Chapter 23

Although he said he would go get the medicine soon, Peter didn’t arrive until afternoon, because Matt’s leg kept bleeding, forcing him to try several different bandaging methods; by the time he finished, it was already afternoon.

Peter hadn’t eaten yet, his stomach growling with hunger; when he arrived at the clinic, he immediately caught a delightful aroma.

Schiller heard the doorbell and stepped out to see a tall boy in a hoodie standing at the door, inhaling deeply as if trying to suck every last scent into his belly.

Schiller wiped his hands and said, “Come in.”

Peter scratched his head and said, “Good afternoon, sir. A friend of mine sent me here for medicine—he said you’d know what it is.”

“Oh, I know,” Schiller said. “But I need to finish eating first. He’s not in a hurry, is he?”

Peter said, “He’s okay—his bleeding’s stopped—but the pain is severe. He needs something for it.”

“Have you eaten?” Schiller asked. Peter blushed, certain the doctor had noticed how hungrily he’d been staring at the kitchen.

Schiller said, “If you haven’t, stay and eat. I can make an extra portion for Matt.”

At that moment, a small yellow creature trotted up to the table carrying a large bowl, sniffing loudly at it and then licking its lips, clearly impatient.

Schiller had prepared Chinese food: rice, sweet and sour pork ribs, spicy shredded potatoes, and a bowl of tomato and egg soup.

Starving and dizzy, Peter stared fixedly at the table and couldn’t bring himself to refuse.

Since gaining his spider powers, Peter’s appetite had grown significantly, and he grew hungry easily; after finishing an entire pot of rice, he felt genuinely embarrassed, his ears flushed red as he set down his bowl and said, “I’m so sorry, Doctor. I think I ate all your food… I’ll pay for it…”

“No, no need,” Schiller said. “I was going to cook another pot anyway—I need to take some home for my old friend. There’s still some ribs left in the pot. Scoop them out and put them in that lunchbox on the shelf. Take it to Matt.”

The little spider went into the kitchen, cooked another pot of rice, and washed all the dishes.

Schiller found this version of Spider-Man quite likable.

In contrast, Pikachu had eaten until his belly was round, then flopped onto the chair and began snoring. Schiller grabbed his lightning-shaped tail and shook it. “Even if someone else is washing dishes today, that’s no excuse to avoid your chores. Go take out the trash.”

“Oh, sir, I can take it out on my way,” Peter said.

“Fine, thanks. Oh, by the way—Hell’s Kitchen has no trash fees. Walk straight ahead, there’s a corner with a pile of debris. Just dump it there.”

Peter carried two heavy bags of kitchen waste out the clinic’s back door and immediately spotted the place Schiller described. It was some distance away, piled high with broken bricks, discarded wooden planks, and other people’s trash, emitting a strong, foul odor.

Beside the pile sat several beggars, scavenging leftover or discarded food scraps to fill their stomachs.

As the little spider approached, the beggars were all on the other side of the pile. Perhaps because he was full, or perhaps because Schiller’s Chinese food was so perfectly to his taste, Peter’s gloom vanished entirely. He cheerfully carried the two bags, sprinted a short distance, then swung his arm hard—flinging the trash straight to the very top of the pile.

“Bingo!” Peter shouted. He’d always loved doing this with Uncle Ben—throwing the bag from far away, hoping it would land perfectly in the bin.

Back then, he hadn’t had the strength; Ben always had to clean up his messes. Peter thought, next time I throw trash, I’ll make sure Uncle Ben sees just how strong I’ve become.

He’d thrown the bags up high—one burst open, spilling out bones from someone’s meal, scraps of meat left over from Schiller’s cooking, a few stray potato shreds, and half a sprouting potato. The beggars reacted as if they’d spotted a divine delicacy, scrambling to grab them.

The pile had grown into a small hill. To climb it, the beggars had to step on broken bricks and planks; the summit was a triangular mound of shattered wall fragments. As they struggled upward, Peter finally noticed someone picking through the trash.

He felt ashamed. In one swift leap, he dashed halfway up the pile, determined to reach the top and retrieve the trash.

The beggars had no mutant powers. They were weak from hunger. One elderly woman, closest to the summit, panicked—her grip on a loose piece of debris broke loose. Without support, she tumbled backward.

Spider-Man had just reached the summit when he saw a beggar fall from the opposite side. He reached out—but too late.

The pile contained everything: broken glass bottles thrown down by drunks, steel rebar, jagged wooden spikes. Any one of them could have meant losing half a life.

Fortunately, Peter had his powers. He dropped down instantly, grabbing the falling beggar. Before he could feel proud, a deafening roar erupted, followed by a piercing screech of brakes and a dull thud of impact.

Blood sprayed. Peter turned his head, staring in disbelief at the nearest intersection—the figure flying through the air was unmistakable.

It was Daredevil.

A torrent of blood poured from where he landed, the thick, metallic stench painting Peter’s vision in a hazy red.

He sprinted down in a frenzy. Matt lay there, blood oozing from his eyes, nose, and mouth. His spine was twisted into a grotesque shape—clearly broken.

But he wasn’t dead. He was paralyzed, his nerves severed from his brain, utterly motionless.

Peter trembled violently. He didn’t care about anything else—he scooped Matt up and bolted through the clinic’s back door, screaming, “Doctor! Doctor! Someone needs help!!”

Schiller saw Matt and knew at once he’d been ambushed again. He said, “The garage is right next door. Put him in the car. Take him straight to the Elder’s Hospital.”

Such severe injuries might only be survivable at the best hospital.

Schiller sped recklessly through Manhattan’s streets, reaching the Elder’s Hospital at top speed. He had some influence there; Matt was quickly rushed into emergency surgery.

But soon, the attending physician came out with a grim face. “The chances of saving this man are slim. Unfortunately, he’s lost the ability to write or dictate a will. If you’re his family, you should see him now.”

Peter was on the verge of collapse. Everything connected in his mind—he never imagined the one good man in all of Hell’s Kitchen, Daredevil Matt, was the very man the mob had tried to kill.

He couldn’t accept that it was his fault. If he’d killed those gangsters when he heard about it—or even just told Matt—he would’ve been more careful.

If he hadn’t stayed to eat at the clinic, but left right after getting the medicine, Matt wouldn’t have come looking for him.

If he hadn’t been playful, hadn’t thrown those two bags so high, he might have had time to tackle Matt the instant the car came barreling out.

He had so many chances to save his friend—and still did nothing.

Daredevil was dying. Peter couldn’t accept it.

But Schiller remained calm. He asked the doctor, “Where’s the primary injury? Cardiopulmonary? Neurosurgery? Or internal trauma?”

The doctor shook his head. “None of those. His spine is damaged. The nerves are likely irreparable. Even if he survives, he’ll never move again.”

Schiller took a deep breath. “I only want to know: is there any way to save him?”

The doctor hesitated. “Perhaps Doctor Strange can help. He’s our best neurosurgeon. He might be the only one who can reconnect all those nerves.”

Schiller turned immediately. “Peter, I’m going to find someone who can save Matt. But you must stay here. Matt’s in the hospital, but those who tried to kill him won’t stop. While I’m gone, you must ensure no one enters the operating room. I’ll return as fast as I can.”

He left immediately.

Peter trembled, muttering over and over: “No one will enter the operating room. No one will enter the operating room. I won’t let anyone in…”

After leaving the hospital, Schiller called Pepper directly. “I need the home address of a doctor named Strange.”

Pepper didn’t ask why. Soon, a string of addresses appeared on his phone—not far from the Elder’s Hospital, in the most upscale apartment building nearby.

Schiller activated his blink ability, arriving at the building in an instant. He didn’t take the elevator or knock. With a series of wall-piercing blinks, he appeared behind Strange, who was enjoying afternoon tea.

Strange heard a sound, turned—and found a cane pressed directly against his throat.

“Listen. I have no time for games. A friend of mine is critically injured and being treated at the Elder’s Hospital. You’re their best neurosurgeon. Grab your things. Now. Go operate.”

Strange gave him a look of utter absurdity. Schiller released the cane—but it remained suspended in midair, still pointing at Strange’s neck. Strange raised his hands and stepped back. The cane, unheld, still pressed against his throat.

Schiller reached into the air. Strange’s coat flew off its hanger. Strange’s eyes widened in disbelief. Schiller tossed the coat to him. “You understand—you have no right to refuse. Come with me now.”