Just now, Stark had clutched his clothes so tightly not because he did not want to be naked, but purely because he did not want anyone to see his wounds—especially not Schiller and Strange.
Stark had one particular trait: the closer someone was to him, the more stubbornly he refused to admit weakness. Even if he were stuffed into a blast furnace modified by Schiller and burned for an entire day, there would probably still be nothing left but a mouth yelling, "I'm fine!"
And in front of two lousy friends like Schiller and Strange, he was even less willing to expose such an embarrassing state. Compared to explaining how he had gotten himself into this mess, he would probably rather go buy himself a wheelchair.
The thought lingered in Schiller's mind for only a moment before he made his decision. He returned to the operating table, looked at Stark, and said, "I read in the newspaper that you got arrested, Great Detective. How was prison?"
Stark muttered a few words, apparently trying hard to figure out how to salvage his pride. But his brain was not working quickly enough, and after struggling for a long time, he failed to squeeze out even half a sentence.
"If you think this happened solely because you were stupid, then you're being far too naive," Schiller said. "Even from the scraps mentioned in the report, I can tell that someone obviously betrayed you."
Stark had already begun to feel drowsy from blood loss, but the moment he heard that, his eyes flew wide open as he stared at Schiller.
"Someone betrayed me? Who?!"
"Are you the detective, or am I?" Schiller said. "How efficient could the police of this era possibly be? There weren't even surveillance cameras. Without someone feeding them clues, how