Chapter 390: Shearer Is Insane (Part 2)

At sunset, New York's coastline was bathed in the glow of the setting sun, as if a snowfall of gold foil had fallen the night before; not far from shore, a cruise ship drifted slowly.

From its exterior, it was clearly a luxury cruise ship; as the light faded, brilliant illumination glowed within its cabins, and those aboard quietly savored the approaching night.

On the gold-tier dining terrace of the second deck, two figures in suits sat at the table closest to the edge; Grant mechanically fiddled with his food, while Shearer had already finished eating and leaned back in his chair, breathing the sea breeze as he watched the sunset.

After a while, he stood up; Grant said nothing and followed behind him. Shearer strode through the restaurant, then past the bustling dance floor, weaving through the elegant gentlemen and ladies in flowing attire and the hazy light reflected off delicate glassware.

He reached the cruise ship's corridor, stopped before a door, and knocked. Shearer's voice and the sound of the door opening came at once: "In the instant you see me, you'll think you've been discovered by S. . . . . . but quite the opposite: Nick tracked you down, but I concealed your past, Alexander Pierce."

Behind the door appeared an elderly man with half-gray hair. Upon hearing Shearer's words, he froze—but seeing Grant Ward standing outside, gun already in hand, he knew he had no choice.

In an instant, Pierce aged years, losing all trace of the commanding presence he once held at the Security Council; he stepped back slowly, allowing Shearer to enter.

Shearer looked around the cabin, then said: "I know you're going to tell me 'the most dangerous place is the safest place,' but the truth is you just didn't want to suffer in some dark, damp underground bunker—you've dressed up your risky move of hiding on a cruise ship as if it were brilliant foresight."

"You know full well you've always relied on luck when doing this—every time you survived, you swore you'd change your method next time. But after all these years, you still only know this one trick, Pierce. You and I both know why you're still alive."

Pierce's face turned deathly pale. He had never heard words so sharp, so directly piercing his core. Agents preferred blunt honesty, disliked wasting time—but they hated probing into others' inner thoughts, and rarely raised such topics in conversation.

Yet this psychologist showed no such restraint—clear proof he was not here for friendly talk.

Pierce quickly adjusted his demeanor. He knew a brutal battle awaited him. If Shearer had simply opened fire the moment he stepped in, there'd be nothing left to discuss—so they still had things to say.

In the same night, Stark had shed his armor and sat before a lab bench, reading a book. He rubbed his upper lip with his fingers, shook his head, and said: "If I hadn't memorized all those messy game theory theories overnight, I might not have had the patience to sit here reading books on mental illness and psychology."

"Sir, I advise you not to become too absorbed. People often project psychological and psychiatric case studies onto themselves, which may affect your mood."

"Looks like your level's far ahead of mine—but I'll catch up soon, JARVIS," Stark dismissed it entirely.

"I originally had no interest in this, but Shearer's behavior today has me suspicious. As you concluded, he seems completely changed—this isn't explainable by dissociative identity disorder, and you said his body shows no anomalies—venous and neural structures are identical in the scans."

"If he's truly ill, I'll find a way to cure him. If he's been replaced by Hydra, I'll expose the conspiracy and rescue him—just imagine the look on his face, ha!"

Stark chuckled twice, then returned to reading—but as he read, his expression grew uneasy. He flipped the pages between his fingers, hesitated, then asked: "JARVIS, did you study the section on anxiety disorders?"

"Yes, I have more detailed data. Would you like to hear it?"

"No, never mind," Stark answered immediately. He bit the inside of his lower lip, gently tilted his neck back, straightened his spine, then spoke faster: "I'm fine now. If you'd learned this sooner, I wouldn't have been extorted by that vampire doctor."

JARVIS remained silent. Stark forced his focus back to the book—but after a few moments, he spoke again: "What's this? Narcissistic personality disorder? Is narcissism even a disorder?"

"Malignant narcissism can lead to violent behavior: extreme self-centeredness that harms others..."

Stark fell silent, then asked: "Do you think I'm narcissistic?"

"I cannot answer that question."

"Fine, I get it. Don't say more." Stark propped his elbows on the table, pressed his fingers to his forehead: "I admit I'm a little narcissistic—but surely not to a malignant degree?"

He kept reading. After a while, he said: "Bipolar disorder? This one's also kind of..."

Stark shook his head, sighed, flipped pages, then said:

"Post-traumatic stress disorder... You know, the symptoms described here..."

Stark pointed with his fingertip at several lines in the book: "Re-experiencing trauma, heightened alertness, avoidance... This reminds me of someone..."

Tomato Novel

Stark fell silent again. Less than two minutes later, he snapped the book shut, leaned back in his chair, and stared at the ceiling: "JARVIS, you were right. I shouldn't have read this at night."

Suddenly, he sat upright, reopened the book, flipped back to the first few pages, and plunged headfirst into the ocean of knowledge—until dawn.

The next morning, Steve walked into S. . . . . .'s cafeteria and saw Stark peering over the buffet table. He walked over, tapped Stark on the shoulder, and asked: "What's wrong?"

Stark rolled his eyes, glanced him up and down, and said: "Nothing. I was waiting for you."

"Waiting for me? For what?"

"You forgot? We still have something important to discuss—about your good friend..."

Steve turned to grab a tray, ignoring the topic. Stark narrowed his eyes: "Even if he was brainwashed by Hydra, that doesn't erase the fact he harmed innocent people."

"But he saved more people. He was once a brave warrior—just caught in an accident..." Steve picked bread with the serving tongs. Stark, on the other side of the counter, pressed his earpiece and whispered: "JARVIS, did you see that? He picked up the same slice of bread and put it down three times."

"But what if one of those innocent people he killed was your other friend?"

"Impossible," Steve instinctively denied—but Stark pressed: "Is it impossible—or just something you refuse to imagine?"

"Let's not talk about this," Steve turned to put down the tongs, speaking rapidly: "This isn't the time to discuss it. Let's sit over there."

Stark was startled to realize that, when revisiting this topic, he was now observing Steve's reactions with a more objective, even clinical perspective—and he noticed details he'd never paid attention to before.

The two sat down at the table. In the past, Captain America had always been the more talkative one—but today, the dynamic had reversed. Stark spoke first: "How did you meet him? Did you enlist together?"

In the past, Steve would have eagerly recounted how he nearly got rejected during enlistment but was miraculously chosen—he'd told Peter this story countless times, always with enthusiasm.

But now, Steve only bit into his sandwich. When a lettuce leaf fell out, he instinctively opened his mouth to catch it—then abruptly stopped, as if realizing it was undignified.

Stark watched his every move. He realized Steve was now in an anxious defensive posture: arms clenched, elbows pressed to the table, forearm shielding his body. Though he held a sandwich, the tension in his biceps was unmistakable.

Stark rarely saw Steve like this. Captain America was always sunny, confident, talkative—able to discuss any topic, witty, approachable.

But now, he was in a state Stark knew all too well—because Stark himself exhibited this exact behavior during anxiety attacks.

He recalled: he wasn't seeing this in Steve for the first time. He'd simply ignored all the details before.

Then he connected it to himself: "Did I look the same when I met psychologists? Was I broadcasting my symptoms on my face?"

Suddenly, he felt a bitter, absurd laugh rising in his throat—he now understood exactly how Shearer must have felt the first time Stark asked if he had mind-reading powers.

Stark suddenly realized: the sentence hovering on his tongue—if spoken—would strike Steve like a blade to his softest vulnerability, plunging him into deeper anxiety.

It would cause more pain than hundreds of missiles. But Stark said nothing.

He changed the subject: "Let's talk about the Avengers' work. How do we proceed against Hydra?"

Steve took a large bite of his sandwich, chewed hard, swallowed—and the tension eased, as if he didn't know what else to do, so he focused entirely on this simple act, pretending he had something to do.

"You said earlier the assassinations might be linked to Hydra?" Steve asked.

"Correct. I don't believe it's coincidence—right after we dealt Hydra a heavy blow, so many assassinations pop up."

"Then we start here. Every murder leaves traces. Find the killer, and we might uncover why Hydra's changing."

Stark noticed that once they returned to his domain, Steve's tension eased slightly. He relaxed his elbows, lowered the sandwich, and revealed his face.

He suddenly remembered how Shearer had once talked to him about the armor. He felt a strange resonance—as if then and now were the same moment.

"One more thing: remember you told me—if someone suddenly seems unfamiliar, we can't rule out they've been replaced by Hydra."

"Yesterday, I had JARVIS analyze Shearer's behavioral logic. The data showed his actions overlap very little with the Shearer we used to know."

But Steve shook his head—unexpectedly. Then he said: "If he'd been replaced, the overlap wouldn't be this low. He'd have perfectly mimicked the original Shearer—only subtle inconsistencies would remain."

"He wouldn't act like a completely different person—that'd be screaming to us he's been replaced."

"What if they anticipated our anticipation?"

"Then Hydra already rules the world."

——————Extra Notes——————

I love writing DC Shearer so much.

Psychopath says whatever they want. pg