Lush emerald green swayed amid the fine sound of rain. Mist rose between the trees, which seemed to have grown into towering giants overnight, piercing the drifting sea of clouds. Raindrops pattered against the glass like a slightly blurred painting.
"Tap, tap, tap..."
The metronome beside the bed ticked steadily. His breathing gradually broke free of its rhythm, and his chest began to rise and fall faster and faster. With a sudden whoosh, Schiller sat upright in the hospital bed.
He pressed the heel of his palm against his groggy head, turned his body, and sat at the edge of the bed. His face was reflected in the pristine white floor tiles.
He let out a breath and felt parched, so he habitually reached for the call button by the bed. After pressing it, he froze, as though he had remembered something.
The call button on the nightstand lit up, but the one who entered was Stark in an Iron Man suit. Seeing him, Schiller shook his head, casting certain old memories from his mind.
Thankfully, it was not some attending doctor coming in to tell him that he was a delusional patient, that everything he had experienced had been imagined, and that he was really just a psychiatric patient who had been hospitalized all along. That kind of twist was far too cliché.
Yet Schiller still did not understand why he was here. He looked around the room and realized that this was a high-end hospital ward.
The polished tile floor was spotless, the flowers by the bed had no irritating scent, and every corner of the hospital bed had protective padding. Having once worked at Presbyterian Hospital, Schiller knew this was probably the best kind of room in a psychiatric hospital.
With a mechanical screech, the Iron Man