Chapter 388

On the dimly lit second-floor balcony of a hotel, a tall man in a suit pulled out a cigarette from his pocket, leaned against the railing in a relaxed posture, yet gripped the cigarette tightly, then slightly turned his head to gaze at the windows on the hotel's side, glowing with lights.

The scene behind one of those windows caught his attention; he finished the cigarette, didn't drop the butt on the ground, but instead wedged his fingernail into its center, tore open the unsmoked portion, and lit it with a lighter.

Just as the flame neared his fingertips, he dropped the burning stub onto the floor and crushed it with his toe, ensuring no fingerprints remained.

He walked steadily into the hotel, greeted the attendant, then entered the elevator and adjusted his suit.

The elevator door chimed open; he stepped out, his shoes muffled against the carpet of the guest floor, crossed the dimly lit hallway, and arrived at the door of Room 3103.

"Tap." "Tap." "Tap." He knocked three times. No response. The man pulled a note from his suit pocket, slid it under the door crack. After a moment, the lock clicked softly; he entered and saw a stern-faced old man.

"You're the liaison sent by the Doctor?" The old man sized him up. "Looks like someone Pierce would send… Come in."

He turned to walk inside, but had taken only two steps when he felt something press against his back. The veteran spy, who had dominated the world of espionage for half a lifetime, instantly recognized it as a silenced pistol.

He slowly raised both hands, his voice calm. "Who are you? Who do you work for? S. . . . . . or the KGB?"

"I work for the Doctor."

"Bang!"

Watching the old man slowly collapse, Grant removed the magazine from his pistol, stowed it away, slipped on gloves, searched the body, retrieved the note he had slipped under the door, then turned and walked out as if nothing had happened.

Outside the hotel, the night in New York was thick. He walked to a public phone booth, dialed, and said into the receiver: "How've you been? Let's meet—across from the café on the west side of Hell's Kitchen."

A cold voice replied: "Tomorrow at 3 p. …"

The next morning, in the S. . . . . . Alliance cafeteria, Shiler and Stark sat across from each other eating breakfast. Stark sliced his sausage, complaining: "What's going on lately? So many senators getting assassinated. Even if you want revenge, shouldn't you consider the bigger picture?"

Shiler said nothing, focused solely on his food with knife and fork. Stark glanced at his movements. "What's wrong with you?"

"What's wrong?" Shiler didn't look up, but asked back.

"You've changed," Stark pulled his mouth downward. "Like a different person."

Shiler popped half a cherry tomato into his mouth, then looked up at Stark. "Where do you see it?"

Stark opened his mouth as if overwhelmed by too many observations, then lowered his gaze, cut a piece of beef, and ate as he spoke: "Start with clothes. You usually wear the Doctor's coat, or shirts and sweaters. I've rarely seen you in a suit."

Stark looked up again at Shiler, who sat across from him in a dark suit with a pinstripe tie. "Sure, plenty in Manhattan—especially near Wall Street—wear suits year-round. But why such a sudden shift in your style?"

"Anything else?" Shiler asked, still eating.

Stark stared at his plate. "I wanted to ask this earlier—why are you moving the fried egg from left to right, then back again? Is this some ritual?"

"Because vegetables go on the left first."

"And?"

"So the egg must go on the right."

Stark took a deep breath. "If you're upset with me, just say it. My temper's gotten better lately—I can even tolerate Steve walking around in front of me…"

"Nothing. Just my anxiety flaring up." Shiler didn't look up, eating intently. Stark snorted. "Don't try to fool me. I have anxiety too. Haven't had an episode in years, but I know what it feels like."

"Panic, hyperventilation, muscle stiffness. When it was worst, I had to lean against a wall and hold one arm up with the other just to keep doing experiments. You wrote my medical history yourself—don't you remember?"

Shiler suddenly froze, then looked at Stark. "Perfect answer. But it doesn't matter."

The King of the Star-Devouring Void

He set down his knife and fork, wiped his mouth with a napkin. As he rose to leave, Stark called out: "You're just walking out? We haven't finished talking! What's going on with you?"

"Is this really anxiety? Something feels off." Stark stared at the untouched food on Shiler's plate—neatly arranged.

Shiler stood, glanced back at Stark. "It's anxiety. But a complication. You can also call it an allergic reaction to Brussels sprouts."

As he spoke, he bent down to straighten the crooked fork, then turned and left with crisp efficiency. Stark stared after him, muttering: "What's wrong with him?"

At that moment, another figure approached. After the server cleared Shiler's plate, Steve sat across from Stark. "Mind if I join? We can discuss the Avengers' next mission."

Stark turned his head slightly, uneasy but didn't object. Steve leaned forward, glanced back, and caught sight of Shiler pushing through the revolving door. "Don't you think he's acting strange? Like he's changed?"

"I noticed it sooner than you. Ever since he said he'd move back into that little clinic in Hell's Kitchen, something felt off."

Steve frowned as he ate. "Remember our earlier theory? Hydra might be influencing everyone's emotions. Could he be…?"

"Unlikely," Stark speared a potato, popped it in his mouth. "He's a psychiatrist. And he reads minds. Hard to influence."

"You forgot," Steve leaned closer, lowered his voice. "He spent time with that black-robed Hydra agent in the sanitarium. They're masters of brainwashing. Shiler was with them for a while. We need to investigate."

"How? Go confront him directly?" Stark set down his fork. "If he's not brainwashed, he'll think we're insane. If he is—do you think he'll admit it?"

"We need a professional," Steve said firmly. Stark raised an eyebrow. They locked eyes—both thought of the same person.

By afternoon, the light grew stronger. The heavy snow from last night began melting, leaving muddy streets. Shiler entered the café, stamped his feet at the threshold to shake off the snow clinging to his shoes.

Grant saw him but showed no expression, merely sipped his coffee. Shiler walked over, sat across from him, took his coffee from the waiter, stirred the latte art with a spoon. "How many now?"

"Six." Grant glanced sideways. Shiler noticed. "You're one of the most cautious agents even in S. . . . . ."

Grant let out a low, bitter laugh. "And yet here I am—in your hands."

"Don't rush. I haven't finished. Your current vigilance contrasts sharply with your former naivety. How could you ever believe this line of work lets you walk away?"

Grant pressed his lips together, smiled bitterly. "Of course. Why would I expect a treacherous, deceitful Hydra agent to keep a promise?"

Shiler lifted his cup, sipped. "Do you think I wanted you? If there were others, I'd never force an ordinary person into becoming a killer."

Ordinary? Grant felt absurdity. He'd never heard anyone call him ordinary—not even Garrett, who often praised his natural talent.

In the career of agent and assassin, Grant's record was exceptional. He entered young; ever since Garrett adopted him, he underwent relentless, daily training. Garrett also taught him countless killing techniques. Under the mentorship of a senior agent, Grant had already surpassed the peak of many others' lives.

Had S. . . . . .'s trajectory continued as before, he might have taken over Hydra's leadership at the same age as Pierce.

Mentioning this, Shiler seemed intrigued. "It may sound absurd, but some killers are born—or rather, certain individuals possess innate, almost superhuman talent for killing."

"Like who?" Grant asked.

"Among cases of antisocial personality disorder and psychopathy, extremely rare individuals emerge as natural-born killers—cold-blooded, volatile, master manipulators. I recently encountered one—a boy much younger than you."

"Who is he?"

"You don't know him. But I do. Oswald Cobblepot."

"A little penguin with a sharp beak."