New York Presbyterian Hospital.
"Good work, Dr. Strange."
A surgeon in scrubs exhaled heavily, offering thanks to his colleague—Dr. Stephen Strange.
Under ordinary circumstances, the operation would have taken at least thirty hours.
Yet with Strange at the helm, it had been completed in just three.
The man disliked Strange's arrogance, but he had to admit—the doctor's hands truly were miraculous.
"Sorry, I've got something else to attend to. I'll take my leave."
Unaware of his colleague's thoughts, Strange stripped off his gloves, rubbed at his sore shoulder, and pushed open the operating room doors.
He barely had time to draw a breath before a couple rushed toward him, faces etched with worry.
"Doctor, our daughter—"
"The surgery went very well. She'll be able to walk and speak again soon."
Strange cut them off before they could ask.
At his words, the couple broke into tears of joy.
"Thank goodness! Thank you, doctor, thank you so much!"
The husband seized Strange's hand in gratitude.
Expressionless, Strange pulled free. "Because of the anesthesia, she won't wake up right away. You should go home and rest for now."
The wife shook her head fervently. "No. I want to stay with my daughter until she wakes."
Strange only nodded and moved on without further comment.
He had barely stepped into the corridor when a voice called out, "Wait a moment, Dr. Strange!"
Turning, Strange saw a female colleague from the ER—Christine—hurrying toward him.
He paused until she caught up. "You look well today, Christine."
Christine shrugged. "I always look well. What surprised me was hearing you comfort a patient's family just now. That's… not the Stephen Strange I know."
"Mm-hm."
Strange smiled faintly. "I told them to rest because if they collapsed, they wouldn't be able to pay the medical bills."
Christine choked on her reply.
After a long pause, she sighed softly. "Yes. That's the Stephen Strange I know."
Brilliant, arrogant—and never someone people found easy to like.
"In the end, what they need is a doctor who can heal their daughter," Strange said dryly. "Not a therapist to soothe their hearts. Wouldn't you agree, Christine?"
He brushed past the subject with ease. "By the way, there's a medical lecture at NYU tonight. May I invite you?"
Christine smiled politely at a passing colleague, then turned back. "I'd love to attend, but I'm on duty tonight. Sorry."
She could have asked someone to swap shifts. But for a man this insufferably full of himself? She preferred caution.
Strange didn't mind the rejection.
After all, he was wealthy, successful, drove a Lamborghini, and lived in a mansion. He never lacked female company.
The two walked together toward the elevator, still conversing.
Ding!
The doors slid open.
Inside stood Peter.
He lifted his gaze—and met the sight of Strange and Christine at the threshold.
Doctor Strange?
His eyes locked instantly on that distinctive, sharp-boned face.
Only now did Peter remember: before becoming the Sorcerer Supreme, this man had been a genius surgeon.
A storm of thoughts flickered through Peter's mind, but his expression remained neutral. He quickly looked away and stepped out.
This Strange knew no magic yet. He was not the sorcerer wielding the Time Stone.
Peter had no interest in this version of Doctor Strange.
As they passed each other, Strange frowned slightly, watching Peter's back retreat down the hall.
"What is it?"
Christine, noticing his fixed gaze on a stranger, asked curiously.
"Nothing."
Strange shook his head and pressed the button for the basement. "Which floor for you?"
"Second."
Christine leaned forward to press the button. "The anesthesiology department—I have a quick meeting. Hopefully it won't take long."
Silence settled in the elevator.
Strange's brow furrowed deeply as he replayed the moment just before.
When he brushed past that young man, his heartbeat had spiked, his breath gone heavy—as though some invisible, crushing pressure had slammed into him.
He forced himself to breathe deeply, casting off the unease. Better to focus on the evening's lecture.
Meanwhile.
"Ryan Brown. You can call me Dr. Ryan."
In a consultation room, a white physician introduced himself with a smile.
"As we agreed over the phone, Dr. Ryan."
Peter glanced around the office before taking his seat across from him.
Dr. Ryan Brown wore glasses and looked to be in his thirties. A mild, polished smile lingered at his lips.
He showed no offense at Peter's blunt tone. Instead, he rose, shut the door, and locked it.
"Yes, just as we discussed. I'll keep your condition in strict confidence—absolute confidentiality. In return, I'll receive my fee."
Peter nodded. "Good. You strike me as a clever man, Dr. Ryan. One who knows how to be flexible."
This was the physician Peter had arranged to meet in advance.
Before entering the hospital, Peter had already investigated his background.
Ryan had a history: warned by the hospital for accepting bribes from patients' families and for irregular practices. His reputation among colleagues was poor.
Which was exactly why Peter chose him.
A doctor easily bought was the perfect one for a private deal.
"As you requested, I won't record today's consultation. I'll erase all traces of your case from hospital files. In other words, only you and I will know the results."
Ryan adjusted his glasses, assuring him.
He didn't understand why this patient went to such lengths for a diagnosis, but his professional creed—never ask unnecessary questions—kept his curiosity in check.
Besides, though Peter looked young, the chill of danger radiating from him made Ryan instinctively cautious. Better to cooperate fully.
"Excellent. I look forward to working together."
Peter's lips curved faintly. The man's professionalism was satisfactory.