MARVEL/DC: DOCTOR IN THE MULTIVERSE

Too low on my list of priorities.

Those words hit Wilson Fisk harder than any physical restraint.

For decades, he had ruled New York's criminal underworld.

Crime families.

Street gangs.

Corrupt politicians.

International smugglers.

Everyone feared the name Kingpin.

Yet in Lynn's eyes, he wasn't even important enough to remember.

Wilson slowly drew a breath.

Then another.

The restraints creaked slightly around his arms.

"You intend to kill me."

It wasn't a question.

It was a conclusion.

"Yes."

Lynn answered immediately.

No hesitation.

No emotion.

No hatred.

No satisfaction.

Just a statement of fact.

Wilson closed his eyes briefly.

For the first time in many years, he genuinely contemplated death.

Wesley.

Vanessa.

The empire he had spent decades constructing.

The plans that remained unfinished.

The wars he still intended to win.

The future he would never see.

Several seconds later, he opened his eyes again.

"I can give you anything."

His voice remained steady.

"Money."

"Territory."

"Information."

Lynn shook his head.

"No need."

Wilson's jaw tightened.

"You understand what happens after I'm gone."

"The underworld doesn't disappear."

"It fractures."

"People die."

"New York bleeds."

"Your neighborhood won't remain untouched."

Lynn's expression didn't change.

"That's someone else's problem."

Silence followed.

Wilson looked directly into Lynn's eyes.

Behind the gold-rimmed glasses, they remained completely calm.

No anger.

No vengeance.

No personal hatred.

Nothing.

It reminded him of a surgeon informing a family that a patient could not be saved.

Cold.

Professional.

Final.

This wasn't revenge.

It was housekeeping.

"You should have expected this day."

Lynn slowly rose from the chair.

Wilson's lips moved.

For a brief moment, he seemed about to say something.

Then he stopped.

No words came out.

Lynn raised his right hand.

The metal framework hidden inside the office responded instantly.

The entire structure contracted at once.

...

7:15 AM.

The following morning.

Miracle Clinic.

The clinic opened exactly on schedule.

As always.

Lynn sat behind the reception counter wearing a spotless white coat.

A freshly brewed cup of Longjing tea rested beside him.

Several material-analysis reports lay open across the desk.

Meanwhile, his phone was being bombarded with notifications.

Breaking news alerts filled the screen.

"Wilson Fisk Found Dead Inside Fisk Tower—Cause of Death Unknown."

"Federal Authorities Launch Investigation Into Mysterious Death of Business Magnate."

"Power Vacuum Emerges Across New York Criminal Organizations."

"Violence Erupts Across Multiple Boroughs Following Fisk's Death."

Lynn glanced at the headlines.

Then ignored them.

The tea was more interesting.

He took a sip.

And returned to reading.

At exactly eight o'clock, the clinic's first patient arrived.

A delivery worker.

Male.

Mid-twenties.

Ankle injury.

"Doctor, my ankle..."

"Sit down."

The All-Seeing Eye completed the diagnosis instantly.

Partial tear of the lateral ankle ligaments.

Mild.

Nothing serious.

Three minutes later, treatment was finished.

Medication prescribed.

Topical regenerative ointment applied.

Instructions provided.

"Come back in three days."

The delivery worker paid.

Then limped out the door.

...

An ordinary patient.

An ordinary injury.

An ordinary morning.

Lynn continued working.

Patient after patient entered.

Examinations.

Treatment.

Payment.

Follow-up appointments.

The process flowed with machine-like efficiency.

At noon, he was preparing a second pot of tea when the television caught his attention.

Every major news channel was showing the same footage.

Cell-phone videos.

Gunfire.

Brooklyn.

Two rival groups exchanging automatic weapons fire in broad daylight.

A black SUV riddled with bullets.

One tire still burning.

The footage changed.

Queens.

A warehouse engulfed in flames.

Black smoke rising into the sky.

Another transition.

Hell's Kitchen.

Three bodies covered with white sheets.

Police tape stretching across an entire block.

The anchor's voice sounded tense.

"The power vacuum created by Wilson Fisk's death has triggered a wave of violent territorial disputes."

"Preliminary reports indicate more than twenty gang-related shootings across New York within the last twelve hours."

"At least eleven confirmed fatalities."

"More than thirty injured."

"The NYPD has activated emergency response measures across multiple boroughs."

"The mayor's office is urging residents to avoid active conflict zones."

Lynn watched for approximately two minutes.

Then turned off the television.

Too loud.

...

At 2:00 PM, his phone rang.

The caller ID displayed:

Matt Murdock.

Lynn answered.

"What is it?"

Matt's voice sounded exhausted.

"You've seen the news?"

"A little."

"Hell's Kitchen is a disaster."

Matt sighed.

"Fisk kept a lot of people under control."

"Now everyone wants his territory."

"I've stopped four separate operations since this morning."

"An arms deal."

"A kidnapping."

"Two gang shootings."

"Every time I finish one problem, another appears."

Lynn listened quietly.

Then asked:

"And?"

Matt got to the point.

"I need help."

"What happened?"

"I got stabbed."

"Again?"

There was a brief pause.

"Again."

"Location?"

"Waist."

"The wound isn't deep."

"But I can't stitch it myself this time."

Lynn checked the clock.

"Before five."

"I close at six."

Matt laughed weakly.

"Understood."

"Same price?"

"Same price."

Lynn paused.

"Although if this keeps happening, I might start offering you a membership card."

Matt actually laughed.

Then ended the call.

...

Lynn had barely set down his phone when another message arrived.

Peter Parker.

The message was exactly what he expected.

"DR. LYNN!!"

"NEW YORK IS INSANE RIGHT NOW!!"

"THERE'S SHOOTING EVERYWHERE IN BROOKLYN!!"

"I HELPED BANDAGE THREE PEOPLE TODAY!!"

"BUT ONE OF THEM HAS A REALLY BAD WOUND!!"

"CAN YOU TELL ME WHAT TO DO??!!"

Three exclamation marks.

Classic Peter.

Lynn typed a reply.

"Don't treat it yourself."

"Take him to a hospital."

Peter responded instantly.

"The hospital is too far!!"

"Call emergency services."

"I DID!!"

"911 IS OVERLOADED!!"

Lynn sighed.

Then typed again.

"Send a photo."

Ten seconds later, an image arrived.

Lynn examined it.

Inner-thigh laceration.

Roughly fifteen centimeters long.

Subcutaneous fat visible.

Heavy bleeding.

No indication of femoral artery damage.

Manageable.

He sent instructions.

"Use your webbing as a temporary compression bandage."

"Apply pressure at the groin."

"Cover the wound with a clean cloth."

"Take him to the nearest clinic."

"It doesn't need a hospital."

"It isn't life-threatening."

Peter replied immediately.

"OKAY!!"

"THANK YOU DR. LYNN!!"

More exclamation marks.

Naturally.

Lynn put away the phone.

...

The remainder of the afternoon was equally busy.

Seven calls.

Five text-message consultations.

All variations of the same problem.

Gunshot wounds.

Knife wounds.

Trauma injuries.

New York's emergency medical system was struggling to keep up.

Although Miracle Clinic sat far from the worst conflict zones, Lynn's reputation attracted a constant stream of patients.

By five o'clock, he had personally treated three gunshot victims.

All ordinary civilians.

Nothing worth copying.

Just work.

...

5:30 PM.

Matt Murdock finally arrived.

He wore civilian clothing over his Daredevil suit.

The bandages around his waist were soaked through with blood.

Using his cane, he navigated directly toward the examination room.

Then sat down.

Lynn examined the wound.

Immediately, he frowned.

"Your suturing technique is getting worse."

Matt looked offended.

"The situation was urgent."

The All-Seeing Eye completed its assessment.

Penetration depth:

Approximately two centimeters.

The blade had grazed the external oblique muscle.

No organ damage.

No major vascular injury.

Fortunately.

"How did this happen?"

Matt shrugged.

"I had to reopen the wound."

"You what?"

"The bandage."

Matt pointed vaguely.

"I couldn't reach the scissors."

"So I tore it open with my teeth."

Lynn stared at him.

For several seconds.

Then spoke slowly.

"Do you know how many bacteria live inside the human mouth?"

"Yes."

Matt nodded.

"But that's still better than bleeding to death on a rooftop."

Lynn couldn't argue with that logic.

Disinfection.

Cleaning.

Suturing.

Seven stitches.

The entire procedure took less than ten minutes.

When he finished, Lynn removed his gloves.

"Come back in three days."

"Have the stitches removed."

Then he looked directly at Matt.

"And try not to let anyone stab you again."

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