Chapter 47: The Superpowered Doctor
"However…" Coulson paused before continuing,
"this is where things start to require special attention."
"He lives in Manhattan's Upper West Side, sharing an apartment with two roommates. One is a childhood neighbor, the other is that neighbor's coworker. But his clinic is located on Seventh Street in Brooklyn."
"Seventh Street?" May exhaled softly, folding her arms more tightly across her chest.
"The Upper West Side is an elite sanctuary. Seventh Street is practically a backyard for gangs and drug dealers."
She tilted her head slightly.
"Choosing to live in the safest neighborhood while opening a clinic in one of the most dangerous areas to make money—
is that intelligence, stupidity… or coincidence?"
"I haven't fully figured that out either," Coulson admitted, rubbing his chin. He offered a practical hypothesis, trying to impose logic on the contradiction.
"Possibly economics. Upper West Side real estate is expensive—newly independent doctors usually can't afford to buy. Sharing an apartment there is normal.
"But on Seventh Street, property is cheap enough that he could purchase the clinic outright and own a fixed asset. Which, in fact, is exactly what he did."
May's fingers flew across the control panel, pulling up property records and regional surveillance data. Her eyes scanned the information with clinical focus.
"That explanation doesn't hold up, Coulson."
She rotated the screen toward him. The clinic's ownership records and a side-by-side area comparison were displayed clearly.
"He purchased the Seventh Street clinic using a loan, yet chose to rent and cohabitate in the Upper West Side. That's not the financial behavior of someone who can't afford to buy."
Her finger tapped a red-highlighted zone on the map—Seventh Street's low-surveillance coverage.
"Look at the environmental contrast. His residence on the Upper West Side is blanketed by dense surveillance networks—near total coverage.
"Seventh Street, on the other hand, has sparse cameras and delayed police response."
She paused, letting the implication settle.
"Legally, the law exists there. Practically, no one feels obligated to follow it.
In other words—"
Her eyes lifted to meet Coulson's.
"It's freer."
May deliberately stressed the final two words.
"He chose order and surveillance for where he lives," she continued,
"but chaos and shadow for where he conducts his 'work.' That isn't a contradiction—it's a deliberate design."
Something seemed to click in her mind. Her fingers flew across the screen as she pulled up more data.
"There's another anomaly. In the months since he opened the clinic on Seventh Street, there have been zero police reports filed by the clinic itself. No calls, no complaints, no requests for assistance."
She paused.
"The only police response linked to the clinic was a week ago. Why?
Are people there unusually tolerant of his presence?
Has the entire neighborhood tacitly agreed to treat the clinic as neutral ground?
Petty criminals, drug dealers, gang members—do they all just… avoid it?"
Coulson pulled up the incident report.
"Police response was triggered by a passerby. Location: Rayne Clinic, Brooklyn.
Caller reported an unconscious man lying outside the clinic."
He scrolled.
"According to the police report: Mary Mason, a physician at the clinic, was attacked late at night by an unknown assailant. Stab wound. She escaped and performed self-rescue."
May glanced at it. "She's a surgeon. Professional skill explains the self-rescue."
Coulson tapped the console again, bringing up several surveillance feeds side by side.
On screen, a woman exited the clinic and locked the door.
The next second, a man lunged from the shadows—blade flashing—driving it into her abdomen while locking his forearm around her throat.
She struggled, then—during the scuffle—drew a small surgical scalpel from her clothing and stabbed backward into his flank.
The attacker collapsed. She lost balance and crawled toward the clinic entrance.
No one entered or exited the area for nearly an hour.
The footage jumped forward.
A man appeared at a run—no hesitation, no attempt to render aid, no call to emergency services. He pushed straight into the clinic.
The video cut again—bystanders gathering, phones raised, emergency calls made.
Coulson overlaid timestamps on the screen.
21:17 — Mary Mason attacked
21:18 — Mary calls for help; call answered by Ethan Rayne
21:49 — Ethan Rayne arrives and enters the clinic
22:33 — Bystanders report an incident
22:44 — Police and ambulance arrive
Coulson pulled up forensic photographs—blood volume, spatter patterns, spatial reconstruction.
May studied them for several seconds. Her brow slowly furrowed.
"That much blood loss… the abdominal aorta was breached. Survival probability is effectively zero. Crawling inside wouldn't change the outcome."
Coulson's voice remained even.
"But she survived. Fully recovered. No complications."
May's skepticism was unmistakable.
"That's impossible. No normal human survives blood loss on that scale. Does she have abilities?"
"No," Coulson replied. "Hospital examinations confirmed she's completely normal. No anomalies. No enhancements. No external intervention recorded."
He pointed to the timestamp again.
"Based on the estimated bleeding rate, she should have been dead twenty minutes before Ethan Rayne arrived."
"And yet," he continued, "when police arrived, she was alive—already sutured and bandaged. The wound was deep but no longer fatal, as if vital structures had been deliberately spared."
May looked at him carefully.
"You're suggesting a background-less private doctor, with no advanced equipment, resurrected someone who was already dead."
"I'm not suggesting anything," Coulson said calmly.
"I'm presenting the data. What actually happened is for us to determine."
May spread her hands slightly.
"So, so far, we're looking at a harmless doctor with potentially supernatural healing abilities.
What's the plan—assign him protection? Or bring him in and put him in a glass box?"
"There's more," Coulson said, ignoring the sarcasm as he pulled up another dataset.
This one showed multiple incidents: harassment, vandalism, theft, and intimidation directed at Rayne Clinic.
May skimmed it. "Not unusual. Seventh Street. That's baseline behavior."
"Keep reading."
She did—and immediately noticed the problem.
The clinic had never called the police.
So why did these records exist?
Her eyes narrowed.
Every individual involved had voluntarily surrendered themselves at police stations.
One case stood out:
A gang member involved in a recent shootout, responsible for multiple deaths, entered the clinic with severe injuries. He left in stable condition.
Later that same night, he returned home—and committed suicide.
May's tone shifted, careful now.
"Turned themselves in? Killed themselves? Why?
Blackmail? Threats? Something that extreme?"
She looked up at Coulson.
"Or… did they experience something we don't understand?"
Coulson shut off the screens. The room dimmed, lit only by ambient blue glow.
"That," he said quietly,
"is exactly what we're going to find out."