Chapter 152: The Forgotten Clown
But Abdul was ultimately just an ordinary billionaire.
No superpowers.
No special genetic traits.
No abilities worth copying.
This was simply business.
Pure profit.
"The treatment fee is twenty million dollars."
After the translator relayed the price, Abdul didn't even blink.
"Agreed."
The answer came instantly.
The surgery lasted two and a half hours.
Using a customized regenerative protocol, Lynn reversed the extensive fibrosis that had destroyed most of Abdul's renal function.
When the procedure ended, both kidneys had recovered to more than seventy-five percent functionality.
For a sixty-three-year-old man who had spent years undergoing dialysis, it was nothing short of a miracle.
When Abdul left, he transferred twenty million dollars immediately.
He also left behind a private business card.
"Doctor Lynn."
The elderly billionaire carefully placed the card on the counter.
"If you ever require assistance in the Middle East, call this number."
Lynn accepted it without comment.
Another contact.
Another resource.
Another thread added to an ever-growing network.
No sooner had Abdul departed than another unusual visitor arrived.
A black armored sedan without license plates stopped outside the clinic.
The vehicle radiated the unmistakable atmosphere of organized crime.
Two bodyguards exited first.
Then they helped an elderly man from the rear seat.
Gray hair.
Bandaged left hand.
Sharp eyes.
The old man walked slowly, but his gaze remained dangerous.
The kind of gaze acquired after decades of violence.
He entered the clinic.
Sat down.
And immediately spoke.
"You're Dr. Lynn?"
"It's written on the sign."
The old man gave a faint smile.
"My name is Victor Falcone."
Lynn adjusted his glasses.
Falcone.
One of Gotham's oldest names.
A family that had controlled organized crime in Gotham City long before most modern criminals ever appeared.
The All-Seeing Eye automatically completed a full-body scan.
Three fingers on the left hand had previously been severed and crudely reattached.
Extensive nerve damage remained.
Two bullet fragments were lodged inside the chest cavity.
The left knee showed severe degenerative meniscus damage.
The body of a man who had survived decades of gang wars.
"Who did this?"
Lynn asked casually.
Falcone's expression never changed.
"A young fool."
His voice remained calm.
"The situation has already been handled."
Meaning the fool was probably dead.
Lynn didn't ask further questions.
"You came all the way from Gotham?"
"The doctors there refused to treat me."
Falcone's tone carried neither anger nor resentment.
Only fact.
"They were afraid."
"If they treated me, my enemies would target them."
Lynn nodded.
Reasonable.
That sounded exactly like Gotham.
"Aren't you worried I'll refuse too?"
Falcone met his gaze.
"Your clinic has a reputation."
"You don't reject patients."
"As long as they can afford it."
Lynn folded his arms.
"Five million dollars."
Without hesitation, Falcone removed a checkbook from inside his suit.
Using his uninjured hand, he wrote the amount.
Five million.
The check was placed on the table.
"Payment first."
His voice remained steady.
"If you fail, keep the money."
Lynn glanced at the check.
Then slid it into a drawer.
"Refunds aren't part of my business model."
A brief pause.
"But failure isn't either."
The operation lasted forty minutes.
Damaged nerves were reconstructed.
The severed fingers regained functionality.
The bullet fragments were extracted.
The knee joint was repaired.
When the treatment ended, Falcone walked normally for the first time in years.
As he reached the doorway, he stopped.
Then looked back.
"Doctor Lynn."
"Hm?"
"You operate in New York."
Falcone's expression remained unreadable.
"If necessary, the Falcone Family can provide protection."
Lynn leaned casually against the doorframe.
"No need."
"Within five kilometers of this clinic, there is currently nothing that requires protection from me."
Falcone stared at him.
For several seconds.
During forty years in organized crime, he had encountered every variety of arrogance imaginable.
Politicians.
Judges.
Crime bosses.
Corrupt police commissioners.
Supervillains.
Yet Lynn's tone contained none of the usual arrogance.
There was no boasting.
No threat.
No pride.
Only certainty.
The same certainty one might use while saying:
The sun rises in the east.
An objective fact.
Nothing more.
Eventually, Falcone nodded.
Then returned to the car.
Moments later, the armored sedan disappeared down the street.
...
Lynn remained standing outside.
His fingers rested lightly on the doorframe.
His eyes followed the direction of the departing vehicle.
Falcone.
The name stirred memories.
A pebble dropped into still water.
Ripples spreading outward.
The Falcone Crime Family.
The last time that name had appeared in his life was inside a filthy underground operating room.
Leo.
Snake Eyes.
Falsified medical reports.
The corrupt surgeon who had deliberately sabotaged an operation.
The frame-up.
The murder.
Everything began there.
"The Falcones paid three hundred thousand."
"Kill Snake Eyes."
"Send Kingpin a message."
Lynn still remembered Leo's trembling confession.
At that time, he had been in this world for only three days.
He possessed nothing.
No abilities.
No resources.
No status.
No power.
A sealed operating room.
A corpse.
A conspiracy.
Outside waited Kingpin's territory.
Kingpin's men were expected by morning.
Then Batman kicked down the door.
And everything changed.
The memory faded.
Lynn returned inside.
He sat behind the reception desk.
A pen rotated slowly between his fingers.
Kingpin.
Wilson Fisk.
Now that he thought about it...
He had almost forgotten the man existed.
Not intentionally.
Life simply moved too quickly.
Batman.
Superman.
Magneto.
Zod.
Kamar-Taj.
The Ancient One.
The scale of events continued increasing.
The level of both allies and enemies rose higher and higher.
Compared to Kryptonian generals and cosmic threats, a New York crime lord barely registered.
But Fisk never disappeared.
Lynn remembered Shadow Raven.
The assassination attempt.
Six killers approaching from three directions at two in the morning.
He remembered the political pressure.
The medical regulatory investigation.
The lawsuits.
The harassment.
The surveillance.
He had solved all of those problems.
Yet there was one thing he had never done.
He never dealt with Kingpin himself.
Why?
Because at the time, it wasn't worth the effort.
His strength had been limited.
His resources scarce.
Every minute spent chasing a mob boss was a minute not spent growing stronger.
So Fisk had been placed aside.
Ignored.
Like spotting a cockroach in the kitchen.
You know it's still there.
You simply can't be bothered.
Until now.
Lynn placed the pen on the desk.
Then leaned back.
Today was different.
His strength now stood near the absolute summit of Earth's physical hierarchy.
He could destroy a World Engine.
Defeat Kryptonian warlords.
Travel dimensions.
Manipulate energies beyond human comprehension.
From that perspective...
Wilson Fisk wasn't a threat.
Not remotely.
But the absence of danger didn't eliminate annoyance.
A cockroach isn't dangerous either.
Yet no sane person willingly keeps one in their kitchen.
The All-Seeing Eye automatically gathered current information.
Wilson Fisk.
Location:
Fisk Tower.
Midtown Manhattan.
His criminal empire had actually expanded after the Battle of Metropolis.
While others focused on survival, Fisk focused on opportunity.
Three new shipping routes.
Two additional financial institutions infiltrated through laundering operations.
Multiple reconstruction contracts secured through intermediaries.
Chaos had become profit.
Most importantly...
The surveillance never stopped.
After Shadow Raven's failure, Fisk adapted.
No more assassins.
No more direct attacks.
Instead:
Remote signal monitoring.
Human observation networks.
Information gathering.
Daily schedules.
Patient records.
Travel routes.
Everything was documented.
The irony was almost amusing.
Fisk genuinely believed he was monitoring a talented doctor.
A gifted medical genius.
A potential loose end connected to the Snake Eyes incident.
He had absolutely no idea he was watching a being capable of casually tearing apart alien war machines.
That was the problem.
Wilson Fisk wasn't dangerous.
Wilson Fisk was a variable.
And variables had a habit of becoming troublesome.
Lynn adjusted his gold-rimmed glasses.
That's about it.
...
Visit /ShiroTL for more chapters.