"Hell's Kitchen, New York.
On the clinic bed, Daredevil—Matt—let out a strangled cry as Schiller pulled back the forceps. "If you keep your muscles locked like that, I'll never get the bullet out," Schiller said flatly, tossing the bloody cotton into the bin. He sterilised the tool again, then peeled open the wound a little more. "I'll have to cut this wider."
"You'd better give me anaesthesia, or I'll pass out," Matt muttered through clenched teeth.
"A superhero afraid of pain. I don't know if I should laugh or respect you," Schiller deadpanned.
"Not many people can hurt me. Kingpin brought in someone… different this time," Matt said, face pale, lips drained of color. He clearly belonged to the more sensitive category of pain tolerance. The irony wasn't lost on Schiller: a man too fragile for a bar fight, yet stubborn enough to play vigilante. Foolish or admirable—maybe both.
Superheroes bleed too, Schiller thought. No drug, no training could erase the sting. Maybe that's why Batman—after so many wounds—let go of shallow revenge and chased something bigger. Only "justice" was weighty enough to keep these lunatics going, night after night, stitching themselves back together.
"You're lucky, Matt," Schiller said, pulling out a small white bottle. "I've got the good stuff."
Matt sniffed the pill and glared. "Damn it—you too? You're a junkie?"
"Please. This isn't street trash, it's the strongest you'll ever find. Don't want it? Hand it back. Costs a fortune."
Reluctantly, Matt swallowed one. "God bless me to heal fast—so I can deck you afterwards."
"Don't act like ungrateful payback is noble. Around here? Carrying a few pills is about as innocent as habits get."
Pain dulled, Matt unclenched. Even he had to admit, in Hell's Kitchen, popping pills was practically wholesome. Schiller smirked—if Gotham had people whose worst sin was drug use, they'd be saints.
As he stitched, Schiller asked, "So. How'd you screw up?"
Matt pressed his lips tight. "Kingpin's men brought… ninjas. Real ones. They slowed their heartbeats. I couldn't hear them. Then—ah!"
Schiller held up the slug with forceps. "Ninjas, huh. Cute. They even carved cherry blossoms into the bullet. Real artists."
"Pikachu! Bandages!" Schiller barked.
A yellow furball hopped onto the desk, scowling. "I told you not to patch him up in the bedroom. You like the smell of blood? Here, loser—your bandage."
Schiller caught it and wrapped Matt's shoulder.
"You'd better hurry. I can't stay," Matt hissed.
"Planning to bleed out on the street?"
"They're tracking me. Special methods. If they find me here, we're both dead."
Even half-conscious, the guy was considerate. Schiller scoffed. "Special methods? Please. You reek like a butcher shop from three blocks away. If they don't find you—"
A sudden whoosh split the air.
"Shuriken! Duck!" Matt shouted.
But instead of blood, there was a dull thunk. Schiller stood calm, umbrella raised like a shield. "Never underestimate umbrellas," he muttered.
His psychic sense caught only one presence besides Matt. "Three minutes of hesitation before you act? Sit down, have coffee," he called into the dark.
No answer.
"You're awfully merciful to your old flame," Schiller went on. "Only someone who knows your anatomy would thread a bullet exactly through the least-lethal spot in your scapula. Why not show yourself?"
A cold snort answered—and then silence. The assassin was gone.
Matt blinked. "…Old flame?"
"You really didn't notice?" Schiller asked. "If she wanted you dead, she'd have gone for your heart. That shot wasn't even close."
Matt's mind stalled. He hadn't realized—it was Elektra. Old classmate. Old lover. Torn between killing him and… not. Women's hearts were puzzles he had no tools for.
Matt soon slipped into a restless sleep. Schiller locked down the clinic, then looked out at New York's night sky.
A "shooting star" streaked across the heavens. Couples whispered wishes. In truth? It was Stark, joyriding in the Mark V.
Figures, Schiller thought, dialling.
"Does Miss Potts know you'd rather play meteor than spend time with her?"
And with that, the shooting star crashed spectacularly into his roof.
Minutes later, a smoking Mark V perched on Schiller's clinic, Stark climbing out. "I really should block your number."
Schiller lit him a cigarette. "Middle-aged man, midnight joyride, tragic flight path? If this isn't marital drama, what is?"
Stark flopped on the ledge, sulking. "She's pressuring me. I haven't… decided yet."
"About marriage?"
Stark coughed. "Marriage?! You skipped a few steps."
"True. With you, step one's usually in someone else's bed."
"Don't lump her in. Pepper's different."
"Hope she thinks you're different, too," Schiller quipped. "Though the security guard probably sees her more often than you do."
"…Then I'll fire the guard," Stark growled.
Classic avoidance.
After a pause, he asked softly, "You really can read minds?"
"If I said yes, would you believe me?"
"…I want to. Just so you could tell me what she really thinks."
Beneath the ego and gadgets, Tony Stark was still a man tangled in feelings he couldn't debug. Even that said enough.
Schiller changed gears. "That red-blue kid swinging around lately. How's that going?"
"Oh, that clown?" Stark snorted. "Ugliest tights I've ever seen. Bouncing around rooftops like a flea. Jarvis says he's underage. I'm tempted to drag him home by the scruff."
"I've spotted him near Hell's Kitchen. Blue pants, high school logo—Queens, probably. Not private school rich. Midtown or Forest Hills."
"Forest's boarding. That'd get him expelled. So Midtown, most likely."
"A sophomore, maybe. Scrawny."
"A kid," Stark concluded. "Built himself a toy, thought he'd show off. Needs a reality check."
"Planning to teach him the horrors of adulthood?"
"Someone should. New York's not his playground."
For all his sarcasm, Stark was right. That kid wasn't just fooling around—eyes were already on him."