The Injured Daredevil

Hell's Kitchen, New York.

On a bed in Schiller's psychology clinic, Daredevil Matt let out a scream. Schiller removed the alcohol-soaked cotton ball clamped in his tweezers and said, "There usually isn't anyone on this street, but if you keep tensing your muscles like this, I definitely won't be able to remove the bullet."

He tossed the cotton ball into the trash, wiped the tweezers with an alcohol pad, pried open the wound on Daredevil's shoulder a little wider, and said, "I need to cut the wound open a bit."

Matt said, "You have to give me some anesthetic, 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.

"Not many people can hurt me. Kingpin found someone formidable this time," Matt said.

Schiller looked at Matt's pale face. His lips were almost completely bloodless. Everyone had a different tolerance for pain, and Daredevil Matt clearly belonged to the more sensitive sort.

Just as Schiller had said, someone like that becoming a superhero—who knew whether it was something to mock or admire.

Schiller thought that superheroes could be injured and bleed too. No matter how powerful the medicine, it could not completely prevent pain and injury. Perhaps Batman had also abandoned his shallow desire for revenge through one unbearable pain after another, finding a greater goal for himself.

Only a lofty ideal like "justice" could sustain these superheroes as they licked their wounds alone night after night.

Schiller set down the tweezers and said, "You're lucky, Matt. I have some good medicine here."

He took out a small white bottle and handed it to Matt. Matt felt the packaging and sniffed it, then said, "Damn it, why do you have this kind of painkiller too? You addict!"

"Don't mistake treasure for trash. This isn't like the garbage sold on the market. It's the highest concentration you can find. If you don't want it, give it back. This stuff is expensive," Schiller said.

What Schiller had taken out was the painkiller he had swiped when he went to Jonathan's place to steal Fear Gas. Jonathan needed painkillers when experimenting on test subjects, and he refined these himself. They were far better than anything available for purchase.

Matt still swallowed one pill and said, "God, let me recover quickly, then let me turn around and punch you."

"Don't make repaying kindness with vengeance sound so natural. In a hellhole like Hell's Kitchen, carrying a few pills around is perfectly normal. It hardly counts as a crime."

As the pain gradually faded, Matt had to admit that Schiller made sense. In Hell's Kitchen, doing drugs was practically the most harmless vice imaginable.

And Schiller thought that in Gotham, if someone merely had a drug habit, he would practically be as kind as an Angel.

As Matt's complexion gradually improved, Schiller performed a simple operation while asking, "How did you get yourself beaten at your own game?"

Matt pressed his lips together and said, "The people Kingpin hired were no ordinary opponents. I was prepared, but those people calling themselves 'Ninja' could lower their heart rates. I couldn't hear them... Oh! Damn it..."

Schiller held the freshly removed bullet in his tweezers and turned it over. "Those Ninja you mentioned must have too much time on their hands. They even carved a cherry blossom pattern into the bullet."

Matt looked exhausted. Schiller called out, "Pikachu! Bring me the bandages from the cabinet!"

Matt heard a small creature jump onto the table. It said with a disgusted expression, "I told you not to treat him in the bedroom. You think the smell of blood is pleasant? Hey, unlucky guy, here's your bandage..."

Schiller caught the bandage Pikachu tossed over and wrapped it around Matt. Matt said, "You'd better hurry. I need to leave this place soon."

"And then die out on the street in front of the door?" Schiller asked.

"They've targeted me. Those Ninja have unique tracking techniques. If they come here, neither of us will be able to escape," Matt said.

He was still a good man, after all, and did not want to drag Schiller into this. Though Schiller did not seem like a good person in his eyes, he had saved him. Matt talked tough, but he did not actually want to repay kindness with vengeance.

As Schiller cleaned the bloodstained tools, he said, "They don't need any special tracking techniques. You ran all the way here from the next street covered in the strong smell of blood. If they still haven't found you..."

Matt suddenly heard a violent rush of wind and shouted, "A throwing dart! Get down!"

He was frantic, because he could tell from Schiller's footsteps that he was merely an untrained ordinary man. Facing those Ninja Assassins, he would have almost no chance of survival.

But soon, he heard a loud bang. The hidden weapon seemed to have struck something. Schiller held up an umbrella and thought, An umbrella really was a useful defensive weapon, especially against little things like throwing darts. It could greatly reduce their impact.

There was only one person on the other side. Since Schiller's telepathy worked within a certain range, aside from Matt, he could only sense one person's thoughts.

"Miss, if you hesitated for three minutes before making your move, why don't we sit down and have a cup of coffee together?" Schiller said.

Before the person opposite could answer, Schiller continued speaking to the empty air. "You really went easy on your old flame. I've never seen anyone who could put a bullet so precisely into the least fatal gap in a shoulder blade. Since you're here, why not come out and meet us?"

A cold snort came from the air across from them, and then the Assassin left.

Matt looked completely confused. "What? What old flame?"

Schiller shook his head and said, "Didn't you notice? Since the Assassin you encountered was capable of shooting you without you noticing, why didn't she aim for your heart or head?"

"Wasn't this bullet aimed at my heart?"

"Not even close."

Matt's mind short-circuited for a moment. Clearly, he had not yet realized that the Assassin across from him was actually his former classmate and ex-girlfriend, Elektra.

Schiller, who knew the story, understood perfectly well that Elektra was probably torn to pieces by indecision right now. She still had feelings for Matt, yet hesitated over whether to complete her mission. She wanted to appear, but did not want to see her ex-boyfriend. So when Schiller exposed her identity, she ran off in a flash. Clearly, she still did not want Matt to know who she was.

Honestly, never try to guess what a woman is thinking.

Before long, Daredevil Matt fell asleep amid pain and worry. Schiller lowered and locked the clinic's rolling shutter, then closed and locked all the windows. He stood beside the bed, looking up at New York City's night sky.

A bright meteor streaked across the sky, and countless couples made wishes at it, but it was actually Stark's armor.

The people of Hell's Kitchen had no leisure to wish upon shooting stars. Schiller took out his phone and called Stark. The moment the call connected, Schiller said, "Does Miss Pepper know you'd rather fly around in your armor than go back and spend time with her?"

Then, beneath the gazes of countless couples, that meteor plummeted headfirst from the sky.

A while later, Stark stood on the roof of Schiller's psychology clinic in the slightly smoking prototype Mark V, complaining to Schiller, "I really should put you on my communications blacklist..."

Schiller lit a cigarette for him and said, "A middle-aged man who goes out racing instead of sleeping in the middle of the night, and even flies in such a melancholy curve—he must have had a fight with his wife."

Stark sat down on the edge of the roof as well and accepted the cigarette Schiller handed him. "...She's putting a lot of pressure on me. Honestly, I haven't figured it out yet..."

"Figured out what? Whether to marry Pepper?"

Stark choked and coughed twice. "Marriage? Didn't you skip a few important steps?"

"Oh, right. In the eyes of a stud like you, there is indeed one important step left."

"Don't say that. Pepper isn't like those other women."

"The question is whether you're any different from other men in her eyes," Schiller said.

Before Stark could respond, Schiller continued, "But I think you're probably about the same. You spend less time with her than her security guard does."

"...Then I'll fire that security guard when I get back," Stark said resentfully.

Clearly, he was avoiding certain questions.

After a while, Stark touched his cheek and said hesitantly, "...Can you really read minds?"

"If I said I could, would you believe me? Stop asking about things you don't believe in," Schiller said.

"I'd like to find a way to make myself believe that mind-reading exists, then have you tell me what Pepper is really thinking," Stark said.

Iron Man was not the traditional type of hero whose justice was invincible. He had a sensitive and sentimental heart, as well as an emotional mind that did not match his Character Design as a scientific genius. As a result, his thoughts were always tangled into a complete mess.

When it came to Pepper, Stark could never charge forward bravely. He had not realized at all that this attitude already explained many things.

Schiller changed the subject. "How has that red-and-blue bodysuit kid in New York City been lately? I heard you complain about him."

"Oh, yeah. Some kid in the ugliest bodysuit imaginable, leaping and swinging around through the city like a flea," Stark said. "Jarvis said he probably isn't an adult yet. I plan to catch him and throw him back home."

"I do have a clue. Want to hear it?" Schiller said.

"I've seen him a few times near the edge of Hell's Kitchen. He didn't dare come inside. I noticed what looked like a high school emblem on his blue pants. It was from somewhere in Queens..."

"You call that a clue?" Stark scoffed. Schiller continued, "You can tell he doesn't have the money to get himself a decent outfit, so his family circumstances probably aren't great. That means he definitely doesn't attend one of those outrageously expensive private schools. He's most likely a student at Midtown High School or Forest Hills High School..."

"Forest Hills High School is a boarding school. If one of its students wandered around like that, he'd probably get his legs broken. Midtown High School is much more lax. Judging by his build, he's probably a freshman or sophomore."

"A little brat," Stark concluded. "He probably cobbled together some toy that lets him show off, then couldn't wait to run around causing trouble."

"So, are you going to show him how nasty the adult world can be?" Schiller asked.

"Of course. More importantly, New York City isn't his playground," Stark said.

Although he had only recently recovered himself, he was still an adult who had experienced major events. He knew that Spider-Man would get himself into trouble sooner or later if he kept wandering around like this. In fact, some media outlets had already noticed him.

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