Griffin.

Unease.

"Your father does not have small cell lung cancer," Lynn said.

The words landed heavily.

He continued—

Measured.

Precise.

"Small cell carcinoma has rapid progression. Tumor doubling time—approximately thirty days."

He looked at the son.

"Your father's tumor growth over six months—less than twenty-five percent."

"Not consistent."

He turned slightly toward the physicians behind Griffin.

"This profile aligns with adenoid cystic carcinoma."

Different disease.

Different behavior.

Different prognosis.

"And currently—two metastases only."

"Right hilar lymph node. Left sixth rib."

"Both operable."

The son's expression broke.

"Treatment pathway changes."

"Five-year survival—approximately sixty percent."

Silence.

Total.

Then—

Emotion.

Not shock alone.

Relief.

Possibility.

The son's composure collapsed.

Tears.

Not despair—

Release.

The old man gripped his hand.

Weak—

But present.

Alive in a way he hadn't been minutes earlier.

The crowd reacted.

Not immediately.

Then—

Applause.

One person.

Then another.

Then many.

Not polite.

Not restrained.

Spontaneous.

Griffin stood still.

Face drained.

Color shifting.

Behind him—

The doctors remained silent.

Because if this was correct—

Then their diagnosis wasn't just wrong.

It had consequences.

Treatment based on error.

Damage compounded.

This wasn't embarrassment.

It was exposure.

The camera captured everything.

Live viewers surged.

Dozens—

To hundreds—

To thousands.

Griffin said nothing.

He turned.

Walked away.

Rigid.

Controlled—

Barely.

Lynn watched him leave.

No comment.

No pursuit.

He turned.

Returned to the clinic.

Closed the door.

Picked up his coffee.

Now cold.

He drank it anyway.

The system responded.

[Reputation +80 — Public Influence Bonus]

[Total Reputation: 330]

That evening—

The footage spread.

Edited.

Condensed.

Broadcast.

Title:

A young doctor overturns three diagnoses in three minutes.

This time—

The audience was no longer limited to Hell's Kitchen.

And somewhere—

People who mattered—

Had begun to notice.