The torrential rain of Gotham hammered against the roller shutter of 22 Lake Street with a dull, heavy sound.
Inside the underground clinic, the pale, shadowless lamps had been turned off.
Only a dim, yellowish wall lamp remained, along with the faint, eerie blue glow from the control panel of the Stark Industries hyperbaric oxygen chamber.
Selina rested against the explosion-proof glass of the metal chamber, her breathing steady.
After the intense Spiritual strain, confirming that her sister Maggie’s blood oxygen saturation had stabilized at 96%, this vigilant wildcat finally succumbed to exhaustion and drifted into a deep sleep.
William stood five meters away in front of a stainless steel operating table.
He raised his right hand.
At the base of his index finger, the dark silver ring the system had just bestowed pressed against his skin, devoid of any warmth, as if cast from the cheapest pig iron.
His fingertips touched the cold edge of the metal bed.
With a thought.
“Swish.”
There was no gravitational lag, no dizziness from spatial distortion.
The multi-functional operating table, weighing three hundred pounds and equipped with a complex hydraulic lifting system, vanished into thin air.
The center of the previously crowded clinic instantly opened up.
William opened his palm and probed the ring with his mind.
A purely dark space, roughly 4.6 meters in length, width, and height, appeared in his mind.
The operating table was floating silently in the corner, occupying a negligible amount of volume.
With another thought.
“Clang.”
The operating table slammed steadily back into its original position, its four metal legs colliding with the concrete floor and kicking up a puff of dust.
William’s breathing grew slightly heavier.
His black pupils reflected the faint light of the wall lamp, dancing with barely concealed fanaticism.
It worked.
For the past three months, he had been like a bottom-tier laborer.
To carry antibiotics and anesthetics from the Marvel Universe’s Hells Kitchen to Gotham, he had to strap a backpack tightly across his shoulders.
Every time he passed through that blue vortex door, the minute difference in gravity between the two Universes would make his lumbar discs groan under the unbearable strain.
That Stark hyperbaric oxygen chamber had been disassembled into eight parts, which he had dragged over bit by bit, like an ant moving house.
Now, the logistical pain point had been completely crushed.
One hundred cubic meters.
Enough to fit two full-sized Hummers.
A map of an underground smuggling network spanning both Marvel and DC unfolded in William’s mind.
Discarded scrap from Stark Industries in the Marvel Universe and defective biological agents from the Osborn Group could be transported to Gotham without leaving a trace, to be sold to those gang bosses desperate to extend their lives.
And the military-grade fibers and large-caliber firearms phased out by Wayne Enterprises in Gotham, or even tons of illicit U.S.
dollars from the East End black market, could be laundered instantly and transported to New York’s Hells Kitchen.
He was a Doctor.
But he needed capital even more.
In these godforsaken places where titans clashed, and where aliens wiped out cities or the Joker blew up towns at the drop of a hat, without absolute resource reserves, he wasn’t even qualified to be cannon fodder.
William withdrew his hand, his gaze sweeping over the still-sleeping Selina.
He turned and walked toward the iron door at the back of the clinic, which bore the sign “Medical Supplies Warehouse.” He pressed down on the handle, and the eerie blue vortex rotated silently.
He took a step through.
The morning light of New York’s Hells Kitchen pierced William’s eyes through the gaps in the roller shutter.
The air was filled with the sour stench of stale beer and rotting garbage.
“Bang!”
A copy of “Netter’s Atlas of Human Anatomy,” thicker than a brick, was slammed heavily onto the triage desk.
Jessica Jones stood behind the desk like an irritable lioness, sporting dark circles under her eyes even heavier than William’s.
Her worn-out leather jacket was open, revealing a faded gray camisole underneath, with a few drops of dried coffee staining her collarbone.
“The subclavian artery arises from the brachiocephalic trunk, passes behind the anterior scalene muscle, and continues as the axillary artery at the outer border of the first rib.”
Jessica didn’t give William a chance to speak; her speaking speed was as fast as a firing Maxim machine gun.
“The axillary artery is divided into three parts.
The first part branches into the superior thoracic artery; the second part branches into the thoracoacromial artery and the lateral thoracic artery; the third part branches into the subscapular artery, the anterior circumflex humeral artery, and the posterior circumflex humeral artery.
It extends to the lower border of the teres major muscle and continues as the brachial artery…”
Latin terms, delivered with a thick New York street accent, burst from her dry lips like a machine-gun volley.
She stared fixedly at William, her eyes bloodshot like a gambler waiting for the dealer to reveal the cards.
She had spent the entire night.
Relying on three cups of cheap black coffee, she had forced herself to memorize the pathways of all the blood vessels and nerves in the upper limbs.
William walked to the water dispenser, poured himself a cup of warm water, and moistened his slightly dry throat.
“What nerve does the deep brachial artery accompany?
What space does it pass through?” William asked suddenly, his voice flat.
Jessica froze for half a second, her brain searching frantically.
“It accompanies the radial nerve!
It passes through the radial groove between the medial and lateral heads of the triceps brachii!”
William put down the paper cup.
He pulled open a drawer, took out a stack of Franklins, counted out five, and slapped them onto the cover of the “Atlas of Anatomy.”
“Yesterday’s base salary, plus today’s spot-check bonus.”
Jessica’s bloodshot eyes instantly lit up.
She snatched the five hundred dollars, rubbed her thumb quickly across the edge of the bills to confirm that delightful texture, and then unceremoniously stuffed them into the tight pocket of her jeans.
“Boss, I think I’m practically a medical genius.” Jessica pulled off a smug grin and grabbed the cold coffee on the table, taking a swig.
“The genius is going to do some dirty work now.”
William bent down and pulled a black plastic bag from the freezer under the triage desk.
He untied the knot, and a pungent, raw, meaty stench filled the air.
He slammed a thick piece of pork belly, complete with skin and a layer of fat, onto the stainless steel tray with a “smack.” The edges of the pork were still wet with uncoagulated blood.
Jessica nearly spat out her coffee.
She pinched her nose in disgust: “Did you go to a slaughterhouse to restock early in the morning?
Did our clinic switch to selling hot dogs?”
“Come here.
Put on gloves.” William tossed a pair of sterile latex gloves over to her.
“People get shot in Hells Kitchen every day.
It’s useless just knowing the blood vessels; you need to know how to plug the leaks.” William used the forceps in his left hand to pry open a gash in the pork.
“Look closely.
This is a through-and-through wound mimicking a 9mm pistol bullet.
The entry wound is small, the exit wound is large.
The internal fat and muscle layers will be torn by the cavitation effect.”
“If you only suture the epidermis, a dead space will form inside, leading to blood accumulation and pus.
Three days later, the patient will die of sepsis right in front of you.”
William rotated his wrist slightly.
The needle holder, gripping the suture needle, pierced the deepest layer of muscle tissue with extreme precision.
In with the needle, lift the tissue, out with the needle, tie the knot.
His movements were dazzlingly fast.
“Suture from the inside out.
Use absorbable thread for the muscle layer, one stitch for the fat layer, and finally the epidermis.”
William cut the thread and stepped back half a step.
“Your turn.”
Jessica put on the gloves and grabbed a spare needle holder.
She looked at the bloody, mangled piece of pork and took a deep breath.
She had seen plenty of broken bones from fighting, but she had never touched this kind of delicate needlework in her life.
The needle tip pierced the pork skin.
“Too shallow!
Do you want the fat to show?” William barked coldly.
Jessica gritted her teeth and pressed down hard with her wrist.
“Click.”
A crisp sound.
The surgical steel suture needle was snapped into two pieces by her strength, which far exceeded that of an ordinary person.
The broken needle tip flew off and hit the glass medicine cabinet.
The clinic fell into a dead silence.
Jessica held up the needle holder, which now had only half a needle, and twitched her lips awkwardly: “This needle…
the quality isn’t very good.”
William took a deep breath, suppressing the urge to kick this humanoid tyrannosaurus out of the clinic.
“Relax your wrist.
You’re suturing human flesh, not patching a truck tire.
Use finesse, feel the change in resistance as the needle tip passes through the tissue.” William clamped another needle and handed it over.
Although his tone was stern, there was not a hint of impatience.
Since he had hired her, she was part of his clinic.
Even if she was a monster who could crush a steel pipe with a pair of forceps, he had to train her into a competent assistant capable of handling gunshot wounds independently.
Jessica opened her mouth, her gaze sweeping over her bulging pants pocket.
She swallowed the curse, took the needle holder again, took a deep breath, and carefully controlled that terrifying strength.