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, but gripped the cigarette tightly, then slightly turned his head to look at the windows on the side of the hotel glowing with lights.

The scene behind one of those windows caught his attention; he finished the cigarette in his hand, did not drop the butt on the ground, but wedged his fingernail into the center of the stub, tore open the unsmoked portion, and lit it with a lighter.

When the flame was about to burn his fingertips, he dropped the burning stub onto the ground and stepped on it with his toe, ensuring no fingerprints remained.

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

With a soft "ding," the elevator doors opened; he stepped out, his shoes pressing into the carpet of the guest floor with a muffled sound, walked through the dimly lit hotel corridor, and arrived at the door of room 3103.

"Tap," "tap," "tap," he knocked three times; there was no response from inside. The man pulled a note from his suit pocket and slid it under the door crack. After a moment, the lock clicked softly; he entered and saw an elderly man with a serious expression.

"You're the contact sent by the doctor?" The old man sized him up and said: "You look like someone Pierce would hire… come in."

He turned to walk further into the room, but had taken only two steps when he felt something press against his back; the veteran spy, who had ruled the shadows for half a lifetime, instantly recognized it as a silenced pistol.

He slowly raised both hands, his tone still calm: "Who are you? Who do you work for? S. H. I. E. L. D. or the KGB?"

"I work for the doctor."

"Bang!"

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

Stepping out of the hotel, the night in New York was thick; he walked to a public phone booth, dialed a number, and said into the receiver: "How have you been? Let's meet—there's a café west of Hell's Kitchen."

A cold voice came from the other end: "Tomorrow at 3 p. m. … "

The next morning, in the S. H. I. E. L. D. Alliance cafeteria, Shiler and Stark sat facing each other over breakfast; Stark, slicing his sausage, complained: "I don't know 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, focusing entirely on his food with knife and fork; Stark glanced at his movements and said: "What's wrong with you lately?"

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

"I think you've changed," Stark pulled the corners of his mouth downward and said: "Like a different person."

Shiler put half a cherry tomato into his mouth, then looked up at Stark and asked: "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, ate it, and said: "Start with your clothes—you usually wear only the doctor's coat, shirts, or 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, and continued: "Sure, plenty in Manhattan—especially near Wall Street—wear suits year-round, but why has your style changed so suddenly?"

"Anything else?" Shiler asked while eating.

Stark stared at his plate: "I've been wondering this—why did you move the fried egg from left to right, then back again? Is this some ritual?"

"Because vegetables must be placed on the left."

"And then?"

"So the fried egg can only go to the right."

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

"Nothing. Just my anxiety flaring up." Shiler didn't look up, eating with intense focus; Stark snorted: "You can't fool me—I have anxiety too. Haven't had an episode in years, but I know how it feels."

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

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

The Chronicles of the Star-Eating Void: Signing to Become a God

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

"Is this really anxiety?" Stark stared at the utensils Shiler left behind, the remaining food arranged in perfect order. "Something feels off."

Shiler rose from his chair, glanced back at Stark, and said: "It's anxiety—but a complication. You can also call it a side effect of my allergy to Brussels sprouts."

As he spoke, he bent down to straighten the crooked fork, then turned and walked away with crisp efficiency; Stark stared, eyes wide, watching Shiler's retreating back, 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. He asked: "Don't you think he's acting strange lately? Like he's become someone else?"

"I noticed it earlier than you—ever since he said he was moving 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, and said: "He's a psychiatrist. And he reads minds. Hard to manipulate."

"You forgot?" Steve leaned closer, lowered his voice: "He spent time with that black-robed Hydra agent in the sanitarium. Those people are masters of brainwashing. Shiler was exposed to them—better investigate this thoroughly."

"How? Go confront him directly?" Stark turned his head, 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, looked at him; their eyes met, and both thought of the same person.

By afternoon, the light grew stronger; the heavy snow from last night began melting, leaving the streets muddy. As Shiler entered the café, he stamped his feet on the threshold, shaking off the snow clinging to his shoes.

Grant saw him but showed no change in expression, merely sipping his coffee. Shiler walked over, sat across from him, took his coffee from the server, stirred the latte art on the surface, and asked: "How many now?"

"Sixth." Grant glanced sideways; Shiler noticed his gesture and said: "I must say—even within S. H. I. E. L. D. —you're one of the most vigilant agents."

Grant let out a low, bitter laugh through his nose: "And what good does it do? I still ended up 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 allows for escape?"

Grant pressed his lips together, smiled bitterly: "True. Why would I expect a treacherous, deceitful Hydra agent to keep his word?"

Shiler lifted his coffee cup, took a sip, and said: "Do you think I wanted you? If anyone else were available, I wouldn't force an ordinary person into becoming a killer."

Ordinary person? Grant felt absurdity surge—he'd never heard anyone call him that. Even Garrett had often praised his natural talent in this field.

On the path of agent and assassin, Grant's record was exceptional: he entered early, and since being adopted by Garrett, he underwent relentless professional training day after day. Garrett also taught him numerous killing techniques; under the mentorship of a senior agent, Grant had already surpassed the peak of many others' careers.

Had S. H. I. E. L. D.'s situation continued as before, he might have taken over the Hydra leadership position at Pierce's age.

Mentioning this, Shiler seemed to gain interest and continued: "It may sound absurd to you, but some killers are born—or rather, certain individuals possess innate, almost superhuman talent for killing."

"Like whom?" Grant asked, watching him.

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

"Who is he?"

"You don't know him—but I know him well. His name is Oswald Cobblepot."

"A little penguin with a sharp beak."