Chapter 50: Iron Heart (Part 1)

At this moment, Coulson stood puzzled at the entrance to Nick Fury’s office, watching everyone who reached this intersection turn right.

Natasha stepped out of Nick’s office; Coulson stopped her and asked, “What’s going on? Why are they taking this detour? I remember the shortest path to the elevator is to the left.”

“Because our astronomically expensive genius psychiatrist is in the office on the left, waiting for people to come for therapy.”

“You actually got him here? How much does he charge? Not a hundred million dollars an hour, right?”

“No, Nick’s report says fifty million dollars an hour.”

Coulson sucked in a sharp breath and said, “So if I go to him for therapy right now, I’m essentially earning fifty million dollars for free?”

“You could put it that way.”

“There must be a long line there—can I still get on the schedule today?”

“Quite the opposite—there’s no one there at all,” Natasha said, shrugging.

She turned and walked right; Coulson shouted, “You’re going the wrong way! That’s the emergency stairwell! The elevator’s on the left!”

Natasha didn’t look back. “I’m working out. You know—health reasons.”

Coulson was even more confused when Nick stepped out of his office; Coulson greeted him: “Good morning, Director.”

Nick nodded and said, “Natasha’s stepped back from the Stark case—she’ll now handle the Hand investigation. Your main task is to keep an eye on that guy who keeps swinging around—just make sure he doesn’t cause trouble.”

Coulson replied, “Yes,” then noticed Nick was turning right too. He grabbed his superior’s arm. “Director, the elevator’s over there. Going right means at least five extra minutes.”

“I’ve been working out lately. I’m taking the stairs.”

Coulson was utterly baffled. He walked straight left on his own, found Shiler’s office door ajar, knocked, and entered. Shiler was bent over writing; he looked up in surprise. “Someone actually came…”

Coulson blinked. “Isn’t this office open? I thought the meeting this morning said therapy sessions start today.”

“Of course it’s open! Come in—you’re the first!” Shiler stood up with his pen, even pulled out a chair for Coulson. The warmth made Coulson awkward. Shiler added, “Though you might also be the only one.”

“I don’t get it—fifty million dollars an hour for therapy, free with agency reimbursement—why won’t anyone come?”

“Probably because I charge fifty million… and Nick agreed.”

“What’s wrong with that? Doesn’t it prove the Director has full confidence in your skills?”

“Hmm… aside from his macroeconomic views on budgeting and his flexible interpretation of reimbursement protocols, have you considered that his confidence might be precisely why no one comes?”

“You mean they think you’re too good?”

Shiler stared, speechless. “Are you really an 8-level agent? What level is Natasha? Is the max level 100?”

“Which agent wants to see a top-tier therapist who’ll uncover every secret in their mind?”

“I thought it was just simple emotional regulation—like relieving anxiety.”

“Then go smoke a cigarette outside.”

“Can’t do that—this damn smoke alarm is too sensitive,” Coulson said.

“Alright, are you here to work through some depression?”

“Actually no—I noticed Captain America seems to get along well with you. I want him to sign my entire collection of fan cards. Can you ask him for me?”

Shiler spread his hands. “I knew it. But what else am I paid for? If this eases your anxiety, hand over the cards—I’ll make sure he signs every single one. That’ll justify my fifty million an hour.”

After Coulson left, Shiler sat calmly in his temporary office sipping coffee. He hadn’t even finished his morning fish-watching when he opened the door for some air—and suddenly, a piercing alarm blared. A small device above his head flashed red and screamed.

Shiler jumped. His spider-sense didn’t react at all. He prepared to teleport for safety—but then, with a shrill screech, the fire sprinklers activated, drenching the area in mist. Had he not dodged fast, he’d have been soaked.

Coulson and several agents ran over, looked up at the smoke alarm, then at Shiler. Shiler stood there, coffee cup in hand, staring back.

“No smoking here.”

“I didn’t smoke.”

Coulson gave him a skeptical look. “When Natasha got caught, she looked exactly like you. Did you flush a cigarette down the sink drain?”

“Of course not. I don’t smoke indoors.”

Coulson smelled no smoke. He stared at the still-screaming alarm. “Alright, looks like this damn thing’s broken again.”

“How do you make a smoke alarm go off at over a hundred decibels?”

“If your house had thirty-two fires a month, you’d understand.”

The symbiote said inside Shiler’s mind: “I feel dizzy. I’m gonna throw up. Let’s go.”

Shiler said, “Looks like today’s therapy session is over. Even if it’s under an hour, it counts as one. Don’t forget to have Nick settle the bill. I’m leaving.”

Shiler left immediately—he knew this wasn’t an accident. Someone didn’t want him staying there. After all, taking a five-minute detour every time he went downstairs was a waste of time.

Humans are always like this: without telepathy, they fantasize that someone understands them, knows their thoughts. But when someone truly gains telepathic ability, everyone avoids them.

Of course, in S.H.I.E.L.D., it’s more likely due to Nick Fury’s unorthodox talent management system.

Back at the clinic, Shiler, who hadn’t slept in dozens of hours, planned a short nap. The symbiote played him a hypnotic tune, and he fell asleep quickly. But before he entered deep sleep, a phone call woke him.

“What? … Then why call me? Go find Pepper.”

“She’s busy? So am I not? Fine, I’m not busy—but you won’t get me back in the lab. I really don’t want to screw in lightbulbs again.”

“Yes yes, I know it’s a revolutionary suit, not a lightbulb. Can you get to the point now?”

“JARVIS found an anomaly in the parts storage? The inventory doesn’t match? Are you sure you didn’t miscount? Okay, I know… I know you’re meticulous, but what can I do? I can’t magically conjure missing parts. No, not even magic.”

“...That’s hard to say,” Shiler paced in the clinic’s living room. “You should ask JARVIS for his hypothesis—he’s more than just a computer now.”

“JARVIS is being evasive? Then don’t you already know the answer? Or have you already suspected someone… but refuse to admit it?”

“No, my telepathy doesn’t apply here—don’t joke. I can tell you: the person in your mind has an 80% chance…”

After the call ended, Shiler grabbed Pikachu, rubbed his cheeks, and said, “A fortress of steel is always breached from within. This is really hard to say.”

“What trouble is the stiff guy in?” Pikachu asked.

“His armor’s missing parts. His AI assistant gave him a suspect he didn’t want to hear. Now he’s having an existential crisis.”

“Humans always create their own problems,” Pikachu summed up. “That Parker kid worries about killing hostages in games. It’s just a game—even if the hostages die, if the kidnappers are all dead, isn’t that a win?”

“So you just went ahead and killed the hostages?”

“What else can I do? That kid always hesitates. You humans overthink meaningless things, over-identify with fictional scenarios, worry needlessly about things that haven’t happened, yet avoid facing what already has.”

“I never thought a mouse could say something so profound.”

“Of course—I’m Detective Pikachu.”

In Stark Tower, all the lights in Stark’s lab were off, leaving only faint glimmers from instruments—like distant stars.

Stark leaned against the workbench, sitting on the floor. His phone beside him displayed a symbol—indicating JARVIS was still active.

“I’m trying to comfort you, sir.”

“So you turned off all the lights?” Stark’s voice was hoarse, exhausted from sleepless nights.

“Dim lighting helps relax the brain,” JARVIS replied.

Stark closed his eyes, shifted into a more relaxed posture, curled one leg, rested his arm on it, and looked up, speaking as if half-asleep: “...Maybe this is karma.”

“Stark weapons displaced countless lives—so the people I trusted will inevitably leave me, one by one…”

“We can’t yet confirm Mr. Obadiah is the culprit,” JARVIS said. “Analysis shows he has a 96% probability.”

“Say it more plainly,” Stark said.

“Apologies—I meant there’s a 4% chance he isn’t.”

“Who else could it be?”

“Mr. Shiler: 2%. Mr. Parker: 1.2%. You: 0.8%.”

“Shiler? You expect someone who can’t tell apart parts numbered 1 to 10 to steal the core? And Peter? That kid’s dumb, but he wouldn’t steal—he’s the type who gets shocked for half an hour if he sees me smoke.”

“I’m trying to comfort you,” JARVIS said.

Finally, all sounds in the world faded for Stark. In his half-dream state, he remembered Howard’s face.

Back then, Uncle Obadiah stood beside his father—both still young.