After finishing the stitches, Schiller rebandaged Stark's wounds. He found a relatively clean jacket and draped it over Stark, then had him lie down on the bed and sleep.
After waking up, Stark took a sip of water. The first thing he said was, "I know you think this is childish. I know that even if I don't sell it, someone else always will. I just want them to pay the price, even if I have to pay one too."
"I want them to understand that I'll resist all of this at any cost. I don't want easy profits. I don't want the hope of going any further. No one gets to turn me into a blood-soaked executioner."
Schiller sat quietly beside Stark's bed, watching him. When Stark met his gaze, he said irritably, "Why aren't you saying anything? Don't you have an opinion? Aren't you psychologists best at judging everyone else's decisions?"
"I'm not a psychologist." Schiller shook his head. "I've never cured a single patient, either. I spend most of my time working on military research. I don't think you'd want to hear the opinion of an accomplice."
"You..." Stark choked on his words again. After a few seconds of silence, he asked, "Have you only killed the people behind it all?"
"Probably. There were too many. I can't remember."
Schiller walked away. A while later, he returned with a metal military canteen and used its warm water to wipe the skin around Stark's wounds.
"What are you planning to do next?" Stark asked.
"I'll continue monitoring your wounds. When they come to bring food later, I'll ask when they can get enough medicine. But don't get your hopes up. They can't even tell ibuprofen from Fentanyl."
"I mean over the long term." Stark gestured a length with