MARVEL/DC: DOCTOR IN THE MULTIVERSE

"Director Fury, you don't seriously think I can treat radiation-altered or genetically modified physiology with a supermarket stethoscope."

Nick Fury considered that for a moment, then gave a slight nod. "Fair. The fourth condition?"

Lynn met his gaze.

"I require a complete file on every patient. Full physiological data. Including details of their abilities."

Fury didn't answer immediately.

His eye sharpened.

"You're asking for classified metahuman profiles."

"For safe treatment," Lynn replied evenly. "If a patient's cellular density is several times above baseline and I administer standard anesthesia, they regain consciousness mid-procedure. At that point, I'm no longer a doctor—I'm a target."

The reasoning was technically sound.

Fury knew it.

But the request itself carried implications beyond medicine.

A doctor demanding comprehensive data on enhanced individuals—

Could be operating purely out of necessity.

Or something else.

He weighed it.

Five seconds.

The calculation was straightforward.

A physician capable of detecting and treating conditions beyond S.H.I.E.L.D.'s highest-resolution imaging—

Was not replaceable.

"Agreed," Fury said finally. "With one condition."

"If you leak anything about these individuals, there won't be a second warning."

"Director Fury," Lynn said, rising and extending his hand,

"I'm a doctor. Confidentiality is not optional."

Fury stood.

They shook.

Contact—

Brief.

Lynn's tactile perception registered immediately.

Callus distribution.

Scar layering.

Old fractures.

This was not just an administrator.

This was a field operative who had remained active far longer than standard protocol.

"Pleasure doing business," Lynn said.

"Likewise," Fury replied. "First case—Romanoff. When can you operate?"

"Anytime."

Fury moved toward the door.

Paused.

"When does your current 'security arrangement' end?"

"The day after tomorrow."

"I'll assign someone."

"No need."

Lynn's tone remained neutral.

"I have alternatives."

Fury glanced back.

That look—

Measured.

Curious.

Cautious.

Then he left.

Lynn remained at the doorway until Fury disappeared from view.

Then he returned inside.

Sat.

Opened the system interface.

All four conditions—

Accepted.

The fourth—

Was the key.

From this point forward—

Every enhanced individual referred through S.H.I.E.L.D. would arrive with a complete data profile.

That meant—

He could evaluate value before treatment.

Prioritize.

Optimize.

Fury believed he had secured a specialist.

In practice—

He had opened a direct channel into the global metahuman network.

Two days later—

The operation.

Location—

Not the clinic.

A S.H.I.E.L.D. safe house in Midtown Manhattan.

Externally—

A standard apartment.

Three rooms.

Unremarkable.

Internally—

Reinforced.

Lynn registered it immediately upon entry.

The walls—

Incorrect density.

Vibration feedback through the soles of his shoes revealed layered construction:

Outer plasterboard.

Intermediate lead shielding.

Inner electromagnetic mesh.

The windows—

Ballistic glass.

Acoustic dampening confirmed by impact resonance.

Nick Fury stood in the corner.

Trench coat still on.

Hands behind his back.

Observing.

Lynn scanned the room.

Two S.H.I.E.L.D. medical technicians.

Equipment staged.

A man in his thirties sat on the sofa, tablet in hand.

Badge visible.

Phil Coulson.

And—

Black Widow.

Natasha Romanoff sat at the edge of the operating table.

Black tactical suit.

Hair loose.

Posture relaxed—

Superficially.

But her right foot—

Not grounded.

Toes resting lightly against the metal frame.

Pre-engagement stance.

Even here—

No full relaxation.

"The equipment is ready," Fury said. "Everything you requested is here."

Lynn moved to the table.

Inspected.

Microsurgical instruments.

Miniature probes.

Bioelectric monitors.

Adequate—

But insufficient.

"I need a frequency-adjustable microwave ablation probe," Lynn said. "Range: 2.4 to 5.8 GHz. Output precision to 0.01 watts."

Fury looked to Coulson.

Coulson didn't look up.

Two swipes.

"Confirmed. Ten minutes."

Lynn used the interval to review.

The system updated in real time as he moved within three meters of Natasha.

Position unchanged.

2.1 millimeters lateral to C7.

Diameter: 0.3 millimeters.

Shell integrity—

Stable.

Release progression—

72.4%.

Increase:

0.4% over forty-eight hours.

Not rapid—

But not negligible.

Delay margin—

Limited.

The probe arrived.

Lynn checked it.

Calibrated.

Stabilized output.

Five minutes.

"We begin," he said.

"Lie prone. Head angled left. Posterior cervical region exposed."

Natasha didn't move immediately.

She looked at him.

Steady.

"If my body reacts during the procedure—"

"You'll counterattack," Lynn said.

No hesitation.

"Keep your hands visible. Grip the armrests. If the reflex triggers, apply force there first."

"How do you know—"

"The Red Room conditioning protocol embeds a defensive response to cervical proximity," Lynn said, adjusting the light.

"You don't suppress it. You redirect it."

"A half-second delay is sufficient."

Her eyes narrowed.

No further questions.

She repositioned.

Face down.

Hands gripping the armrests.

Head angled.

Neck exposed.

Fury stepped forward slightly.

Coulson lowered the tablet.

The technicians' breathing shifted.

All attention—

On Lynn.

He ignored it.

Visit /ShiroTL for more chapters.