Hell’s Kitchen, New York.
On the bed inside Schiller’s psychiatric clinic, Daredevil Matt let out a sharp cry of pain.
Schiller pulled away the alcohol-soaked cotton ball clamped in his tweezers and said, “Though few people ever walk down this street, if you keep tensing your muscles like that, there’s no way I’ll get this bullet out.”
He threw the cotton ball into the trash can, wiped the tweezers with an alcohol pad, and pried open the wound on Daredevil’s shoulder slightly.
“I need to use a scalpel to slice it open a bit wider,” he said.
Matt said, “You have to give me some anesthesia, or I’ll definitely go into shock.”
“A superhero who’s afraid of pain.
I really don’t know whether to laugh at you or admire you,” Schiller said.
“There aren’t many who can wound me.
Kingpin hired someone formidable this time,” Matt said.
Schiller looked at Matt’s pale face.
His lips were almost entirely bloodless.
Everyone had a different tolerance for pain, and Daredevil Matt was clearly on the more sensitive side.
Just as Schiller had said, for a person like this to become a superhero—it was hard to say whether it deserved ridicule or admiration.
Schiller thought to himself that superheroes were only human; they bled and felt pain, and no medicine in the world could completely spare them from suffering.
Perhaps Batman, too, had discarded superficial notions of vengeance during those countless times of unbearable agony, forging instead a grander purpose for himself.
Only a grand ideal like “justice” could sustain these superheroes through the long nights as they licked their wounds in solitude.
Schiller put down his tweezers and said, “You’re in luck, Matt.
I have some good medicine here.”
He pulled out a small white bottle and handed it to Matt.
Matt felt the packaging, caught the scent, and said, “Dammit, how do you have this kind of painkiller?
You junkie!”
Schiller countered, “Don’t be ungrateful.
This is nothing like the trash you find on the streets—it’s the highest concentration you can get.
If you don’t want it, give it back.
This stuff is expensive.”
What Schiller had produced was actually painkillers he had pinched while stealing the fear gas from Jonathan.
Jonathan required painkillers when experimenting on his test subjects, and he refined these himself, making them far superior to anything commercially available.
Matt swallowed a pill anyway and said, “God grant me a speedy recovery, so I can turn around and punch you in the face.”
“Don’t make returning kindness with a punch sound so natural.
In a godforsaken place like Hell’s Kitchen, carrying a few pills around is completely normal.
It’s hardly a crime.”
Feeling the pain gradually recede, Matt had to admit Schiller had a point.
In Hell’s Kitchen, popping pills was practically the most harmless habit a person could have.
Meanwhile, Schiller thought to himself that if they were in Gotham, a person whose only vice was popping pills would practically be as saintly as an angel.
As Schiller watched Matt’s complexion slowly return to normal, he began performing the simple surgery while asking, “So, how did you manage to get blindsided like this?”
Matt pursed his lips and said, “The people Kingpin hired are no joke.
I was on my guard, but those guys calling themselves ‘ninjas’ can lower their heart rates.
I couldn’t hear them…
Oh!
Dammit…”
Schiller used his tweezers to hold up the bullet he had just extracted.
He rotated it back and forth, saying, “These ninjas of yours must have too much free time on their hands.
They even engraved a cherry blossom pattern onto the bullet.”
Matt looked utterly exhausted.
Schiller called out, “Pikachu!
Bring me the bandages I left in the cabinet!”
Matt heard a small creature hop onto the table.
It spoke with a look of utter disgust, “I told you not to treat him in the bedroom.
Do you think the smell of blood is a perfume?
Hey, unlucky guy, here are your bandages…”
Schiller caught the bandages tossed by Pikachu and began wrapping them around Matt.
Matt said, “You’d better hurry.
“And then die on the street right outside my door?” Schiller asked.
“They’re tracking me.
Those ninjas have unique tracking techniques.
If they come here, neither of us will escape,” Matt said.
He was a good person at heart and didn’t want to drag Schiller into this.
Even though Schiller didn’t seem like a particularly good man either, he had saved Matt’s life.
Matt spoke harshly, but he truly didn’t want to repay a favor with harm.
As Schiller cleaned his bloody instruments, he said, “They don’t need any special tracking techniques.
You ran all the way from the next street dripping with a heavy scent of blood.
If they hadn’t found you by now…”
Suddenly, Matt caught the sharp whistle of wind.
He shouted, “Shurikens!!
Dodge!!”
Anxiety surged through him.
Judging by Schiller’s footsteps, he was just an untrained, ordinary citizen.
Facing a pack of ninja assassins, there was almost zero chance of survival.
But soon, he heard a sharp *thud* as the concealed weapons slammed into something.
Schiller had opened an umbrella.
He thought to himself that an umbrella really was an excellent shield, especially against small things like shurikens, as it could greatly cushion and slow down their momentum.
There was only one person outside.
Since Schiller’s telepathy worked within a certain radius, he could only sense the thoughts of one individual besides Matt.
“My dear lady, if you hesitated for three whole minutes before taking action, perhaps it would be better if we sat down for a cup of coffee together,” Schiller spoke aloud.
Before the intruder could respond, Schiller continued speaking to the empty air, “You certainly pulled your punches for your old flame.
I’ve never seen someone manage to shoot a bullet precisely into the gap between the shoulder blades—the most non-lethal spot possible.
Since you’re already here, why not step out and say hello?”
A cold snort echoed from the shadows, and then the assassin slipped away.
Matt was utterly bewildered.
“What?
What old flame?”
Schiller shook his head.
“Haven’t you realized?
Since this assassin had the skill to shoot you without you even noticing, why didn’t she aim for your heart or your head?”
“Was that bullet not meant for my heart?”
“It was miles off target.”
Matt’s brain short-circuited.
Clearly, he hadn’t realized that the assassin was actually his former classmate and ex-girlfriend, Elektra.
Knowing the plot, Schiller knew very well that Elektra was probably torn to shreds inside right now.
She still harbored feelings for Matt, yet she hesitated to fail her mission.
She wanted to show herself, but dreaded facing her ex.
The moment Schiller called her out, she immediately bolted, clearly unwilling to let Matt discover her identity just yet.
Truly, a woman’s heart is a riddle best left unsolved.
Soon, Daredevil Matt succumbed to his exhaustion and pain, falling fast asleep.
Schiller pulled down the metal shutter of the clinic’s front door, locked it, and then shut and bolted all the windows.
Standing by the bed, he looked out at the New York night sky.
A bright shooting star streaked across the sky.
Countless couples gazed up and made wishes, unaware that it was actually Stark’s armored suit.
The people of Hell’s Kitchen had no time for making wishes on shooting stars, but Schiller pulled out his phone and dialed Stark.
The moment the call connected, Schiller said, “Does Miss Pepper know that you’d rather joyride in your armor than go home to accompany her?”
And so, under the watchful gaze of countless couples, the shooting star took a sudden, sharp nose dive.
A short while later, on the rooftop of Schiller’s psychiatric clinic, Stark stood in his slightly smoking Mark V, grumbling to Schiller, “I really should put you on my blocklist…”
Schiller lit a cigarette for him.
“A middle-aged man going out for a midnight joyride, tracing such a melancholy trajectory—it’d be a miracle if you weren’t having a domestic dispute.” This chapter was copied from novelping . com without permission.
Stark walked over, sat down on the edge of the roof, and took the cigarette from Schiller.
“…She’s putting a lot of pressure on me.
Honestly, I haven’t made up my mind…”
“About what?
Whether or not to marry Pepper?”
Stark choked and coughed twice.
“Marriage?
Aren’t you skipping a few crucial steps?”
“Oh, right.
In the eyes of a stallion like you, there certainly are some ‘important steps’ left.”
“Don’t say that.
Pepper is different from those other women.”
“I just wonder if you’re any different from other men in her eyes,” Schiller said.
Before Stark could reply, Schiller added, “But I imagine it’s about the same.
You spend less time with her than her bodyguard does.”
“…Then I’ll fire that bodyguard the moment I get back,” Stark muttered crossly.
Clearly, he was running away from his problems.
After a moment, Stark rubbed his cheek and said with a touch of anxiety, “…Can you really read minds?”
“If I said yes, would you believe me?
Stop asking about things you don’t believe in anyway,” Schiller replied.
“I’d love to find a way to believe in telepathy, and then have you tell me exactly what’s on Pepper’s mind,” Stark said.
Iron Man was not your conventional, invincible champion of justice.
He possessed a sensitive, emotional heart and an overly sentimental mind that clashed with his genius tech-prodigy persona.
Consequently, he was always tangling his own thoughts into a messy knot.
Faced with Pepper, Stark was always hesitant to take the leap, completely failing to realize that this hesitation was already telling enough.
Schiller changed the subject.
“How is that kid in the red-and-blue spandex doing in New York lately?
I heard you complaining about him.”
“Oh, him.
A kid wearing the ugliest spandex imaginable, leaping and swinging all over the city like a flea,” Stark said.
“Jarvis says the kid is probably a minor.
I’m planning to catch him and toss him back home.”
Schiller said, “I happen to have a few leads.
Care to hear them?”
“I’ve spotted him a few times on the outskirts of Hell’s Kitchen.
He hasn’t dared to come in.
I noticed that his sky-blue pants seemed to have a high school emblem on them, from Queens…”
“You call that a lead?” Stark sneered.
Schiller continued, “It’s obvious he doesn’t have the money to get himself a decent outfit.
His family background is probably quite modest, so he definitely doesn’t attend any of those outrageously expensive private schools.
He’s likely a student at Midtown High or Forest Hills High…”
“Forest Hills High is a boarding school; if a student snuck out to wander around like that, they’d probably have their legs broken.
Midtown High, on the other hand, is much more lax.
Judging by his build, he’s probably a freshman or a sophomore.”
“Just a little brat,” Stark concluded.
“He probably tinkered up some toy to show off, and couldn’t wait to run wild with it.”
“So, do you plan to teach him a lesson about the harsh realities of the adult world?” Schiller asked.
“Of course.
More importantly, New York is not his playground,” Stark said.
Though he was still recovering himself, he was, after all, an adult who had weathered major crises.
He knew that the little spider swinging around recklessly would run into trouble sooner or later.
In fact, some media outlets had already begun to notice him.