The Daredevil's Fruitless Return

On his way back to the apartment, Schiller could clearly sense someone following him. The enhanced vision granted by his Spider-Sense allowed him to notice that someone seemed to be watching him from across the apartment building.

The apartment building across the street was entirely glass-structured, and within it, a small window pane reflected light differently from the rest, which Schiller keenly perceived.

He hadn't chosen to open a clinic in Hell's Kitchen without reason. After several days of observation, he had basically figured out the daily routines of the residents in the apartment building.

Most of the people living here were office workers, elite white-collar professionals. They were mostly single, had very regular work schedules, and their social circles were quite fixed.

Living among such a crowd made it far too easy for agents to find weaknesses.

Hell's Kitchen, however, was different. Although it was the largest slum and gang gathering place in Manhattan, New York, and even the entire United States, it had high population density, heavy foot traffic, and many unfamiliar faces. Moreover, gangs of all sizes were nested and entrenched there, making it the most suitable place for an outsider like Schiller who wanted to fish in murky waters.

Life in a high-end apartment might be comfortable, but it couldn't compare to the freedom of Hell's Kitchen. Schiller believed that if he stayed in that apartment for a few more days, at least four or five of his neighbors would turn out to be S.H.I.E.L.D. agents, and all sorts of people with unclear backgrounds would try to get close to him, extracting information—possibly about himself, possibly about Stark. That was how S.H.I.E.L.D. operated; they didn't care whether you needed privacy.

Hell's Kitchen was slightly different from Gotham. Although Hell's Kitchen also had countless gangs of all sizes, it was less dangerous than Gotham.

There were more poor people, gamblers, and drug addicts there, but no Scarecrow or Joker, and no major villains to speak of.

Most of the people there were still ordinary folks. While guns and drugs were rampant, the victims were also mostly ordinary people, not special individuals with supernatural abilities.

Schiller planned to make this his first foothold in Marvel.

Stark's efficiency was very high. Before long, he managed to stir up some senators to allocate a hospital slot and place it in Hell's Kitchen.

Some senators took this opportunity to loudly proclaim their kindness, claiming that New York would not abandon any of its citizens. But they never expected the hospital to actually open. After all, this was Hell's Kitchen—a place where even the devil would be cooked upon arrival.

Open a hospital there? Don't be ridiculous. Unless the hospital was built like a concentration camp, with tanks and cannons piled at the entrance, and all the doctors and nurses carrying machine guns, there might be some hope. Otherwise, all the medicine there would be snatched up overnight.

But no matter how much the senators doubted, and no matter how numb the people of Hell's Kitchen were, a small psychological clinic was still established in Hell's Kitchen.

As the most famous and largest slum in Manhattan, the eight blocks here were just a label.

In reality, the area extended far beyond the scope of eight blocks. Dozens of streets of all sizes were intertwined, and about a hundred gangs were locked in a complex struggle.

Some said the boss of Hell's Kitchen was Kingpin, but that wasn't actually the case. In truth, Kingpin's business scope extended far beyond Hell's Kitchen. His criminal industry chain spanned the entire eastern United States, even the East Coast.

His business was spread across the country. Hell's Kitchen might involve some of his drug and smuggling operations, but he neither lived there nor kept a constant eye on it.

Daredevil, born in Hell's Kitchen, was his arch-nemesis, but they had hardly ever set their battlefield in Hell's Kitchen. Spider-Man, who had clashed with Kingpin several times, was still just an ignorant high school student.

Kingpin's ambition went far beyond unifying Hell's Kitchen. He didn't care about the chaos stirred up there, because every day there were various shootouts, robberies, kidnappings, brawls, and missing person cases. A little disturbance was nothing.

Therefore, when Kingpin, far away in San Francisco, heard that a few of his men in Hell's Kitchen, Manhattan, had gone mad, he just thought they had taken too many drugs and didn't take it seriously at all.

But in Hell's Kitchen, a terrifying rumor gradually spread—they heard that in the psychological clinic at the end of Ninth Tail Lane on Mary Street, there lived a terrible strange doctor. All the gang members who went to collect protection fees or extort him soon ran out in terror and then went mad.

At first, a few well-known gang bosses refused to believe it and led their men inside. But soon, they acted as if they had encountered some monster, frantically fighting, struggling, screaming, running, and crying at the air, as if possessed by ghosts.

This incident caused quite a stir, and almost the entire Mary Street heard about it. The rumor spread like wildfire.

Word spread from one to ten, from ten to a hundred, and everyone heard that Ninth Tail Lane was absolutely forbidden. There was a terrible curse there that would make you see your deepest fears, and you would be scared out of your mind.

Later, when Schiller, who lived there, started going out, and everyone heard that he was the owner of the clinic on Ninth Tail Lane, people realized it wasn't ghosts but a strange psychologist.

According to Schiller's explanation, those gang bosses had done too many bad things, and he just gave them some friendly psychological counseling.

As for why they went mad? Maybe it was just retribution for their evil deeds.

Only a ghost would believe that in Hell's Kitchen. Anyone living there knew that evil people reaped rewards.

No one born in Hell's Kitchen would feel guilty. Crime was normal here; criminals were the majority. Guilt? Did you expect someone who had been selling guns and drugs, fighting, threatening, extorting, and gambling since their teens to have any conscience? How could such a person feel guilty? And guilty enough to go mad?

Everyone who heard about this believed Schiller was a dark mage who could curse people.

And Schiller wasn't going to explain. The Fear Gas he brought from DC was indeed very useful. Even though it was just the initial version, it worked well against ordinary people without abilities.

Ever since he discovered that he could carry items between the two worlds by holding them, he had gotten the idea of being a trader.

Although the power systems of Marvel and DC were different, there were many things that could be sold to each other, and of course, many things could be exchanged to deal with each other's enemies.

For example, if Schiller used Fear Gas in Gotham and the news got out, Jonathan would see the patients' symptoms and immediately think of his own Fear Gas.

But in Marvel, how could Jonathan know what was happening in Marvel? Naturally, Schiller didn't have to pay any royalties.

After this terrifying rumor spread, almost no gang members came to bother Schiller anymore.

Of course, the consequence of getting along with these criminals was that a superhero came knocking.

On a slightly cold night in Manhattan, Schiller had just brewed a cup of hot coffee. He locked the clinic door tightly, ready to end a day of slacking off, get a good night's sleep, and continue bothering Stark tomorrow.

Just as he placed the coffee cup on the table, he heard a crisp sound at the door. Then he turned around, and in the dim light, he saw a tall man in a red tight suit standing outside.

Schiller turned around, picked up the coffee cup, and said, "You seem to be a bit late, Mr. Daredevil."

"You know me, Doctor?" Daredevil said.

"Of course I know you, Daredevil. You're famous in Hell's Kitchen," Schiller said.

"But you seem to have only been here a short time," Daredevil said.

"Yet I'm more familiar with your other identity, Attorney Matt."

Daredevil was clearly shocked. He didn't know how Schiller had seen through his true identity.

But before he could ask, Schiller said, "You achieved remarkable results at Columbia University, and your career path after graduation went smoothly. Not only did you become a good lawyer, but you also seemed to have opened your own law firm. Matt, can you tell me why you became Daredevil? Isn't the pride of upholding justice that being a lawyer brings you enough?"

"Lawyer, upholding justice..." Daredevil snorted coldly. He said, "Maybe you think so. Yes, most people think that way, that lawyers should speak out for justice and defend the vulnerable. But in reality..."

"In reality? Do you think lawyers shouldn't do that?"

"Of course I should, I mean..."

"You think you can't do it as a lawyer? So you decide to take another approach. But what you can't accomplish as a lawyer, do you really think putting on a ridiculous tight suit and a mask will make it possible?"

Daredevil said angrily, "My decision has nothing to do with you!"

"You know? The tone you just used sounded exactly like a rebellious little boy," Schiller said.

Only then did Daredevil realize that from the moment he walked in, he had fallen into Schiller's verbal trap. The rhythm of the conversation had been led by the nose the entire time, not only exposing his true identity but also touching on his sensitive spots. He took a deep breath, calmed down, and said, "I have to admit, you're a good psychologist, and you know how to use some tricks in conversation. But I still have to ask—who are you? What's your purpose in Hell's Kitchen? Why did those people go insane?"

"You have too many questions. Tonight I can only answer one. Clearly, I've been working all day and I'm very tired. You can't disturb my rest, after all, I'm not a gang member, nor have I broken the law," Schiller said.

"But you drove those gang members insane."

"You have no evidence."

"The police need evidence."

"Do you think you're nobler than the police?"

"Stop going in circles with me," Daredevil said.

"If you had listened carefully to what I said, you would know where I come from and how I figured out your identity."

Daredevil's head ached. He really disliked dealing with such cunning opponents—it forced him to stay highly alert at all times. And because of the shock he'd just felt, he had completely forgotten the conversation he'd had with Schiller when he first arrived. Trying to recall it now, his mind was a blank.

But if he couldn't answer, it would make him look foolish, so he remained silent.

"It seems you've already forgotten our conversation from a minute ago. I really don't know how being a superhero can work without a good memory," Schiller taunted.

Daredevil fumed inwardly, vowing to remember every word Schiller said from now on.

"Two years ago, I taught at Columbia University. I saw the list of outstanding graduates, and your name was on it, Matt. And when you filled in your post-graduation plans, you said you would open a law firm, also within Kansas. Although I'm a psychology professor, I knew one of your former teachers. In conversation, he mentioned that you had indeed realized your dream."

"Don't change the subject. What I want to know is how you figured out that Daredevil is Matt."

"You probably don't remember this, but when you first started down this path, you wore the black-and-yellow outfit your father used in his matches. After I came to Hell's Kitchen, I went to watch some underground boxing matches. Coincidentally, the boss there seemed to save costs by never changing the style of the boxers' outfits."

"So I understood that Daredevil was probably born here and must have some connection to the underground black-market boxers. After investigating, the gang members you killed were all related to your father's death. And once I found out your father's identity, it wasn't hard to figure out yours."

"Why did you investigate me? Guilty conscience?" Matt asked.

"Nothing special. It's just that if you're going to rent a house, you ought to know who the landlord is, what they do, and it's best to get along with them."

"I'm not the landlord around here," Daredevil snorted.

"Oh, really? Then it seems I've found the wrong person. I should go find Kingpin. But it looks like I've already made an enemy of him. I vaguely recall that among the gang members who came to visit me, someone mentioned their boss was Kingpin."

"Kingpin? You have news about Kingpin?"

"Some, I suppose. Consider it my rent payment. I heard from one of his underlings that their boss has grown very impatient with a brat called Daredevil. He plans to find someone to kill this fly, so you'd better be careful lately."

In the end, Daredevil hurried back to his base.

Only after he returned did he realize that he hadn't achieved a single one of his goals tonight.

He hadn't figured out who Schiller was, nor had he warned him to behave, and he hadn't determined whether Schiller had any connection to the gangs.

He also had no idea what method Schiller had used to drive those people insane.

Matt slapped his forehead. He suddenly felt that Schiller's analogy was right—it was like he had rented a house to a tenant of unknown origin, and that tenant had even paid the rent in advance, leaving him with no way to forcibly evict him for the time being. He could only let Schiller swagger around Hell's Kitchen as he pleased.