Ultimate DMC Sytem In Marvel

"Why are you grinning like a fool?" Colleen asked, raising an eyebrow.

Alex shook his head with a faint smile. "Nothing. Just remembered something funny," he replied casually.

She nodded, letting it slide without pressing for details.

After breakfast, everyone went about their day while Alex prepared for work. Despite the immense demonic power coursing through him, Alex had never let it define his path. In both this life and the one before, he had always wanted to be a doctor—and he had made that dream a reality.

He'd gone through medical school, completing five grueling years of study before graduating. For the past year, he had been practicing medicine, not in a renowned hospital, but in a discreet, low-profile clinic tucked away in the heart of Hell's Kitchen.

To the outside world, the clinic treated the usual ailments: fevers, fractures, minor injuries. But behind secured doors and whispered referrals, Alex handled far more dangerous cases.

Vigilantes with knife wounds that couldn't go to regular ERs. Mutants suffering from unstable powers that were breaking down their own biology.

And he didn't do it alone.

Matt Murdock—Daredevil—had come to trust him. Over time, Matt quietly directed injured allies and contacts to Alex, and word spread through the city's underground. Slowly, cautiously, the clinic became a haven for those who couldn't seek help anywhere else.

As Alex arrived that morning, the modest clinic was already open. He had hired someone to help keep it running in his absence—a former nurse named Maria, reliable and calm under pressure.

The air inside was thick with warmth and the faint sting of antiseptic. Timeworn walls bore the stories of a hundred quiet battles, and the ceiling fan above spun lazily, barely making a difference against the heat. But no one in the waiting area complained.

Outside, the line stretched down the block: elderly women, injured veterans, single mothers clutching their children, a teenager with a bloodied arm—each one holding a slip of paper with their name scribbled on it, waiting patiently.

In the middle of it all stood Alex, focused and composed.

Wearing a simple white coat over a black shirt, sleeves rolled up, gloves on, he moved with quiet urgency. His silver-white hair, now grown enough to be tied back, framed his tired yet sharp face. Emerald eyes darted across patient notes, alert and calculating.

"Next," he called, voice calm yet commanding.

A woman stepped forward with a sick child in her arms. Alex knelt to check the boy's temperature and lungs, working swiftly. He didn't ask for payment. He never did.

This was why he returned every day. Not for praise. Not for recognition.

Because the people here didn't need heroes. They needed help.

He handed the mother a bottle of medicine he'd personally mixed, along with simple advice—rest, water, food. She nodded gratefully, tears in her eyes, and offered a quiet bow before leaving.

Behind him, Maria was already prepping fresh gauze and setting up for the next case.

"You've got fifteen more," she said softly, handing him the next patient's chart.

Alex nodded, accepting the chart without missing a beat. His gloved fingers flipped through the notes as his eyes scanned the details: a deep laceration, probable tendon exposure, seventeen-year-old male, no ID. Standard procedure for someone who didn't want questions asked.

He walked into the next room, where a lanky teenager sat on the examination table, clutching his forearm with a blood-soaked rag. The boy looked up, eyes wary beneath a mess of dark curls.

"Relax," Alex said calmly, closing the door behind him. "You're safe here."

The teen nodded slowly. "They said you helped people who… couldn't go to a hospital."

"I help anyone who walks through that door," Alex replied. "Let's see it."

The boy removed the rag, hissing in pain as he revealed a jagged slice across his forearm, dangerously close to the artery. Alex didn't flinch. He set the chart down, moved to a cabinet, and retrieved the tools he needed—saline, a needle, sutures, and a numbing agent he'd developed himself for faster nerve desensitization.

"You got into a fight?" Alex asked as he worked.

"Sort of," the boy muttered. "Someone was attacking this girl outside the shelter. I stepped in."

"You stopped him?"

The teen looked surprised by the question. "Yeah. I mean… yeah, I did."

Alex gave a faint nod of approval. "You did good."

He cleaned the wound efficiently and began stitching, each movement precise. "You're lucky. A little deeper and you'd have lost function in your hand."

The boy winced but watched Alex in awe. "You're not just a doctor, are you?"

Alex glanced at him, the ghost of a smile playing on his lips. "No," he said quietly. "But being a doctor is the part I like best."

By the time he finished and bandaged the arm, the teenager's breathing had slowed, his shoulders less tense. Alex handed him a small pouch of salve and painkillers.

"No charge," he said.

"Why?" the boy asked. "Why help people like me?"

Alex laughed. "Don't worry, I get paid well enough by hunting down criminals. I'm kind of a bounty hunter by night."

The boy's eyes widened in surprise. Then he burst out laughing, shaking his head. "Man, this place is wild." He gave Alex a grateful nod and took off, running down the street like someone had just given him a second chance at life.

Alex watched him go with a small, amused smile. "Next," he called.

One by one, the remaining patients came in. And one by one, Alex treated them. By the end of it all, the last of the fifteen were healed, bandaged, and sent on their way.

Maria, his assistant, was wiping down the counters and organizing supplies. Despite her calm demeanor and quiet presence, her story was far from ordinary. She had once been a respected surgical nurse in one of the top hospitals—until a corrupt superior tried to force himself on her.

He didn't expect her to fight back.

Maria had cut off his—well, dignity—and fled the medical world entirely, vanishing into the underbelly of Hell's Kitchen. That's where Alex had found her. And despite the chaos that surrounded them, he had to admit—she was tough, loyal, and honestly, kind of hot. Like an hot woman cosplaying as nurse.

"All done," she said, stretching her arms, one leg bent over the other as she leaned on the desk, relaxing.

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