The weather in New York was way better than Gotham's. Even though winter had officially kicked in, the sky stayed bright and clear—crisp, clean, and full of promise. From the third-floor window of Schiller's clinic, you could see the highway hugging the skyline, packed with traffic that never seemed to stop moving.
Schiller had woken up early.
Pikachu shoved the bedroom door open with his stubby little hands, yawned wide, and stretched like he'd just survived a war.
"Dude," Pikachu grumbled, "your antique kettle screams like a banshee! Who even owns something that old? Did you dig it up from a museum?"
Downstairs, Schiller walked calmly down the stairs while Pikachu gleefully slid down the railing—twice.
By the time they hit the second floor, the kitchen was already alive with sound: the hiss of steam, the occasional shrill whistle from the kettle boiling on the stove.
With a flick of his wrist, Schiller floated the kettle onto the table. Another gesture summoned the frying pan. Olive oil sizzled as it hit the hot surface. Breakfast was underway.
Pikachu swung the fridge door open with a bang and dove headfirst inside, rummaging like a raccoon on a mission.
"This blue cheese has got to go—smells like death. These lettuce heads? Like chewing grocery bags. Wait—YES! My cheddar! Put this on the sandwich. And canned spam—slice it thick, stack it up!"
Just then, the front door downstairs slammed open.
"Doc! I'm here!" Peter called, rushing up the stairs with a toolbox clanking in his arms. "Borrowed Uncle Ben's gear—I'm finally fixing that busted circuit breaker today, I swear!"
He rounded the corner just as the fridge door blocked his view. Without thinking, he gave it a hard push to close it—
THUNK!
"AHHH! DAMN IT! MY BACK!!"
Panicked, Peter yanked the fridge back open—only to find Pikachu dangling from a shelf, clutching his lower back. A jar lid had nailed him right in the spine.
Peter blinked. "Wait… you have a back? Since when do you have a spine?"
"Oh, shut up," Pikachu groaned. "Yesterday wasn't about circuits at all. You just rage-quit after burning through thirty lives trying to beat that boss."
Peter slapped a hand over Pikachu's mouth, laughing nervously.
"Haha—so uh, Doc! What's cookin'? Smells amazing!"
"Just a basic fried sandwich," Schiller said, cracking an egg into the pan. "Want one? I'll make it big."
"Sure! …Though honestly, I've been eating less lately."
"That's good," Schiller replied. "At least your aunt won't wear out her wrists cooking for you every day."
As they talked, Peter kept glancing at the ring on Schiller's finger. Barely noticeable—but Pikachu caught it.
"Hey," he blurted suddenly, "didn't we leave the game cartridge in last night? How about another round?"
Peter looked confused for half a second—until Pikachu's lightning-bolt tail flicked toward the stairs. Lightbulb moment. The two slipped out without another word.
A few minutes later, they crept back up, whispering. Pikachu perched on the counter, watching Schiller flip the egg to reveal a golden, runny yolk. Peter made exaggerated faces behind the doctor's back. Pikachu wrinkled his nose.
"Fine, fine," Pikachu sighed. "I guess cooking for us isn't exactly easy. Maybe we should… eat out today?"
Schiller turned, surprised.
"What? Did the sun rise in the west? You usually nag me until the yolk drips."
"I mean…" Peter hesitated. "Never mind. It's just—people shouldn't keep everything bottled up, you know? Not healthy."
"I'm a psychologist," Schiller said flatly. "Believe me, I know. Otherwise, who do you think pays my bills?"
Pikachu's tail twitched. He looked ready to press further—but Peter swooped in, scooping him up.
"Haha, Doc—we'll just play some games first! Be back soon to help clean up, promise!"
In retaliation, Pikachu smacked Peter across the face with his tail. Peter responded by tugging both ears. Their bickering echoed down the hall as they disappeared downstairs.
Schiller frowned. Something felt… off about Peter. Like he was hiding something. Or everyone was hiding something.
A while later, Steve arrived, fresh off a morning run, a towel draped around his neck. Following the smell of breakfast, he climbed the stairs muttering:
"This building's layout is insane. Why the hell is the kitchen on the second floor?"
"Be grateful I can afford a decent range hood," Schiller said.
"And thank Nick, too. He's been slipping you bonuses, hasn't he?"
Steve smirked. "Why? Did he tell you? After taxes, I pocket 18%. Call it hazard pay for dealing with you two."
"His idea of 'fair distribution' gets more creative every week."
Steve tossed the towel over the railing and opened the fridge.
"Alright, where's my steak? Ah—found it. Just enough for a cheeseburger. But where's the cheese? I swear there was half a block left…"
"Forget it," Schiller said. "You're sharing a kitchen with a mouse. Nothing survives past sunrise except the blue cheese."
"What?! That was almost two pounds! He ate all of it?!"
"Not just him. Peter baked a Margherita pizza last week. Used a pound right there."
Steve shut the fridge slowly, defeated.
"Kids these days—zero concept of saving money. Guess I'll walk to the store. Any decent convenience shops near Hell's Kitchen?"
"Turn right, two blocks up. Ask Madam Helena. But fair warning—just say you're buying cheese. Otherwise, she might think you're applying for a job."
"A job? In this neighborhood?"
"Of course. She runs three strip clubs. Business is booming. You're exactly her type—tall, ripped, clueless."
Steve grimaced.
"Yeah… I'll take the long way and buy cheese outside the Kitchen."
He clapped Schiller on the shoulder before heading out.
"Listen, I know you're a doctor. But you're still human. Even psychologists need someone to talk to. If you ever wanna get something off your chest, you've got me. We're friends."
And with that, he was gone.
Schiller stood there, blinking. All he'd done was fry an egg—why was everyone acting like he was falling apart? Before he could process it, CRASH!
The window exploded inward.
Tony Stark landed in a crouch, still in full Iron Man armor, hauling a mountain of files. Cold air rushed in behind him.
Schiller turned—and nearly jumped.
"Jesus. What happened to you? Wait—did Pepper finally snap and quit?"
"Shut up," Stark growled, dropping the stack on Schiller's desk with a thud. "I've been up all night going over the research you gave me. Neurological interface tech is stuck in neutral. Obadiah's still unconscious, so I can't pick his brain. But I've got a new angle."
Still suited up, Stark tapped a page with his metal finger.
"If we can't revive dead neurons, we replace them. Like swapping out a failing engine. Mechanical prosthetics for the brain."
"I don't need the theory," Schiller said. "Just tell me if it'll work."
"Even for a genius like me, I can't pull miracles out of thin air. And even if I build it, we'd need years of safety trials before human testing."
Stark's eyes flicked to the ring on Schiller's finger. He hesitated.
"If you're serious… I could call a neurology summit under Stark Industries. Bring in the best minds on Earth. But unless you bring the patient, it's all just talk."
"That's… complicated," Schiller admitted.
It was true. And not just because of medical risks. Bringing a DC character into the Marvel universe? Different timelines, different rules. One wrong move and reality itself could glitch.
But more than that, his real mission in the DC world wasn't healing. It was survival.
He needed to cut ties with his mysterious enemy. This wasn't some random villain. Someone powerful enough to hire Deathstroke as a hitman. And when Schiller offered to pay double? Deathstroke laughed. Even when he mentioned "the world's richest man" covering costs, the mercenary walked away.
If Deathstroke turned down that kind of money, the guy pulling the strings had reach beyond governments, beyond empires.
That's why Schiller wanted Victor Fries on his side—not just to prevent him from becoming Mr. Freeze, but to fill the engineering gap. Saving Nora was part of the plan. But risking interdimensional travel? Too dangerous. And even then, Marvel's top doctors couldn't fix what DC's couldn't.
He was lost in thought when Stark finally broke the silence.
"You… I mean…" Stark rubbed his temple awkwardly. "Coulson told me. About your wife. She's… not doing well, is she?"
Schiller froze.
Wife?
What wife?
Then it clicked.
The first person he'd visited when he returned to the Marvel universe was Stephen Strange. Future Sorcerer Supreme. Present-day neurosurgeon. Smug, scheming, infuriating Stephen Strange.
That sneaky bastard must've planted the ring. Set the whole thing up. Made everyone think Schiller was grieving. Worried. Broken.
No wonder Peter and Pikachu were tiptoeing around him. No wonder Steve gave that heartfelt speech.
Schiller's jaw tightened. He whispered under his breath to the symbiote curled inside his coat:
"Next time I see Strange… remind me to eat his brain. Honestly, he's not using it anyway."