Chapter 712: U: The Infinite Event (28)

"... 've reviewed your physical exam report; all your physiological data are normal. You said you've been having occasional migraines—this could be due to mental stress. Have you been dealing with anything troubling lately?"

Shiler held a physical exam report in his hand, adjusted his glasses, and asked Steve, who sat stiffly in the psychologist's chair, elbows on the desk: "Yes, I've been a bit tense lately, it's just..."

Seeing Steve's hesitation, Shiler smiled and said: "I bet you met a pretty female agent at S. . . . . ., and the two of you..."

"No, that's not it," Steve immediately denied. "We only had coffee once; we've known each other less than a week—there's nothing... nothing..."

"You know, the moment you walked in, I guessed—you, our famous Captain America, must be in love," Shiler set down the report. Steve rubbed his hands and asked: "Is it that obvious?"

"You shaved your beard extra clean today, didn't wear your old-fashioned motorcycle jacket, but chose a relatively stylish trench coat, and your hair looks groomed..." Shiler listed each change one by one. Steve touched his cheek, looking slightly embarrassed.

"Adapting to a new life always brings tension and anxiety, especially since your anxiety disorder hasn't fully resolved—physical symptoms are normal. If the pain is severe, you can take painkillers."

"No, it's just occasional dull ache, lasts a few minutes at most. By the way, how's my anxiety disorder?" Steve asked anxiously. "If I still have a mental illness, I'd better not get involved with her..."

"Your thinking is stuck in the last century. Not all mental illnesses cause aggression. Anxiety disorder isn't rare, and you're nearly recovered. Your final check-up is next week—if everything's fine, we can declare you cured," Shiler smiled.

Steve exhaled in relief, stood up, and said to Shiler: "Thank you, Doctor. I don't know what I'd do without you... Oh, I'm moving out of my S. . . . . . dorm. Once I'm settled, I'll invite you over..."

"Don't worry, I'll be waiting for your invitation," Shiler saw Steve out the door.

Leaving Arkham Sanatorium, Steve stretched his body vigorously, feeling significantly lighter.

Even for a super-soldier, moving was tiring—but fortunately, the work was nearly done. Just one more day of packing, and it'd be finished.

Thinking of this, Steve quickened his pace. He planned to finish moving today; tomorrow, perhaps, he could ask the female agent out for dinner.

Soon he returned to his S. . . . . . dorm, finished packing the last large box, and carried it out. He met Shiler head-on. Steve struggled to free one hand and waved. Shiler nodded. They passed each other.

Walking to the end of the corridor, stepping into the elevator, Steve was about to press the first-floor button when another figure entered.

"Oh, Doctor Shiler, you're going down too? Did you forget something?"

"No, I'm returning to the sanatorium—there's another patient waiting for me. Which floor are you going to?"

"First floor, thanks."

Shiler pressed the button for Steve, but Steve immediately noticed something wrong: "Returning to the sanatorium? But you just came from there!"

At that moment, the elevator reached the first floor. The doors opened. Shiler stepped out first. Steve frowned slightly, shook his head, carried the box, and found Coulson in the parking lot.

"Hey, Captain, good afternoon. Here, hand it over—I'll put it in the trunk," Coulson greeted Steve, took the box, and stowed it.

After getting in the car, Steve asked curiously: "Did you see Doctor Shiler? Why's he running back and forth between S. . . . . . and the sanatorium?"

"Ah, that..." Coulson dragged out the word. "I've been on field missions lately—you should ask Natasha."

Even after getting out of the car, Steve still didn't understand why Coulson's tone felt odd.

But the joy of moving into his new home quickly dispelled his confusion. Steve carried the box, hurried up the elevator, and arrived at his newly rented apartment.

The location was excellent, with great lighting. At noon, sunlight streamed through the large floor-to-ceiling windows, casting dappled patterns on the sofa. Steve set down the box, sank onto the sofa, and sighed with satisfaction.

beqege.

But suddenly, his phone rang. He answered—it was Shiler's voice.

"Yes, Doctor... What? Check-up already? But the check-up's not until next week! Has something changed?... Alright, I understand. I'll come right away."

Steve shot up from the sofa, suddenly tense. He took several deep breaths, calmed himself, stepped around the still-disordered items in the apartment, and took the elevator down.

Coulson had left. Steve had to take a taxi. At Arkham Sanatorium, he went straight to the third floor, to his usual psychological consultation room—but the door wouldn't open.

Steve sighed, looked up at the room number, glanced around confusedly. Then a nurse approached: "Hello, Mr. Rogers, what are you doing here?"

"Doctor Shiler just called me—he said I need a check-up, but I can't get in. Where is he?"

"Oh, he's in a room on the second floor. Go find him there," the nurse smiled.

Steve stood frozen, bewildered. Why had Shiler changed rooms within an hour?

Maybe the old room needed cleaning and disinfection, Steve thought. He went to the second floor—and realized it wasn't just the room that had changed. Shiler had changed his clothes too.

The Shiler Steve had seen that morning wore a standard white coat. The Shiler now in the room wore a dark suit.

"Good afternoon, Doctor. Are you going to some event tonight?" Steve sat down across the desk, joking.

But Shiler didn't respond. He sat at the desk, holding the exam report, adjusted his glasses, and said: "Tension-type migraine. Have you been dealing with Stark again? Did he bring up Bucky?"

Steve froze in his seat. Shiler, expressionless, continued: "How long are you going to keep obsessing over this? If every person on Earth had to develop such a triangular dynamic, every fraudulent psychologist would be rich."

He tossed the report onto the desk, stared into Steve's eyes: "I'll recommend you be hospitalized—not for treatment, but to stop you from engaging in meaningless social activities, including seeking out Tony Stark and having pointless ethical arguments with him."

"I..." Steve was speechless. He had indeed argued with Stark again, and was angry about it—but he hadn't connected his migraine to it at all.

"I think it's unnecessary... Doctor, I have things to do. My apartment isn't even fully unpacked. I'll go now," Steve forced a nervous smile, stood, and left the room.

Outside the room, Steve exhaled deeply. For some reason, the Shiler he'd just met felt oppressive. Was it because he hadn't slept well at lunch? Why had Shiler's demeanor become so cold?

After leaving the hospital, Steve took another taxi back to his apartment. He'd barely sat on the sofa when his phone rang again.

"Hello? Oh, Doctor Shiler? Check-up again??? But I just had two check-ups already??? Is that right?... Alright, I'll go again."

Steve hung up, stood there scratching his head, and looked out the window.

It was already dusk. Warm light streamed into the new apartment, making it cozy—but Steve had spent less than ten minutes here today. The rest of the time, he'd been in taxis.

He sighed, but still stepped out, took another taxi to Arkham Sanatorium—only to find Stark waiting at the entrance.

They were still in a cold war. Neither acknowledged the other. Stark snorted, strode into the elevator, and jabbed the door-close button hard with one finger.

Steve, locked outside, shook his head, shrugged, and made a face at Stark inside the elevator—as if to say: You're so childish.

After Stark left, Steve took the stairs to the second floor—only to find the office there closed too.

He asked a nurse. Shiler had returned to the third-floor room. Reluctantly, Steve climbed another floor—and there he found Shiler in the third-floor consultation room.

Shiler had changed clothes again—this time in casual sportswear, as if about to clock out. And, whether it was Steve's imagination or not, Shiler seemed slightly younger.

Before Steve could speak, Shiler, holding the exam report, said: "Mr. Rogers, all other features on your report are normal—but what's this about your brainwave reading? Why didn't you take this test?"

"Uh... the machine couldn't scan my brainwaves. I don't know why. So the examiner left it blank..."

"No problem. You can try our machine here. But it's late now—the nurse responsible has left. Come back tomorrow morning."

"Other than that, everything's fine. For tension-type migraine, you can take common over-the-counter painkillers. But given your physiology differs from ordinary people, dosage must be recalculated."

"Let me see..." Shiler studied the report's data, scribbled with a pen. "Take this prescription downstairs, fill it according to the dosage I wrote. If pain worsens, come back. If you experience dizziness or nausea, reduce the dose slightly..."

Steve opened his mouth. He noticed Shiler's tone had softened. Had he taken another nap? Had his mood improved?

Steve knew Shiler rarely prescribed medication—he preferred pure psychotherapy. Only when physical symptoms were severe, like during Steve's worst anxiety episode, had Shiler prescribed a single course of pills.

Could it be that great psychologists changed their treatment styles so unpredictably? Steve scratched his head again, took the prescription, and left the room.

At the first-floor pharmacy, Steve found Stark standing there. He tapped Stark on the shoulder: "What's wrong? You need medicine too?"

"What's it to you?" Stark grabbed his prescription and left.

The next morning, Steve came for his check-up—and ran into Stark again. They exchanged a few sharp remarks and parted.

At noon, Steve had just finished lunch when he got a call to review his results. As he walked into the hospital, he met Stark coming out.

When he came out, Stark was walking in.

In one day, Steve made six or seven trips back and forth to Arkham Sanatorium. And from what he observed, Stark had made at least six or seven too.

What the hell was going on? Had they both become terminally ill???