The Diagnosis
1032 Words
“Sounds like a regular kid,” Melinda said, raising an eyebrow at Coulson. She didn’t buy it for a second.
Coulson chuckled lightly. “Kid? During his three years at CSU, he majored in genetic pharmacology, took electives in surgery and neurology—and aced them all. Quietly, he became a renowned gang doctor. In those three years, he’s done dozens of surgical procedures for L.A.’s underworld, all gunshot wounds.”
“I see… not too surprising,” Melinda replied, pausing a beat. “His parents were gang-born, right? Hard to fully escape that life. Keep going—tell me everything at once.”
Coulson grinned. “Alright. Celestian only accepts diamonds for his services, never cash. Doesn’t matter where the diamonds come from. Weirdly though, diamonds come in, none go out—no clue how or where he fences them.”
Melinda frowned. “That’s… not exactly relevant to our mission. No real intel from L.A. that’s useful?”
“Of course there is,” Coulson said, fixing his gaze on the pharmacy. “The valuable stuff’s saved for last. Celestian is a martial arts master. One guy against ten? No problem. Plenty tried to mess with him, all failed. Rumor has it, he’s trained in some mysterious ancestral martial art. Hulk showing up here? Probably ties into that.”
“Makes sense,” Melinda said, lifting the silver disc to scan the shop again. The three inside were still seated. “Chinese martial arts have centuries of history, often paired with medicine. Legendary masters in ancient times could live hundreds of years. Maybe Celestian’s got natural talent in martial arts—or in medicine. Either way, that’s probably why Banner came here.”
Coulson groaned. “Half of what you just said went over my head.” He gave her a wry smile. Even as long-time partners, he barely understood the cultural background on the other side of the Pacific.
Melinda shrugged. “It’s a whole other system. Unless you grew up steeped in it, you won’t get it. Even I only get a fraction of it. Explaining it to you? Forget it.”
Coulson nodded slowly. “Alright. Once we get Dr. Banner back in U.S. custody, we should come back and assess Celestian. Based on what you’ve said, he’s no joke. Might as well file a proper dossier.”
“Mm,” Melinda agreed. She knew she’d have to handle that evaluation herself. At least it would be a chance to engage with some stuff from across the Pacific—a little mental exercise.
Meanwhile, on the second floor of Ling’s Pharmacy, Celestian had Banner seated on the couch and asked Gan Jing to prepare some tea. Knowing the true identity of his patient, Celestian was cautious—any misstep could be catastrophic.
“Take a deep breath, Mr. Banner,” Celestian said softly, sliding onto the couch beside him.
Banner’s ears perked up at the change in address. The kid knew who he was. Expected, though—otherwise, how could he diagnose Banner at all? His careful demeanor confirmed it: this was no ordinary person. If he had been, the tight New York info blackout wouldn’t have mattered; this guy shouldn’t even know.
Celestian instructed Banner to extend his left hand onto a rectangular jujube-wood rest. With his right hand, he pressed gently against Banner’s pulse point.
Instantly, Banner felt a cool current trickle through his veins. The irritation he’d been holding melted away. Celestian was barely twenty-something—a young man, yet with the skill and presence to make Banner take notice. Without a trusted referral, Banner wouldn’t have agreed to be examined by someone so young.
He’d encountered traditional Chinese medicine before—some benefit, but limited. It relied heavily on experience. So the fact that Celestian could command even a fraction of that power at such a young age made Banner genuinely curious.
After examining Banner’s left hand, Celestian switched to the right for a full assessment. Ten minutes later, he looked Banner square in the eye. Banner felt as if the young doctor had just unraveled all his secrets, leaving him momentarily unsettled.
At that moment, Gan Jing arrived with the tea. Celestian motioned her to set it down and said, “Gan Jing, head to your room. I don’t need assistance here.”
“Alright,” she replied, glancing at him with concern. She understood: whenever Celestian asked for privacy like this, it meant the patient’s condition had entered deeply personal territory.
Once Gan Jing left, Celestian poured a cup of tea from the nearby Yixing teapot for Banner and took a small sip himself. Only then did Banner lift his cup, reassured.
The green tea slid down his throat, its aroma filling his senses. Banner inhaled deeply; the agitation that had been gnawing at him melted away.
Setting the cup down, Celestian spoke seriously: “Mr. Banner, I won’t pry into your past, and I don’t need to. I’ll assess your condition based purely on your current physical response. I hope you understand that.”
Banner nodded. It made sense. Any exposure of his identity could put Celestian in danger—so mutual discretion was best.
He exhaled lightly. “Alright… doctor, how’s my condition?”
Celestian studied him carefully. “Mr. Banner, you know my background: I studied genetic pharmacology at Caltech, with knowledge in internal medicine, surgery, and psychiatry. But my true focus is Chinese medicine, and I have my own theoretical system. I’ll explain it in terms you can understand—okay?”
“Okay,” Banner nodded. He’d sought Celestian out because of his unorthodox methods; this eccentric, gifted approach might actually help.
Celestian paused briefly, then asked, “You’re familiar with schizophrenia, yes?”
“Schizo?” Banner frowned, disappointed. “Doc, that’s not my condition.”
“No, no, hear me out,” Celestian said, waving him off. “The human mind has conscious, preconscious, and subconscious layers. Freud called them the id, ego, and superego. Leave moral judgment aside—each layer possesses incredible energy. In Chinese medicine, these layers can be separated.”
Separated? Banner nodded instinctively. Now this was getting interesting.
- Writer
