On a mountain road, Strange's assistant Billy called. The two were discussing the next day's surgery. It couldn't be helped—Strange had far too many patients, all drawn by his reputation and skill. And he himself was extremely selective; if a case lacked difficulty, he wouldn't even bother looking at it.
"You'll definitely like this case. A 22-year-old female with a chip implanted in her brain to control her condition—unfortunately, she was struck by lightning."
"That does sound interesting. A bit challenging."
Strange replied while overtaking another car, glancing down at the brain scan Billy had sent him.
Suddenly, his car rolled over a loose stone. The vehicle jolted violently, then slammed into a car beside it. As he was accelerating, the car instantly lost traction, skidding out of control and hurtling off the cliff.
During the fall, the car flipped countless times, rolling from halfway up the mountain all the way to the bottom, even crashing through a wire fence at the base.
In a daze, Strange felt himself lying on a bed being rushed along by a group of people. He saw his hands wrapped in layer upon layer of bandages, soaked with blood.
When he woke again, the first person he saw was Palmer, who had been by his side the entire time.
Her eyes were red—she had clearly been crying.
"Everything will be alright."
Palmer gently stroked his forehead, though her tear-filled eyes betrayed her words.
Strange turned his head—and saw the most horrifying sight of his life.
His hands were fixed onto supports. Each finger was pinned with metal rods, and because they couldn't move, his hands were stretched out and suspended.
He tried to move them—but his fingers wouldn't respond. He couldn't even twitch them.
"I… they… what… what did they do…"
His voice came out in fragments. He couldn't accept what had been done to his hands.
"They searched for you with helicopters for a long time before they found you. But… you missed the golden window for nerve repair."
Palmer wiped her tears. She couldn't accept this either—especially not this version of Strange. For a surgeon, hands were everything. A surgeon without dexterity was essentially finished—let alone someone with injuries this severe.
"What… did they… do to me…"
Tears streamed down Strange's face, his voice trembling and choked.
Palmer fell silent. She didn't want to tell him—but she knew she couldn't hide it.
"Eleven steel pins were inserted into your hand bones. Multiple ligaments were torn. Severe nerve damage… The surgery lasted ten hours…"
Her voice broke before she could finish.
"Look at these fixators… look at them…"
Strange kept repeating the same words, over and over. His entire body trembled; each syllable sounded as though blades were scraping against him.
"No one could have done better…"
Palmer wept quietly, trying to sound strong.
Strange struggled to turn his head toward her. The one eye he could open was filled with tears, yet his gaze was hollow.
---
Strange was eventually discharged, though his hands were still tightly wrapped in bandages. His fingers could now move slightly, and he spent all day studying his own condition—medical reports and scans never leaving his side.
The results were clear: nearly every finger had been fixed with metal pins. Regaining his former dexterity was impossible. At best, he could manage daily life—but returning to surgery was nothing more than a fantasy.
Unable to use his hands, Palmer took care of his daily needs until the bandages could finally be removed.
But when Strange saw the clearly visible surgical scars on his hands, he wasn't mentally prepared at all. He tried to clench his fists, but his hands trembled uncontrollably.
Suddenly, he let out a laugh. When grief becomes overwhelming, facial muscles can lose control—producing a smile. That was exactly what was happening to him.
"No… no… these aren't my hands…"
He kept repeating it.
"What you need now is patience. Your hands will recover."
Doctor Nic said at that moment—the surgeon who had operated on him.
"No… they won't. You've completely ruined me…"
Strange shook his head. In just a few days, streaks of white had appeared at his temples.
---
After leaving the hospital, Strange didn't sit idle. He gathered the best doctors across the United States for a consultation—all for the sake of his hands. But the results were far from ideal.
"Dr. Strange, your soft tissues are still healing. Operating now would not be a good idea."
One of the doctors—also a renowned surgeon—spoke after reviewing the scans.
"The recovery is too slow. I need to speed it up."
Strange looked at him firmly.
"Insert a stent from the brachial artery into the radial artery."
The doctor froze for a moment—this method might actually work.
And so, Strange was pushed into the operating room once again.
---
That night, Carl sat on the sofa watching the news. The report showed footage from Strange's accident scene.
"Looks like he's not far from heading to Kamar-Taj. I should go watch the show when that happens."
Carl grinned mischievously, clearly intending to witness Doctor Strange's upcoming "training hardships."
In truth, Strange's hands could be healed easily—Carl or Tony could just take him to Wakanda and fix everything. But Carl had no intention of doing that. The injury was something Strange had to go through—it was the catalyst for him becoming the Sorcerer Supreme. If his hands were healed now, he'd never go to Kamar-Taj. After all, in his previous life—just like in the movies—Strange had been extremely resistant to the idea of magic at first.
"The one in the news—is he the future Sorcerer Supreme's successor?"
Wanda sat beside Carl with a plate of fruit. Just as Carl reached out, Wanda deliberately handed the plate to Skye on the other side instead.
"So that's him~~ I've heard of him. Highly skilled—but extremely arrogant."
Skye took a bite of a pear-like fruit. Just as Carl's hand reached again, she passed the plate to Gwen.
"I heard his injuries are severe—he won't be able to be a surgeon anymore. That's rough~~"
Gwen picked a piece of fruit, then finally handed the plate to Carl.
Carl took it—only to find a single bunch of grapes left.
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