Chapter 384 Schiller Is Ill (Part 1)

On the second floor terrace of the hotel, where the light was a little dim, a tall man in a suit took out a cigarette from his pocket. He leaned on the railing, pretending to be relaxed, but holding the cigarette tightly, and then tilted his head slightly to look at the windows on the side of the hotel where lights were flashing.

The scene in one of the windows attracted his attention. He finished the cigarette in his hand, but did not throw the cigarette butt on the ground. Instead, he stuck his fingernails in the middle of the cigarette butt, tore off the unsmoked part, and lit it with a lighter.

When the flame was about to burn his fingertips, he threw the cluster of cigarette butts with flames on the ground, and then stepped on it with his toes to ensure that no fingerprints would be left.

He walked into the hotel with a steady pace, greeted the waiter who came to meet him, then walked into the elevator and adjusted his suit.

With a "ding" sound, the elevator door opened, and he walked out. His shoes made a dull sound on the carpet on the guest room floor. He walked through the dim hotel corridor and came to the door of Room 3103.

"Knock", "knock", "knock", he knocked on the door a few times, but there was no response from the room. The man took out a note from his suit pocket and stuffed it under the door. After a while, the door lock rang lightly. He walked in and saw an old man with a serious face.

"Are you the contact sent by the doctor?" The old man looked him up and down and said, "It looks like someone that Pierce's men would look for... Come in."

He turned around and wanted to walk into the room, but he just took two steps and felt something pressing against his back. The old man, who had been a powerful figure in the spy world for half his life, immediately realized that it was a pistol with a silencer.

He slowly raised his hands and said calmly: "Who are you? Who do you work for? SHIELD or KGB?"

"I work for the doctor."

"Bang!"

Watching the old man slowly fall, Grant removed the magazine from the pistol, put the gun away, put on gloves, fumbled around the old man, took back the note he had passed through the crack in the door, and then turned and left as if nothing had happened.

Walking out of the hotel door, the night in New York was thick. He walked to a telephone booth in the park and dialed the phone, then said to the other end of the phone: "How are you doing recently? Let's meet, just in the cafe west of Hell's Kitchen."

A slightly indifferent voice came from the other side, "Tomorrow at 3 pm..."

The next morning, in the cafeteria of the SHIELD Alliance, Schiller and Stark were eating breakfast face to face. Stark was cutting the sausage on the plate and complaining: "I don't know what happened recently. Many congressmen were assassinated. Even if you want to choose this time to take revenge, you have to consider the overall environment, right?"

Schiller didn't say anything, but just focused on using the knife and fork to deal with the food on the plate. Stark glanced at his movements and said, "What's wrong with you recently?"

"What's wrong?" Schiller didn't look up, but asked him back.

"I think you've become a little strange." Stark pulled the corners of his mouth down and said, "Like a different person."

Schiller put half a small tomato into his mouth, then looked up at Stark and asked him, "How do you know?"

Stark opened his mouth, as if he had too much to say and didn't know where to start. He lowered his head and cut a piece of beef, eating while saying, "Let's talk about clothes first. In addition to wearing doctor's uniforms, you usually like shirts or sweaters. I haven't seen you wear a suit very often."

Stark looked up at Schiller again. Schiller, who was sitting opposite him, was wearing a dark suit and a checkered tie. He continued, "Although there are many people in Manhattan, especially near Wall Street, who like to wear suits all year round, why has your dressing style suddenly changed so much?"

"What else?" Schiller asked while eating.

Stark stared at his plate and said, "I just wanted to ask, why do you move the fried eggs from the left to the right, and then from the right to the left, is this a ritual?"

"Because the vegetables should be placed on the left at the beginning."

"So?"

"So the fried eggs can only be moved to the right."

Stark took a deep breath and said, "If you have any dissatisfaction with me, you can just say it directly. My temper has improved a lot recently. I can even tolerate Steve dangling in front of me..."

"Nothing, just my anxiety disorder." Schiller still didn't look up and was eating very attentively. Stark snorted and said, "You can't fool me with this. I also have anxiety disorder. Although it hasn't happened for a long time, I know what this disease feels like."

"Panic, hyperventilation, limb stiffness, when the attack is the worst, I have to lean against a wall and use one hand to lift the other hand to continue the experiment. I remember you wrote the medical history in my medical record before, don't you remember?"

Schiller suddenly stopped what he was doing, then looked at Stark and said, "The answer is full marks, but it's useless."

After saying that, he put down his knife and fork and wiped his mouth with a napkin. Just as he was about to stand up, Stark called him: "You just left like that?? We haven't finished talking yet! What's wrong with you?"

"Is this really anxiety disorder? Why do I feel like something is wrong?" Stark looked at the tableware left by Schiller with confusion, where the remaining food was neatly arranged.

Schiller walked out of the chair, looked back at Stark and said, "It is indeed anxiety disorder, but it is just a complication. You can also regard it as a side effect of my allergy to broccoli."

As he said this, he leaned over to straighten the crooked fork, then turned around and left. Stark stared at Schiller's back and muttered to himself, "What happened to him?"

At this time, another figure came over. After the waiter removed Schiller's previous plate, Steve sat opposite Stark and said, "Do you mind if I eat here? It's just right that we can discuss the next work of the Avengers."

Stark turned his head to the side somewhat unnaturally, but did not object. Steve leaned out of the chair and looked back. He saw Schiller pushing the revolving door to leave. He asked, "Do you think he has been weird recently, as if he has become a different person?"

"I discovered it earlier than you. As early as when he said he was going to move back to the small clinic in Hell's Kitchen, I felt that something was wrong. That's not right."

Steve frowned while eating and said, "Remember our last speculation? Hydra may be affecting the emotions of all of us. Do you think he will also..."

"Unlikely." Stark stabbed a piece of potato with a fork, put it in his mouth, and said, "He is a psychologist and can read minds, but he is not so easily influenced."

"Have you forgotten?" Steve leaned forward, lowered his voice, and said, "He has been in contact with the black-robed Hydra in the sanatorium. Those people are very good at brainwashing. Schiller has been with them for a while. We'd better investigate this matter clearly."

"How do you plan to investigate? Go directly to him?" Stark turned his head, put down his fork, and then said, "If he is not brainwashed, he will only regard us as psychopaths. If he is brainwashed, do you think he will admit it?"

"We have to find a professional." Steve said firmly. Stark raised his eyebrows and looked at him. The two looked at each other and thought of the same person.

In the afternoon, the light became stronger and stronger. The heavy snow that covered the streets last night began to melt, and the ground was a little muddy. When Schiller walked into the cafe, he stamped his feet on the threshold to shake off the snowflakes stuck to the edge of his shoes.

Grant saw him, but his expression remained unchanged. He just lowered his head to drink coffee. After Schiller walked over, he sat opposite him, took the coffee from the waiter, and scooped the latte art on the surface with a spoon. He said, "Which one is this?"

"The 6th one." Grant glanced to the side. Schiller saw his action and said, "I have to say that even in SHIELD, you are a very vigilant agent."

Grant sneered with his nose and said, "So what? Didn't it fall into your hands?"

"Don't be impatient, I haven't finished the second half of the sentence. Your current vigilance is in stark contrast to your previous naivety. How can you think that you will really get out of this business one day?"

Grant pursed his lips and said with a self-deprecating smile, "Indeed, how can I expect a despicable and cunning Hydra to keep his promise?"

Schiller picked up the coffee cup and took a sip of coffee. He said, "Do you think I really want to choose you? If there are other people available, I don't like to force an ordinary person to be a killer."

Ordinary people? Grant almost felt absurd. It was the first time he heard someone call him an ordinary person. Even Garrett often praised him for his talent in this area.

In the career path of agents and killers, Grant's resume can be regarded as very good. He entered the industry very early. Since being adopted by Garrett, he has been receiving professional agent training day after day. In addition, Garrett also taught him many killing skills. The words and deeds of a senior agent have made his starting point in this industry surpass the end of many people.

If the situation of SHIELD continues to develop as before, then he is likely to take over the position of Hydra leader in SHIELD at Pierce's age.

When this topic was brought up, Schiller seemed to be a little interested. He continued: "It may sound ridiculous to you, but many murderers are born, or some born murderers have talents in this area that ordinary people can hardly reach."

"For example?" Grant looked at him and asked.

"Among cases of antisocial personality disorder, there is a very small chance of a natural killer. They are cold-blooded, violent, and good at controlling others. I recently encountered a case of a teenager who is much younger than you."

"Who is that?"

"You don't know him, but I am quite familiar with him. His name is Oswald Cobblepot."

"A little penguin with a sharp beak."