On the dimly lit terrace on the second floor of the hotel, a tall man in a suit took out a cigarette from his pocket. He leaned on the railing, making a relaxed posture, but held the cigarette tightly, and then slightly
He tilted his head and looked at the windows with flashing lights on the side of the hotel.
The scene in one of the windows attracted his attention. He finished smoking the cigarette in his hand. Instead of throwing the cigarette butt to the ground, he stuck his nails in the center of the cigarette butt and tore off the unfinished part.
, light it with a lighter.
When the flames were about to burn his fingertips, he threw the cluster of flaming cigarette butts to the ground and stepped on them with his toes to ensure that no fingerprints would be left.
He walked into the hotel with steady steps, greeted the waiter who came up to him, then walked into the elevator and straightened his suit.
With a "ding" sound, the elevator door opened, and he walked out. His shoes made a dull sound when he stepped on the carpet on the guest room floor. He walked through the somewhat dim hotel corridor and came to the door of room 3103.
"Tuk", "Tuk", "Tuk", he knocked on the door several 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 opened.
The lock clicked slightly, and he walked in and saw an old man with a serious face.
"Are you the contact person sent by the doctor?" The old man looked him up and down and said, "He looks like someone that Pierce's men would be looking for... Come in."
He turned around and wanted to walk into the room, but as soon as he took two steps, he felt something was pressed against his back. The old man, who had been in the spy world for half his life, immediately realized that it was a weapon.
Pistol equipped with silencer.
He slowly raised his hands and said in a calm tone: "Who are you? Who do you work for? SHIELD or the KGB?"
"I work for doctors."
"boom!"
Watching the old man falling slowly, Grant removed the magazine from the pistol. He put the gun away, put on his gloves, groped around the old man's body, and passed the gun he had passed through the crack in the door.
He took the note back and then turned around and left as if nothing had happened.
After walking out of the hotel door, the night in New York was getting thicker. He walked to a park phone booth and dialed a number, then said to the other end of the phone: "How are you doing? Let's meet up, at the coffee shop west of Hell's Kitchen."
"
A slightly cold voice came from the other side, "Tomorrow at 3 o'clock in the afternoon..."
The next morning, in the cafeteria of the SHIELD Alliance, Schiller and Stark were eating breakfast face to face. While cutting the sausages on the plate, Stark complained: "I don't know what's going on lately, no.
The young councilor was assassinated. Even if you choose this time to take revenge, you have to consider the overall environment, right?"
Schiller didn't speak, he just focused on using his knife and fork to deal with the food on the plate. Stark glanced at his actions and said, "What's wrong with you recently?"
"What's wrong?" Schiller asked him instead without raising his head.
"I think you've become a little strange." Stark pulled the corners of his mouth downwards and said, "You seem to have changed."
Schiller put half a cherry tomato into his mouth, then looked up at Stark and asked him: "Where did you see that?"
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. While eating, he said, "Let's talk about clothes first. In addition to wearing a doctor's uniform, you usually like to wear a doctor's uniform.
I just like shirts or sweaters, and I haven’t seen you wearing suits very often.”
Stark looked up at Schiller again. Schiller, who was sitting opposite him, was wearing a dark suit and a ribbed tie. He continued: "Although there are many people in Manhattan, especially near Wall Street,
I like to wear suits all year round, but 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 omelette from the left to the right, and then from the right to the left? Is this some kind of ritual?"
"Because the vegetables should be on the left side at first."
"so what?"
"So the fried egg can only be moved to the right."
Stark took a deep breath and said: "If you have any dissatisfaction with me, you can tell me directly. My temper has improved a lot recently, and I can even tolerate Steve dangling in front of my eyes...
"
"It's nothing, it's just that I have an anxiety attack." Schiller still didn't raise his head and was very focused on eating. Stark snorted and said, "You can't fool me, I also have an anxiety attack, although I haven't had it for a long time.
I’ve done it, but I know what this disease feels like.”
"Panic, hyperventilation, limb stiffness. When the attack was at its worst, I had to lean against a wall and lift one hand with the other to continue the experiment. I remember you wrote in my medical record before
I took my medical history, don’t you remember it?”
Schiller suddenly stopped what he was doing, then looked at Stark and said, "Full marks for the answer, 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 stopped him: "You just left like this? We haven't finished talking yet! What on earth are you doing?"
what's going on?"
"Is this really an 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's indeed an anxiety disorder, but it's just a complication. You can also think of it as a side effect of my broccoli allergy."
As he spoke, he leaned over to straighten the slightly crooked fork, then turned around and left neatly. Stark stared at Schiller's leaving back, and murmured to himself: "What happened to him?"
?”
At this time, another figure came over. When the waiter removed Schiller's plate, Steve sat opposite Stark and said, "Do you mind if I eat here? We can discuss the Avengers."
The next job."
Stark turned his head to the side unnaturally, but did not object. Steve leaned his upper body out of the seat and glanced back, just in time to see Schiller pushing the revolving door to leave. He asked: "Do you have any?"
Don’t you think he’s been acting weird lately, as if he’s 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 something was wrong."
Steve frowned and said while eating: "Remember our speculation last time? Hydra may be affecting the emotions of all of us. Do you think he will also..."
"Unlikely." Stark picked up a piece of potato with a fork and put it in his mouth, then said, "He is a psychiatrist and can read minds, but he is not so easily influenced."
"Have you forgotten?" Steve leaned forward, lowered his voice, and said, "He came into contact with the black-robed Hydra in the sanatorium. Those people are very good at brainwashing. Schiller spent some time with them.
We'd better investigate this matter."
"How do you plan to investigate? Go to him directly?" Stark tilted his head, put down his fork, and then said: "If he is not brainwashed, he will only treat us as crazy. If he is brainwashed, do you think he
Will you 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 both thought of the same person.
In the afternoon, the light became stronger and stronger, and the heavy snow that covered the streets last night began to melt, leaving some mud on the ground. When Schiller walked into the cafe, he stamped his feet on the threshold, shaking off the snowflakes stuck to the sides of his shoes.
Grant saw him, but his expression remained unchanged and he just lowered his head to drink coffee. After Schiller walked over, he sat opposite him, took the coffee from the waiter's hand, scooped out the latte art on the surface with a spoon, and said: "This
Which number is it?"
"Number 6." Grant glanced to the side, and Schiller saw his movements and said, "I have to say, even among SHIELD, you are considered a very vigilant agent."
Grant made a low sneer through his nose and said: "So what? Didn't it fall into your hands?"
"Don't worry, I haven't finished the second half of the sentence yet. Your current vigilance is in obvious contrast with your previous naivety. Why do you think that you will really be able to escape one day in this line of work?"
Grant pursed his lips and said with a self-deprecating smile: "Indeed, how could I expect a despicable and cunning Hydra to keep its 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 person? Grant almost felt ridiculous. This was the first time he heard someone call him an ordinary person. Even Garrett would often praise him for his talent in this area.
On the career path of an agent and a killer, Grant has an excellent resume. 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 techniques. The words and deeds of a senior agent made his starting point in this industry higher than the ending point of many people.
If the situation in 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 in other words, some born murderers have abilities in this regard that ordinary people cannot match.
talent."
"Like?" Grant asked, looking at him.
"Among cases of antisocial personality disorder and mental illness, there is a very small possibility of natural born killers. They are cold-blooded, violent, and good at controlling others. A case I encountered recently was 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."