"Although Peter said he would fetch the medicine "in a little while," he didn't actually leave until the afternoon. Matt's leg kept bleeding, and Peter had to try several different ways of bandaging it. By the time he got things stabilized, it was already late in the day.
He hadn't eaten, and by the time he reached the clinic, his stomach was growling. A rich, savory aroma drifted into his nose the moment he stepped inside.
Hearing the doorbell, Schiller came out and saw a tall boy in a hoodie standing there, sniffing eagerly as though he wanted to swallow the scent whole.
Wiping his hands, Schiller said, "Come in."
Peter scratched his head. "Good afternoon, sir. A… friend of mine sent me to pick up some medicine. He said you'd know what I mean."
"Oh, I know." Schiller nodded. "But you'll have to wait until I finish my lunch. He's not in that much of a hurry, is he?"
Peter admitted, "Not really. His bleeding's stopped—it's just the pain that's bad. He needs something for that."
"Have you eaten?" Schiller asked.
Peter flushed. He must have been staring too hungrily toward the kitchen, because the doctor had clearly noticed.
"If not," Schiller said, "stay and eat something. You can even bring some back for Matt."
Just then, a small yellow creature climbed onto the table, balancing a big bowl. It twitched its nose like a human, smacked its lips, and looked more than ready to dig in.
Schiller had made Chinese food: rice, sweet-and-sour spare ribs, spicy shredded potatoes, and a bowl of tomato-and-egg soup.
Peter's hunger burned away any pretense. He sat down and ate ravenously. Ever since gaining his spider powers, his appetite had skyrocketed, and he got hungry far more often. By the time he had polished off an entire rice cooker's worth of rice, he was blushing with embarrassment. He set his bowl down, ears red.
"I'm so sorry, Doctor. I think I ate all your food… I'll pay for it—"
"No need," Schiller said. "I was going to cook another pot anyway, since I planned to send some back with my old friend. There are ribs left in the pot. Pack them into that lunchbox in the cupboard and take it to Matt."
Peter scurried into the kitchen, cooked another pot of rice, and even washed all the dishes. Schiller thought this version of Spider-Man was actually quite likable.
By contrast, Pikachu had eaten himself round-bellied and now sprawled on a chair, snoring. Schiller tugged his lightning-bolt tail. "Even if someone else is doing the dishes today, that's no excuse for you to skip your chores. Go take out the trash."
"Oh, I can take it out for him," Peter offered.
"Fine, thank you. Oh, and don't worry about garbage fees in Hell's Kitchen. Just head to the corner down the street—you'll see a big pile of construction debris. Toss it there."
Peter hefted two heavy bags of kitchen waste and slipped out the back door. Sure enough, he found the place Schiller had mentioned—a heap of broken bricks, splintered planks, and other refuse, piled high and reeking. A few homeless people picked through the scraps, scavenging leftovers to eat.
Peter hadn't noticed them at first. Maybe it was because his belly was full, or maybe Schiller's cooking had lifted his spirits, but he bounded along cheerfully, swung his arm, and hurled the garbage up onto the peak of the pile.
"Bingo!" he shouted.
He used to do this with Uncle Ben—stand far away, then fling the bag and hope it landed squarely in the bin. Back then he didn't have the strength, and Uncle Ben always had to clean up the mess. Now, Peter thought, next time he'd show his uncle just how strong he'd become.
Both bags arced perfectly onto the heap. Except one split open on impact, raining bones, meat trimmings, and half a sprouted potato. The vagrants pounced like starving wolves.
Peter froze. Great. I just turned my garbage toss into a feeding frenzy.
The junk pile wasn't stable. Its peak was made of jagged slabs leaning together like a crooked triangle. The scavengers clawed upward, slipping on bricks, desperate for scraps.
An elderly woman, closest to the top, panicked as the board she clung to snapped off. She toppled backward with a cry.
Peter had already scrambled up the heap, intending to fetch the broken bag down. Now, from the peak, he saw her fall. His instincts screamed.
Down below, shards of glass, jutting steel rods, and sharpened wooden stakes jutted out like a deadly trap. A fall could mean death.
But Peter moved with inhuman speed. He bent, stretched, and caught her just in time. Relief surged—until a deafening roar split the air. Tires screeched. A sickening thud rang out.
Blood sprayed.
Peter spun toward the nearby intersection and froze.
The body hurled through the air was all too familiar.
It was Daredevil.
Crimson spilled across the pavement. Matt lay broken, blood streaming from his eyes, nose, and mouth. His spine bent at a grotesque angle.
He wasn't dead—but completely paralyzed.
Peter trembled violently. He scooped Matt into his arms and bolted through the clinic's back door.
"Doctor! Doctor! Someone needs help!"
Schiller took one look and knew it was another assassination attempt. "The garage is right outside. Put him in the car. We're going to Presbyterian Hospital—now."
It was the only place with even a slim chance of saving him.
Schiller sped through Manhattan, weaving recklessly until they reached the ER. Matt was rushed into surgery, but soon the attending doctor returned, face grave.
"The odds aren't good. He won't survive much longer. And he has no will… no chance to speak his last words. If you're family, you should see him now."
Peter nearly broke down. Everything connected in his mind—the gangsters' whispered plot, the ambush, and now this. The only good man in Hell's Kitchen lay dying—and it was his fault.
If he'd told Matt what he overheard. If he hadn't lingered for food. If he hadn't wasted time tossing garbage. He'd had so many chances to prevent this.
But he hadn't.
And now Matt might die.
Schiller, however, stayed calm. He asked, "Where's the damage? Heart? Lungs? Brain? Internal bleeding?"
The doctor shook his head. "No. It's his spine. The nerves are almost certainly beyond repair. At best, if he lives, he'll never move again."
Schiller drew a deep breath. "Then tell me: who can fix this?"
The doctor hesitated. "Maybe… Doctor Stephen Strange. He's the best neurosurgeon we have. If anyone could reconnect that many nerves, it'd be him."
Without another word, Schiller turned to Peter. "I'm going to find the man who can save Matt. But you have to stay here. You know as well as I do—the people who wanted him dead won't give up. Guard that operating room. Don't let anyone through until I'm back."
Peter, shaking all over, whispered like a mantra: "No one gets in. No one gets in. I won't let anyone in."
Schiller left the hospital and immediately called Pepper. "I need the home address of a man named Strange."
She didn't ask questions. Minutes later, an address popped onto his phone—a luxury apartment not far from the hospital.
Schiller flashed his way across the city. No elevator. No knocking. Just a series of through-wall teleports until he stood in the apartment, right behind Stephen Strange, who was enjoying his afternoon tea.
Strange turned at the noise—only to feel a cane pressed hard against his throat.
"Listen. I don't have time for pleasantries. A friend of mine is dying at Presbyterian Hospital. You're the only one who can save him. Grab your things. We're leaving."
Strange gaped at him. Schiller released the cane—but it hung in midair, still pointed at Strange's throat.
As Strange instinctively raised his hands, Schiller gestured, and a coat flew off the rack into his grip. Tossing it over, he said coldly:
"You understand. Refusing me isn't an option. We leave. Now."