The first rays of dawn rose from the horizon, the soft, warm hues awakening Manhattan.
The mont the alarm sounded, Strange pressed down on the shrill ringing before it could fully erupt.
He had perford two challenging surgeries the day before, especially the last craniotomy... a procedure so difficult, that even the most skilled surgeons would find it daunting.
A patient declared brain-dead by doctors, with a bullet lodged in the skull, required an exceptionally precise operation to extract the alloy bullet near the brainstem.
As everyone knew, the brainstem was surrounded by dense and intricate neural networks, making the surgery extraordinarily complex. Yet, without the aid of imaging navigation, Strange manually removed the foreign object, preserved the patient's life, and executed a textbook-perfect procedure.
The hospital hailed it as 'yet another flawless performance'.
For Stephen Strange, who repeatedly achieved dical miracles, such feats had beco almost routine. After all, he bore the dazzling title of New York's youngest and finest neurosurgeon.
Neurosurgery was widely regarded as the pinnacle of dical disciplines, requiring an imnsely complex knowledge base and at least six years of training before a doctor was permitted to operate. It was the longest and most demanding specialization in dicine.
A prodigy like Strange was all but guaranteed to ascend to the summit of the dical field.
Taking a deep breath, Strange got out of bed and drew back the curtains. The morning sunlight stread in, gentle yet bright. Below him stood the towering steel jungle of the city, the streets gradually filling with the clamor of life.
He had always been a man of punctuality, waking monts before his alarm. It's like a biological rhythm was ingrained in him. Yet, distrustful of the human body and more reliant on machinery, Strange still set his alarm diligently every day.
"A new day."
To the strains of Chuck Mangione's Feels So Good, Strange began his morning routine; washing up, shaving, donning a custom-tailored black suit, and fastening his tie. The renowned genius doctor examined his refreshed reflection in the mirror and smiled in satisfaction.
The two surgeries from the night before had left him far from exhausted. Strange knew he thrived on such challenges. Like a mountaineer conquering one treacherous peak after another, the sense of achievent was imnse.
His ex-girlfriend Christine, however, had accused him of being too cold, obsessed only with complex diseases and high-risk surgeries, lacking respect and understanding for life itself.
Strange neither confird nor denied it. He didn't reject the aloofness buried deep within him. His surgical mastery was a ans to wealth and fa, saving lives ca second.
In his view, doctors didn't snatch patients from death's grasp. On the contrary, they rely inford them that their ti was running out.
Contrary to popular belief, the genius doctor wasn't passionate about dicine. Born in Philadelphia as the eldest of three siblings, Strange had once aspired to beco a doctor at eleven after his younger sister, Donna, was injured in an accident.
Ironically, by the ti Strange entered Johns Hopkins University to pursue his dical dreams, Donna had drowned. Preoccupied with his studies, he hadn't been by her side in her final monts.
The tragedy greatly diminished his enthusiasm for dicine, yet he graduated with top honors. His arrogance and pride, however, gradually estranged him from his family.
Strange's explanation for this echoed Tony Stark's: Geniuses seldom mingle with diocrity.
Opening a cabinet-style watch winder, he retrieved a Jaeger-LeCoultre Perpetual Calendar Moon Phase watch and fastened it to his wrist.
Strange had always harbored a love for collecting luxury tipieces. In his eyes, nothing in the world was as precise as ti itself. As an exceptional doctor, he revered stability and precision. This was one of his life's tenets.
Truth be told, were it not for his career as a top surgeon, he might never have indulged in such an extravagant hobby. The watch winder alone was a costly investnt, designed to keep unworn chanical watches wound... especially those with perpetual calendar functions.
A re glance revealed an impressive collection: a Rolex Daytona with a white dial in the upper left corner, which was a classic favored in business settings, and a striking red tipiece, one of Jaeger-LeCoultre's most iconic series, which exuded a vintage sporty elegance coveted by collectors.
The watch he now wore had been a gift from his ex-girlfriend, its caseback engraved with the words: «Ti will tell you how much I love you...~ Christine..»
He had invited Christine to join him at the neurology association's gathering, but she had politely declined...
About twenty minutes later, a sleek Lamborghini Huracán roared out of the garage. Strange gripped the steering wheel as the sky, which had just begun to brighten, suddenly darkened.
Ominous clouds gathered, and soon, heavy raindrops poured down, shrouding the world outside in a misty haze. Strange didn't slow down, weaving confidently through traffic, a testant to his unshakable arrogance.
The sudden downpour reduced visibility on the highway to near zero. Even with the wipers working furiously, the windshield remained blurred. At high speed, the lights of passing cars streaked into dizzying ribbons of light.
"Damn weather!" Strange muttered.
Had he not been invited as a guest speaker, he wouldn't have ventured out in such miserable conditions.
Listening to the news on the radio, Strange scoffed...
The world was becoming increasingly incomprehensible. First, there were costud superheroes, then Asgard proved Earth wasn't the only civilization in the universe, and now even third-world nations were making headlines.
"Stephen Strange..." Amid the storm, as the Lamborghini raced down the highway, an elusive whisper seed to echo around him.
Strange strained to listen, but the relentless downpour drowned out all sound save for the thunder's roar.
"Shouldn't have had that whiskey before leaving." He shook his head.
He rarely drank. Alcohol could destabilize the hands that wielded a scalpel.
Every dical professional in New York knew Stephen Strange possessed hands steadier than machinery. To him, even the most complex surgeries were rely thrilling gas.
His thoughts grew muddled... whether from the alcohol or that fleeting, illusory voice, he couldn't tell. His vision blurred slightly.
Foot pressed firmly on the accelerator, the Lamborghini tore through the rain like a bolt of lightning, its wake kicking up twin sprays of water.
*Crash!*
Only the deafening impact jolted him back to awareness. The windshield shattered under the force of the collision.
Strange's world twisted and flipped as if turned upside down. Excruciating pain flooded his mind. His hands, still gripping the wheel, were embedded with shards of glass, bloodied and mangled.
"Stephen Strange..."
Even as darkness claid him, that phantom voice lingered in his mind...
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