Chapter 391: Heroes Are Also Human

Eating while chatting with Stark, Steve suddenly felt more relaxed; he didn't know why, but Stark seemed unusually understanding today.

Good heavens, what was he thinking? Understanding? How could those words possibly be paired with Stark? After Stark left, Steve rubbed his forehead, convinced he must be hallucinating from too much stress.

Since Bucky was rescued, he has been receiving treatment at a SHIELD secret base; according to Nick's feedback to Steve, Bucky's condition is grim.

Hydra back then wasn't fully a spy agency—it primarily served the war effort, and during the stalemate, they grew desperate, using brutally violent brainwashing methods on Bucky; now he has become a cold, emotionless killing machine.

As he recalled those past events and sighed, Steve didn't notice that every time he thought of them, his fingers trembled slightly—as if the heroic deeds he often spoke of were more like poison than medicine.

With mixed emotions, Steve returned to the Avengers base; it was still early, and few were around. He walked toward the dark hall, and the moment he flipped on the lights, he heard Peter exclaim, "Oh!"

"You're here? Sorry, I thought no one was around. Why didn't you turn on the lights?" Steve walked over and saw Peter tinkering with a device; Peter smiled and said, "I'm running a power-off test. To prevent accidents, I shut off the main breaker."

"What is this?" Steve asked, gesturing at the complex equipment he didn't understand. Peter glanced at Steve's face and said, "Captain, what's wrong? You look pale."

Steve touched his face, sighed inwardly—Peter could tell he was off. Stark must've been laughing at him in his head, thinking he'd hit rock bottom.

"Nothing, just didn't sleep well," Steve replied politely, but Peter walked over, pulled out a chair, and patted its back. "Sometimes you need to sit down. Standing all day makes your back and legs ache. My uncle always says that."

"Thanks, Peter, you're thoughtful, but I feel more alert standing." Steve smiled, didn't sit, and leaned his waist against a pool table nearby.

As Peter adjusted the device, he said, "Captain, sometimes I think you're too tense—you always want everyone to see you as energetic, but everyone gets tired…"

"That's because you're not a leader, Peter," Steve blinked, lowered his head, and said, "You have to give everyone confidence, make them believe that someone as courageous as you can lead them to victory. That's what I've been doing for years, and I'll keep doing it."

Peter shook his head, glanced at Steve again with concern, but said nothing. He tapped the device and said, "The things Mr. Stark taught me during the Taskmaster fight gave me a big insight."

"The surveillance system doesn't have to be rigid—just picking fixed spots to monitor or eavesdrop. It can be made dynamic. And the accompanying analysis system doesn't have to just aggregate data—we can make it smarter."

"I know this should've been Mr. Stark's project, but if he did it, he'd rely on Stark Industries' AI, JARVIS."

Peter lowered his head, fiddling with the machine, and said, "Captain, I can tell your relationship with Mr. Stark is a bit…"

"Never mind—I know I shouldn't talk about people behind their backs, but I think you don't want the Avengers to rely too much on Stark Industries or SHIELD…"

"Actually, I feel the same way. It doesn't help us. If justice isn't pure and independent, it risks being hijacked by something else—and then it's no longer justice."

Steve walked over, patted Peter's shoulder, and looked into his eyes. "You know, Peter, you've grown so much. Remember the vampire attack on the Brooklyn Bridge?"

Back then, I thought you were just a kid full of passion, like my younger self. But now, you're an outstanding Avenger, a true superhero. Your progress has amazed me.

Peter didn't jump with joy at the praise. He said, "When I changed, I realized I'd entered a broader world—where adults face more problems than experiences, and responsibilities outweigh beliefs."

"Captain, you often tell me about your past—how you heard the war had started, heard over the radio that countless people had died, and felt grief and helplessness."

Then you charged into battle with passion, determined to save others—and you succeeded.

Peter sighed. "I'm grateful I don't hear on the radio or TV that the world is about to end, or wake up one day to find I must grow up overnight and save it."

"If that happened, I don't know what I'd do." Peter shook his head, his voice tinged with panic.

"If someone had told me on my first day of high school that tomorrow I'd be on a battlefield, facing machine guns and fighter jets, watching comrades my own age fall and die—I might have broken down completely."

Steve smiled at Peter. "Maybe I exaggerated the process a bit. Just treat it like a story, Peter."

Peter took a deep breath, forcing the terrifying image away. Steve's gaze shifted to the device. "So, what can it do?"

"The simplest thing: I built a system targeting recent assassination attempts—focused on luxury venues like hotels, mansions, theaters, and dynamic monitoring of luxury cars within central New York. It helps us quickly identify suspects entering or leaving these places."

Peter pointed to a screen in the center. "Look here—these colored markers on the car show every location it visited in the past 48 hours."

"Orange means hotels, blue means bars, purple means popular commercial streets and luxury stores. That way, we can tell if the car's movements are normal."

"If a car, across multiple monitoring periods, never visits any place an upper-class person would go, but suddenly appears at a high-end location, its suspicion level rises."

"It's the most basic, simple application of data flow—but it's enough for us," Peter shrugged.

"The hardest part was installing the monitors, but because we have enough special materials, the devices can be shrunk to tiny sizes while maintaining high clarity—and installing them isn't hard for us, so we made it work."

"Ultimately, it's materials science advancing that drives technological progress." Peter picked up a sticker-style camera. "Don't let its size fool you—the total amount of molten steel used in its components might equal Wakanda's annual vibranium output."

"That's amazing, Peter," Steve said, genuinely surprised. "The only thing I ever agreed with Stark about was this: you're incredibly talented, kid—in every way."

"Not necessarily," Peter said, sitting on the chair he'd brought over, looking downcast. "Didn't Dr. Sheeler move his clinic back to Hell's Kitchen?"

"I wanted to stay there for a few days, but when I got to the door, my spider-sense started ringing nonstop."

"My God, it's never been this loud—it nearly deafened me. I didn't know what was wrong, so I didn't go in."

"Dr. Sheeler spoke to me from inside. We chatted a bit, then got into psychology. He said I'm not suited for it. I thought he actually liked me…"

"No one excels at every subject," Steve comforted him. "No one is omniscient. Your talent in mechanics, engineering, math, physics, chemistry, and biology is already extraordinary."

"But I don't understand—Dr. Sheeler said I'm unsuited for psychology because I'm too kind. Do psychologists not have kindness? But Dr. Sheeler is clearly a good person."

Steve pressed his lips together, recalling Sheeler's recent behavior on the Hive Prime Star—nothing about it matched the word "kind."

Still, he said, "Perhaps he thinks you're too empathetic. If you try to understand the minds of psychopaths, it might affect you."

"Let's not talk about that," Peter quickly shook off his gloom, sat up, and looked at Steve. From this angle, Peter clearly saw Steve's stubble—he hadn't shaved that morning. He still looked handsome, but worn out.

Peter asked gently, "Captain, have you been going to your SHIELD-mandated counseling sessions?"

"They only gave me ten sessions. Nick said Sheeler charged too much. But I didn't even make it to ten—I only went five times. I feel fine. I don't need counseling."

"But I heard Dr. Sheeler say psychological issues, like physical illnesses, require regular checkups?"

"Peter, don't beat around the bush. I know you think I look off, but it's just work stress and insomnia."

Peter said nothing more, but Steve's tightly clenched jaw betrayed his inner turmoil.

By evening, the base grew lively. Everyone discussed battle plans. Peter had brought pizza, and everyone devoured it.

A polished cocktail glass was tossed high into the air, spun twice under the bar lights, then fell like a falling star into Matt's hand. He spun it, drawing cheers from the kids. Blade, Eric, sat on the sofa, telling them horror stories about vampires.

Peter, Steve, Erica, and Hawkeye were playing flying chess. They watched their pieces and discussed recent SHIELD events. Soon, several mutant children and Eric joined them, gathering in a circle to chat.

In the underground base, without windows to judge daylight, as long as the lights stayed on, the joy seemed endless.

But soon, the younger children grew sleepy and went to their rooms. Those who had to work the next day also left.

Finally, only Steve remained, sitting on the sofa, gathering the pizza boxes. Peter and Matt offered to help, but Steve refused.

He thought he needed solitude to sort his tangled thoughts. But when solitude came, a sense of unease began spreading in his chest.

He reached for the pizza box—and noticed his fingertips trembling. Steve froze, startled by his own body's reaction. Since when had his hands been shaking?

"No…" Steve denied it inwardly.

"It must've just started. No one else saw it."

But another voice whispered: this has been happening for a while. Everyone saw it—they saw you as a pale, trembling coward. They won't trust you anymore. They won't believe the Captain America is an unyielding leader. They'll think you're old, no longer a savior…

"Crash!" He dropped the stack of pizza boxes. Steve slammed back into the sofa, which groaned—only this motion, he thought, proved he still had strength.

He pressed his fingers to his brow, feeling the tremors in his arm muscles—from shoulder to elbow, they ached. Yet he refused to lower his arm, like a newly animated puppet struggling to control its limbs.

Steve commanded his body with iron will: "You will obey me. Stay still. Steady. Full of power!"

But the more he tried, the more his body slipped from his control. A helpless anxiety, knowing something was wrong but powerless to fix it, began consuming him.

Steve forced deep breaths—but didn't notice his inhales and exhales growing shallower, faster, until air hissed through his nostrils and lips with a "puff-puff" sound. He clenched his lip muscles so hard his entire face stiffened.

Finally, a nameless panic swallowed him. He swallowed hard, trembling hands fumbling in his pocket for his phone. He dialed. "Hello? Doctor? I think I need treatment. Can I come tomorrow morning? Yes, thank you."

"How's the situation now? No, it's fine. I'm just feeling tense—probably tired."

"Okay, should I follow the timer's rhythm? But it feels… too slow. That's not my natural breathing."

"Alright, I'll try. In… out…"

As his exhales grew longer, drowsiness crept in—but the anxiety kept him awake. He didn't know what he'd dream. Minutes later, he hung up, still wide awake, head pounding.

He stayed awake until morning. As he stood before the clinic door, he hesitated, almost pulled out his phone to cancel. But finally, he stepped out and got in the car.

At the Hell's Kitchen clinic, he saw Sheeler in a suit behind his desk. For some reason, he didn't want to approach—the man felt utterly alien.

Sheeler's finger twitched. Steve instantly turned his head. When Sheeler stood, Steve stepped back sharply. He stiffened, turned, and shut the door—pretending he'd only stepped back to close it.

Finally, he walked to the desk, shook Sheeler's hand, and sat down. Sheeler introduced himself: "You likely know—I'm Sheeler's other personality. I've never participated in your sessions, but I've read all his medical records…"

"Are you also a psychologist?" Steve asked. "Can't you bring Dr. Sheeler out?"

"My experience far exceeds his. Among all cases I've handled, yours is mild. Don't be tense—you'll improve quickly."

He took a file from the shelf, flipped through it. "You have mild PTSD, but not severe. Previous records show you were nearly recovered."

"Your current symptoms may be acute anxiety triggered by stress—a sudden panic attack. What are you afraid of?"

"No, nothing," Steve denied. Sheeler didn't press, but stared into his eyes. "What do you think about most lately? The past? Or the future?"

"The past. I like remembering it," Steve answered quickly. But Sheeler kept staring. Steve's breathing grew rapid again. "Fine—it's the future. But I don't know what I'm worried about."

"That's typical. Again, don't be tense. I know your era didn't have widespread psychology or psychiatry. You may not have encountered this knowledge, so you think your symptoms are abnormal."

"But anxiety and anxiety disorders are extremely common. Among people you know—me, Stark, Blade, SHIELD agent Hill—all have anxiety disorders. Eighty percent of SHIELD agents I've seen have a history of it."

Steve opened his mouth, stunned. Sheeler continued: "In your time, people didn't lack this illness—they just weren't diagnosed. Even if they noticed, they were too ashamed to speak of it."

"Your episode came on suddenly. Breathing techniques and light hypnosis didn't help. You may need medication."

"Any allergies? Or upcoming events where you can't take sedatives?"

"No, I…" Steve pressed his fingers to his eyes. "I don't want pills. I think I can…"

"Alright. I know new patients resist medication. My rule: if you're suffering, I prescribe. If you feel you can manage, try adjusting first."

Steve shook his head, silent. When the faint pain crossed his handsome face, he looked like a classical statue—drenched in the melancholy of Romanticism.

"Alright, let's talk. It'll help you relax."

As the sun rose outside, Steve emerged from the clinic at noon. He wanted to grab something to eat, but realized he'd left his wallet and phone behind—so he walked back to base.

As soon as he returned, Peter rushed over excitedly. "Captain! Big discovery!"

Steve straightened up. The sunlight had revived him. "What's the discovery?"

"Remember the new surveillance system I mentioned? We found a car with extremely high suspicion."

Steve hurried over, stared at the screen. "Which one? Can we track it?"

"Here. It left New York State last night and hasn't reappeared. But we found it passed through the same location twice—a public phone booth."

Steve deduced, "That's likely how they contact their employer. I've seen this many times—using street phone booths."

"Should we install a monitor? If they call again, I can eavesdrop on their conversation."

"No. They rarely reuse the same booth twice. Two uses is the limit. Let's go now—see if we can find clues on that phone booth."

The two immediately drove to the location Peter had found; when they arrived, no one was there—only three telephone booths stood side by side. Steve asked Peter, "Can you retrieve the call logs from them?"

"I can try." Peter walked back to the car, retrieved his tool kit, and began working intently. At that moment, Steve felt another wave of nausea; he shook his head hard, trying to clear it.

He regretted not taking Schiller's advice and getting some medication, but he also knew there was no time for a proper rest. A strange fear gripped him, yet he refused to admit it had anything to do with Hydra.

As Peter fiddled with the wiring, he said, "There's something here. Usually, street phone booths don't retain dial records—but I might be able to trace the electrical pulses from the keypad presses… Let me check…"

Moments later, just as Steve felt his back stiffen and wanted to lean against something, Peter let out a cry: "Got it!"

Steve hurried over. "What did you find?"

"I got a phone number, but I'm not sure if it's disposable. We can try calling it."

Steve showed no sign of disappointment. He simply said, "It's probably disposable. They wouldn't be that careless."

Peter wrote the number on a slip of paper. Steve stepped into the phone booth and dialed. After a series of busy tones, he heard a voice he knew all too well—one he'd heard only recently.

"Hello?"

Peter saw Steve freeze inside the booth. Two seconds later, Steve hung up. Peter asked, "Did it connect?"

Steve nodded stiffly. "It was a disposable number. No one answered."

Peter showed a flicker of disappointment but wasn't discouraged. "It's fine. At least this proves the system works. If we keep waiting, we'll find the key lead."

Steve nodded. Back at the Avengers base, he told Peter, "Go back to class. Your lunch break should be about over."

Peter noticed Steve's odd state and wanted to stay with him, but Steve refused. After Peter left, Steve quickly pulled on his coat, grabbed his shield, and headed to the psychological clinic in Hell's Kitchen.

As he climbed the stairs, Steve gripped the shield's handle tightly—as if only that could give him any sense of safety. When the door opened, the figure in the dark suit still sat behind the desk, as if waiting for him.

Steve stepped inside and stared at him. "You're really…"

"Who do you mean?" Schiller interrupted his conclusion.

"You. Schiller Rodriguez."

"But I'm not him. Remember? I'm his other personality."

"You're Hydra—or at least connected to them…"

Schiller stood up, placed a pen firmly on the desk, and said, "You don't need to speak in speculation. I am Hydra. And I have a codename you should know very well…"

Steve stared at him. Schiller lowered his head and smiled. "You called me that this morning. Don't you remember?"

"…'Doctor.' You're the 'Doctor.'"

"Yes. But not him."

"Why did you…?" Steve exhaled sharply and slammed his fist against the wall beside him.

"It seems your era truly lacked this knowledge. I've already said it: I'm not him. We're two separate personalities."

As he spoke, Schiller bent down, opened his drawer, and pulled out a file. He handed it to Steve. Steve didn't take it—only stared. Schiller pointed at the file. "It's about Bucky."

Steve's Adam's apple moved. Finally, he reached out and took the file. The first page read: "Howard Stark Car Accident Investigation Report."

As he flipped further, Steve's expression grew heavier. By the end, he looked stunned. Schiller sat back down, speaking casually: "I know you don't believe it—or rather, you don't want to. Your best friend killed your other best friend."

"But that's the truth. Bucky Barnes, member of Hydra's Winter Soldier Program, a successful Winter Soldier, used a car accident to kill Howard Stark."

"Enough!" Steve slammed the file onto the desk. "You vile Hydra agent—you fabricated this to manipulate me. I won't let you win!"

"Is that so? Then let our other guest share his thoughts." Schiller glanced at his watch. "He should be here soon."

No sooner had he spoken than Tony Stark entered the office in his armor, his face grim. He looked at Schiller. "Why did you answer the phone? Schiller, tell me…"

"Why did *you* answer when we called the assassin's contact?"

"Isn't it obvious? You didn't just get my number—you learned my codename and my actions. You're far smarter than him. I won't waste time explaining from scratch."

Schiller remained seated, looking at Tony. "Your other friend has something he wants to ask you—about your father."

Though he didn't want to be distracted, Tony couldn't help turning to Steve, who stood frozen. Steve shook his head. "It's nothing. Just a conspiracy. It has to be."

Tony studied Steve's face, walked over, picked up the file, flipped to the first page, then dropped it back onto the desk.

Seeing Tony's action, Steve stiffened. Slowly, he turned to Tony. "He made this up, right? It's Hydra's scheme…"

Tony fell silent for a long time. "Actually, you should know better than I do. It's true."

"If the Winter Soldier Program's purpose was to eliminate key figures, Howard Stark would've been first on the list."

Steve's Adam's apple trembled violently. He shook his head, stepping back two paces. "No… it's not… he didn't…"

Suddenly, he looked at Schiller. "You did this on purpose. You exposed your contact, lured us here—you've wanted us to turn on each other from the start…"

Schiller stood again, walked to one side of the room, and tapped the top of a TV. Their eyes followed his movement, wary he might attack—but Schiller merely bent down behind the TV and flipped the switch.

A scene appeared before them: a man nailed to a wall, blood splattered across every surface. Steve's eyes widened. "Bucky! What did you do to him?!!"

"Why ask a question you already know the answer to?" Schiller turned to the screen. "Clearly, I kidnapped him—and drove six-centimeter wedges through his body into the wall."

Steve roared, slamming his fist. "You're insane!!! What do you want?!?"

Schiller calmly returned to the desk, opened the drawer, and took out a pistol.

Steve instantly raised his shield. Tony activated his gauntlets. Schiller only lowered his head. *Click. The magazine ejected. He picked up a single round, inserted it, and slid the magazine back in.

Then he placed the gun flat on the desk, gave it a gentle push. It spun and slid to Steve's feet. Schiller looked up, meeting his eyes. "Pick it up. Shoot me. Eliminate the Hydra you hate most."

His tone was taunting—as if betting Steve wouldn't dare. Steve was enraged. He picked up the gun, chambered a round, and pointed it at Schiller's forehead. "You think I'll spare you?!!"

"I know you won't. Because I'm Hydra. But what about Schiller? Isn't he your friend?"

"He's a doctor. A good man. He saved many lives—perhaps even yours, and other heroes."

"As for me? I'm merely the product of Hydra's brainwashing. A weapon without emotion. That wasn't Schiller's intent—it was an accident."

Schiller stepped out from behind the desk. Steve kept the gun trained on him. Schiller walked until the barrel pressed directly against his forehead.

Schiller looked into Steve's eyes. "If you shoot me to kill me, why can't Stark kill your best friend Bucky?"

Steve's arm began trembling uncontrollably. Tony stepped forward. "Enough, Schiller. Stop this. There must be some misunderstanding…"

Steve's breathing grew ragged. Beyond Schiller's figure, he saw the screen wasn't a photo—it was live footage. Bucky's face was no longer cold. It was twisted in agony.

Steve's finger pressed slightly downward. The trigger had been pulled to its limit. One more pressure—and the bullet would fire. But Schiller didn't move. He kept the barrel pressed to his forehead, watching Steve with his eyes.

*Stepping on the Stars*

Seconds later, Steve lowered his arm. His pinky and ring finger clutched the grip tightly—but his trigger finger had released. He curled up in pain, shaking his head as if trying to shake off hallucinations.

Tony didn't move. He stepped forward to help Steve up—but the moment he touched Steve's arm, he was thrown back. Steve's strength was unimaginable; even Iron Man in his armor was shoved two steps back.

Steve struggled to straighten his spine. He looked at Schiller. "What will it take for you to let Bucky go?"

"Both the Winter Soldier and I are products of Hydra's brainwashing. We're just guns."

"If you kill me, you're denying your own defense of Bucky. Because the Schiller you knew—the doctor—he was innocent. And you killed him."

"Then Stark can kill Bucky too—for his father's revenge. Anyone can. It would be justice."

"Steve, you didn't pull the trigger not because you pitied the innocent Schiller inside me—but because you feared that if you did, Stark might kill Bucky. That some righteous soul would."

"You wanted to pull the trigger, didn't you? In that moment—did you think of that?" Schiller stared into Steve's eyes.

"Bucky is your friend. Isn't Schiller?"

"Two people in the same situation—why is your reaction so different?"

"Is it really because you loved Bucky more?"

"Do you care about Bucky—or the era he represents?"

"The era that carried all your past, all your memories, all your glory and honor… the war?"

Steve stood still, holding the gun but not raising it. He listened to Schiller's questions in silence. His bloodshot blue eyes looked bluer than ever. His voice trembled.

"You're right. I've always lived in the past. War gave me nothing but nightmares. But if I could choose again—I'd still choose it."

He turned to Tony. "Bucky, Howard, Schiller—they were all my friends. You might think I have no choice."

"Either spare you—the vile Hydra—and save Bucky… or kill you, kill Schiller, kill Bucky…"

Steve took a deep breath. He straightened his back—as he had done countless times before.

"But I have one last choice. One you'll never understand."

He looked at Tony, speaking slowly. "Tony. I know you can do it. Save Bucky. Save Doctor Schiller…"

"And I… will pay the price for all of this."

Tony felt a terrible premonition. In that instant, Steve raised the gun without hesitation—and pointed it at his own temple.

*Bang.

The gunshot was loud—but the bullet slowly dissolved into a wisp of gray mist, drifting back into Schiller's body. Schiller looked at Tony. "My symbiote tells me—he definitely pulled the trigger."

Tony gripped the edge of the desk, as if his strength had vanished. Steve swayed, then leaned heavily against the wall.

The room fell silent. Until the light crept across the floor's diamond tiles. It felt like hours passed before Iron Man straightened again—and Steve pushed himself upright with one hand on the wall.

The confusion and fear vanished from Steve's face. The resolve in his eyes was no longer forced by identity—it was his own.

In that moment, they locked eyes—and saw the same emotion in each other.

Iron Man never retreats. He is the final steel barrier before all others. But Tony's emotions are more sensitive than most—he doubts, he wanders, he grieves.

Yet Iron Man, who stood one step from becoming an eternal god, abandoned infinite divine power and the dazzling splendor beyond the cosmos. He chose mortal flesh—because he believed humanity was greater than divinity.

Captain America cannot be weak. He is the banner that lifted an entire era. But Steve's soul is no different from any ordinary person—he tires, he suffers, he retreats.

Yet Captain America, who seemed like a god, became greater than any deity precisely because of his human frailty. Steve, in mortal flesh, became greater than a god.

When they suddenly saw each other's vulnerability, they also understood each other's greatness. No one else could comprehend them better. No one else could feel more deeply that the other—the one who is both friend and enemy—is the only mirror of themselves in this world.

They both exhaled at once. Said nothing.

Seconds later, they turned together to Schiller. Now, the dangerous aura had vanished. Schiller stood frozen for a few seconds, then his eyes regained their clarity.

"Ha… a perfect vacation. Enough to heal the trauma from all my overtime." Schiller sighed. He looked up—and saw Tony and Steve staring at him.

He glanced at his watch, puzzled. "Why are you here? It's not my appointment time."

Ten minutes later, outside Midtown High, Peter and Gwen stood at the pancake shop's entrance. He paid, took the bag from the clerk, and turned—then froze.

Gwen walked over from the other side, tapped his shoulder. "What's wrong? What did you see?"

Peter turned his head back and stared at the open ground before him. "Did I just imagine that?"

"How did I just see Iron Man and Captain America chasing a cloud of mist???"

On New York's skyline, Shiler, fleeing as a gray mist, heard another voice of himself echo in his mind.

"Welcome back from your vacation. I have a bad news, another bad news, a worse news, another worse news, and finally the worst news to tell you."

"First, I just got you on the bad side of Iron Man and Captain America—seriously, the real kind. You might get chased around the entire Earth… or even the Solar System."

"Second, I previously carried out real-name assassinations of many Hydra agents disguised as officials. Now Hydra's headquarters is out of its mind trying to kill you."

Then, I deliberately acted like a mental patient to pique Stark's interest. Now he and JARVIS are practically experts in psychological theory. Your therapy bills are going to be extremely hot.

"Also, your deal with Mephisto to sell your soul—bypassing the Sorcerer Supreme—has been exposed. I didn't mean to."

"Finally, I pulled the Winter Soldier out of S. . . . . .'s secret base. The process was a bit violent, so the base was badly damaged—and that base was something Nick paid a fortune for. I didn't mean to."

"That's all. No need to thank me…"

"Who told you to not watch my umbrella?"

——————Side Note——————

Shiler really is mentally ill.