On Earth, Alan figured that Stephen Strange should be waking up around now—judging by his prideful personality and the speed at which he burned through money.
After this surgery, the remaining medical expenses would probably be too much for Strange's wallet to handle.
"It's about time to go see an old friend," Alan muttered, taking a bite of his sandwich. These days, all three meals were prepared by Wanda, and Alan was starting to get used to this kind of life.
Wanda, who was spreading cheese, looked up at him gently but said nothing. She never interfered too much in Alan's decisions.
Because she knew—if Alan wanted to say something, he would say it without being asked. And if he didn't want to, no amount of questioning would get an answer out of him.
"Heading out now?" Gwen was about to ask Alan to take her with him, but she had her own matters to handle as well.
Ever since Alan heard Strange's name, he had asked Red Queen from time to time to monitor any news related to Strange.
That kind of genius doctor—if he woke up and discovered his hands were basically useless, Gwen imagined he might actually lose his mind.
"Yes," Alan said, wiping his mouth with a napkin. He needed to get to the hospital before Strange's mental state collapsed.
Too many unexpected events had already happened. If Strange missed his chance to become Ancient One's disciple, who knew how much else could go off track? Alan didn't want to even think about it.
All he wanted was to quickly move things forward to the point where he could kill Thanos. Once Thanos was dead, the universe would be far more peaceful.
After all, without the universe's number-one madman, maybe he himself could get a moment of peace.
"Sigh... sometimes I wish I could just have a whole week—no, even just a day would do—I'm not asking for much. I just want to fully zone out and do nothing," Alan sighed with helpless frustration.
The three women around him were already used to Alan saying strange things from time to time. They exchanged knowing smiles and returned to whatever they were doing.
Inside the hospital, the beeping of the ventilator and heart monitor gradually slowed.
Stephen Strange lay in a hospital bed, both hands suspended and connected to metal rods running through each finger.
The bruising around his left eye hadn't faded, and both his lips and the corner of his eye had been stitched several times. Alan stood silently by the window.
He agreed with Gwen and Wanda's suspicions—Strange's car accident had clearly been orchestrated.
And the most severely injured part of him? His hands.
As a doctor, especially one who often wielded a scalpel, his greatest tools weren't just his knowledge and experience—it was also those hands, capable of intricate surgery.
Now, it seemed his hands were completely ruined. If he could still hold a spoon or chopsticks, it would be a miracle.
Christine walked into the room, her eyes red from crying. She was holding a stack of medical bills.
She had already pawned off Strange's second car, but the sky-high treatment costs were overwhelming.
She had often told Strange to save more money.
But the arrogant Strange had always believed that as long as he was alive, as long as he was still a doctor, he could earn money with every surgery he performed.
"You… who are you?" Christine noticed a man standing at Strange's bedside—a face she'd never seen before.
Alan slowly turned around. Seeing the woman whose eyes were red from crying, he instantly guessed who she was.
...
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