Although he had said he would get the medicine in a little while, Peter didn’t end up going until the afternoon.
Matt’s leg kept bleeding, forcing him to try several different bandaging methods, and by the time he finished, the afternoon had already arrived.
Peter hadn’t had time to eat and was starving.
As soon as he stepped into the clinic, he caught a whiff of a mouthwatering aroma.
Hearing the doorbell, Schiller walked out to find a teenage boy in a hoodie standing at the door.
He was sniffing deeply, as if trying to inhale the entire aroma into his stomach.
Schiller wiped his hands and said, “Come on in.”
Peter scratched his head and said, “Good afternoon, sir.
A friend of mine sent me here to get some medicine.
He said you’d know.”
“Oh, I know,” Schiller said.
“But you’ll have to wait until I finish eating.
He shouldn’t be in too much of a rush, right?”
“He’s alright,” Peter said.
“The bleeding has stopped, but it hurts pretty badly.
He needs some painkillers.”
“Have you eaten yet?” Schiller asked.
Peter blushed slightly, realizing the doctor had probably noticed his burning gaze locked onto the kitchen.
Schiller said, “If you haven’t, stay and have a bite.
You can also take a portion back for Matt.”
As he spoke, a small yellow creature dashed onto the table with a large bowl balanced on its head.
In an incredibly humanlike gesture, it twitched its nose over the bowl and licked its lips, seemingly unable to wait any longer.
Schiller had cooked Chinese food: steamed rice, sweet and sour pork ribs, hot and sour shredded potatoes, and a bowl of tomato egg drop soup.
Lightheaded from hunger, Peter stared blankly at the dinner table, completely unable to voice a refusal.
Ever since obtaining his spider powers, Peter’s appetite had increased significantly, and he got hungry very easily.
After polishing off an entire rice cooker’s worth of rice, Peter felt genuinely embarrassed.
With bright red ears, he put down his bowl and said, “I’m so sorry, Doctor.
It seems I ate all your food…
Um…
I’ll pay for it…”
“No, there’s no need,” Schiller said.
“I was going to make another batch of rice anyway, since I still have to pack some for my old friend.
There are some ribs left in the pot.
Scoop them out yourself, put them in that lunchbox on the cupboard, and take them back to Matt.”
The little spider rushed to the kitchen.
Not only did he cook a fresh batch of rice, but he also washed all the pots and bowls clean.
Schiller thought this version of Spider-Man was quite endearing.
In contrast, Pikachu had eaten until his belly was perfectly round.
He flopped onto a chair and began to snore.
Schiller grabbed his lightning-bolt tail and gave it a shake, saying, “Even if someone else is doing the dishes today, that doesn’t mean you can slack off.
Go take out the trash.”
“Oh, sir, I can take it out on my way,” Peter offered.
“Alright, thank you.
Oh, right, there’s no waste management fee in Hell’s Kitchen.
Just head straight, and at the corner ahead, there’s a pile of scrap.
Throw the trash over there.”
Carrying two large bags of food waste, Peter slipped out of the clinic’s back door and immediately spotted the place Schiller had mentioned.
It was a short distance from the clinic—a high pile of broken bricks, discarded wooden boards, and trash thrown away by others, emitting a pungent odor.
Near the trash pile were several beggars, all relying on discarded leftovers and food scraps to fill their stomachs.
When the little spider walked over, the beggars were on the other side of the debris pile, so he didn’t see them.
Perhaps because he was full, or because Schiller’s Chinese cooking had been incredibly delicious, the depression in Peter’s heart had vanished completely.
Happily carrying the two trash bags, he made a short sprint, gave his arm a powerful swing, and hurled the trash right onto the very top of the debris pile.
He had loved doing this when he took out the trash with Uncle Ben, standing far away and swinging the trash bags hard, hoping they would land perfectly inside the dumpster.
But back then, he didn’t have such great strength, so Uncle Ben usually had to clean up his messes.
Peter thought to himself that the next time they took out the trash, he would definitely show his uncle his current arm strength.
The trash bags he threw landed on top, and one of them tore open.
Inside were leftovers: a few bones, some scraps of meat Schiller had trimmed while cooking, a tiny bit of uneaten shredded potatoes, and half a sprouted potato.
To the beggars, however, these scraps looked like the ultimate delicacy, and they scrambled to grab them.
The debris pile had formed a mini-mountain.
To climb up, the beggars had to step on loose bricks and wooden boards.
At the very peak of the pile, several large chunks of broken wall formed a precarious triangle.
As the beggars struggled to climb, Peter finally noticed that people were scavenging through the trash.
Feeling a bit embarrassed, he leaped halfway up the debris pile, planning to reach the peak and retrieve the trash.
The beggars weren’t Spider-Man with mutated abilities.
They had been starving for a long time and had little strength.
An older woman was closest to the top, but in her haste, the piece of debris she was holding snapped off.
Deprived of support, she fell straight backward.
Just as Spider-Man stood atop the debris pile, he saw one of the beggars falling.
He reached out to grab her, but he was a step too late.
This pile was full of hazards: shattered bottles thrown down by drunks, steel rebars, and upright wooden planks studded with sharp splinters.
Hitting any of them would easily cost someone half their life.
Fortunately, Peter had superpowers.
Bending down quickly, he managed to catch the falling beggar.
Before he could feel proud of himself, a loud roar reached his ears, followed by a screech of brakes and a dull, heavy thud.
Blood splattered.
Peter spun around and stared in disbelief at the nearest intersection, where a flying figure, painfully familiar to him, crashed to the ground.
It was Daredevil.
A massive amount of blood pooled from where he landed.
The thick, metallic stench of blood seemed to coat Peter’s vision in a hazy red.
He rushed down like a madman.
Matt lay there, blood seeping from his eyes, nose, and mouth.
His spine was twisted into a grotesque angle, seemingly broken.
Yet, he wasn’t dead.
Deprived of the neural connections to his brain, he was completely paralyzed.
Peter’s entire body shook.
Casting all caution aside, he scooped Matt up, burst through the back door of Schiller’s clinic, and screamed, “Doctor!
Doctor!
Someone needs help here!!!”
One look at Matt was all Schiller needed to realize he had likely been ambushed by his would-be assassins again.
“The garage is right next door,” he said.
“Put him in the car.
We’re taking him to Presbyterian Hospital immediately.”
With injuries this severe, only the best hospital stood a chance of saving him.
Schiller sped recklessly through the streets of Manhattan, delivering Matt to Presbyterian Hospital in record time.
Thanks to Schiller’s decent standing at the hospital, Matt was rushed straight into the emergency room.
Soon, however, the attending physician emerged with a grim expression.
“The chances of saving this gentleman are slim.
Unfortunately, he is already unable to write a will or make a verbal statement.
If you are his family, you might want to go in and say your last goodbyes.”
Peter was on the verge of a breakdown.
He had never imagined that the target the mob wanted to assassinate that day was none other than Daredevil—Matt, the only good man in all of Hell’s Kitchen.
What he could accept even less was that he had caused all of this.
If only he had gone and killed those mobsters when he first heard about their plan—no, if he had just told Matt about it, Matt would have been much more careful.
If he hadn’t stayed at the clinic for lunch and had left immediately after getting the medicine, Matt wouldn’t have come out to look for him.
If he hadn’t been playing around and tossed those two trash bags so high, perhaps he would have had enough time to tackle Matt out of the way the moment the car sped out.
He had so many opportunities to save his friend, yet he had accomplished nothing.
Daredevil was dying, and Peter absolutely could not accept this reality.
Schiller, however, remained calm.
He asked the attending physician, “What is his primary issue?
Cardiopulmonary failure?
Neurosurgical?
Or internal abdominal trauma?”
The doctor shook his head.
“None of those.
His spine is severely damaged, and his nerves are likely severed beyond repair.
Even if we manage to keep him alive, he will be paralyzed for the rest of his life.”
Schiller took a deep breath.
“I just want to know if there’s any way to save him.”
The doctor hesitated for a moment before saying, “Perhaps Dr.
Strange has a way.
He’s our best neurosurgeon.
He might be the only one capable of reconnecting so many severed nerves.”
Schiller turned around immediately.
“Peter, I’m going to find the person who can save Matt right now.
But you must stay here.
You know Matt was brought to the hospital, and those who want him dead won’t just give up.
After I leave, you must ensure that no one enters the operating room.
I’ll be back as fast as I can.”
With that, he departed at once.
Trembling all over, Peter muttered repeatedly, “No one enters the operating room.
No one enters the operating room.
I won’t let anyone in…”
After leaving the hospital, Schiller called Pepper directly.
“I need the home address of a doctor named Stephen Strange.”
Pepper didn’t ask why.
Soon, a text with the address popped up on his phone.
It wasn’t far from Presbyterian Hospital, situated in one of the most upscale apartment buildings nearby.
Schiller activated his blink ability to reach the apartment building at maximum speed.
Bypassing the elevator and ignoring the door, he used several consecutive blinks to phase through the walls, appearing directly behind Strange, who was enjoying afternoon tea.
Hearing a faint sound, Strange spun around, only for a cane to press directly against his Adam’s apple.
“Listen to me.
I don’t have time for small talk.
A friend of mine is severely injured and is currently in the ER at Presbyterian Hospital.
You are the best neurosurgeon there.
Pack your things and get over to perform the surgery right now.”
Strange wore a look of utter disbelief.
Schiller let go of the cane, but it remained floating in midair, pointing straight at Strange.
Strange raised his hands and backed away, but even with no one holding it, the cane kept pressing against his neck.
Schiller reached his hand out, and the coat hanging on Strange’s coat rack flew over.
Strange’s eyes widened in sheer disbelief.
Schiller tossed the coat to him and said, “I think you understand that you don’t have the right to refuse right now.
Let’s go.”