It rained in New York that night. Dim lights flickered in the windows of the old houses along the Hudson River, reflected on the riverbank like candles about to burn out.
A soft creak, creak, creak came from one of the aging houses. Rocket Raccoon carefully climbed the narrow wooden stairs, following Schiller to the second floor of his little clinic in Hell's Kitchen.
Compared with his office at Arkham Asylum, this place could only be called cramped and stifling, packed like a tin can, Rocket Raccoon thought.
The first floor of this little clinic was often lively. The scenes of Schiller making breakfast in the kitchen, Peter and Pikachu playing games on the sofa, Natasha leaning against the doorway, and Steve stopping by to say hello during his morning run were still vivid in his mind. Peaceful days were always especially worth missing.
And there was that red-and-gold figure who refused to sleep at three in the morning, landing on the clinic roof. Every tile on that roof bore Tony Stark's confusion about life and love.
As Schiller stepped aside, Rocket Raccoon finally got a full look at the place. There were two rooms upstairs: one was Schiller's bedroom, while the other was a guest room.
Don't expect to find any decent decor here. Hell's Kitchen was still, to a great extent, a Slums, but when Rocket Raccoon entered Schiller's bedroom, he was still taken aback.
The room was not large. Once a bed had been placed inside, the table and chairs by the window looked like scraps forcibly crammed into a can. That was hardly a baseless comparison. Rocket Raccoon shook his head. From top to bottom, nearly every inch of the room was stuffed with all sorts of strange collectibles.
If four table lamps on one nightstand