Although Peter said he would get the medicine soon, he didn't go until the afternoon, because Matt's leg had been bleeding, and he had to change the bandaging methods several times. By the time he was done, it was already afternoon.
Peter didn't have time to eat. He was starving. When he arrived at the clinic, he smelled a captivating aroma.
Schiller heard the doorbell ring and came out to see a tall boy in a hoodie standing at the door, sniffing hard, as if trying to suck all the fragrance into his stomach.
Schiller wiped his hands and said, "Come in."
Peter scratched his head and said, "Good afternoon, sir. A friend of mine asked me to come here for some medicine. He said you'd know about it."
"Oh, I know," Schiller said. "But I have to finish my meal first. He shouldn't be in too much of a hurry, right?"
Peter said, "It's okay, his bleeding has stopped, it just hurts a little badly. He needs some pain medicine."
"Have you eaten?" Schiller asked. Peter blushed a little. He felt that perhaps his gaze towards the kitchen was too intense, and the Doctor had noticed it.
Schiller said, "If you haven't eaten, stay and have some. You can also take a portion back to Matt."
As he spoke, a small yellow creature ran to the table carrying a large bowl, and very humanly, it vigorously sniffed the bowl, then licked its lips, seemingly eager to dig in.
Schiller made Chinese food: rice, sweet and sour pork ribs, hot and sour shredded potatoes, plus a bowl of tomato and egg soup.
Peter, who was feeling a bit flustered from hunger, stared intently at the dining table, truly unable to refuse.
Since gaining his Spider abilities, Peter's appetite had grown considerably, and he got hungry especially easily. After finishing an entire rice cooker full of rice, Peter was truly a bit embarrassed. With red ears, he put down his bowl and said, "I'm really sorry, Doctor, I think I ate all your food. Uh... I'll pay for it..."
"No, no need," Schiller said. "I was going to make another pot of rice anyway, since I still need to take some back to my old friend. There are still some ribs in the pot; scoop them out yourself and put them in that lunchbox in the cupboard to take back to Matt."
Little Spider ran to the kitchen, not only making a new pot of rice but also washing all the pots and dishes clean.
Schiller felt that this version of Spider-Man was quite likable.
In contrast, Pikachu had eaten until his belly was round. After finishing, he slumped onto a chair and began to snore. Schiller grabbed his lightning-shaped tail, shook him, and said, "Even if someone else is responsible for washing dishes today, it's no excuse for you to avoid work. Go throw out the trash."
"Oh, sir, I can take it out on my way," Peter said.
"Alright, thank you for your trouble. Oh, by the way, Hell's Kitchen doesn't have any trash disposal fees. Walk straight ahead, there's a corner with a pile of scrap. Just throw the trash there."
Peter carried two large bags of kitchen waste in his hands and turned out from the back door of the clinic. He immediately saw the spot Schiller had mentioned. It was a bit of a distance from the clinic, piled high with broken bricks, discarded wooden planks, and other people's trash, emitting a strong, foul odor.
There were a few beggars next to these trash heaps, all filling their stomachs with leftover or unwanted kitchen waste.
When Little Spider walked past, these beggars were on the other side of the scrap pile, and he didn't see them. Perhaps he was full, or perhaps the Chinese food Schiller made was simply too much to his liking. The depressed mood in Peter's heart vanished. He happily carried the two bags of trash, made a short sprint, and with a forceful swing of his arm, the trash was thrown to the very top of the scrap pile.
"Bingo!" Peter shouted. He used to love doing this when he went to throw out trash with Uncle Ben: standing far away and then flinging the trash bag with all his might, hoping it would land right in the bin.
But before, he didn't have that much strength, and it was usually Uncle Ben who cleaned up his messes. Peter thought, next time he goes to throw out trash, he must show his Uncle his current arm strength.
He threw the trash bags up, and one of them broke open. Inside were some bones left over from meals, some scraps of meat left from Schiller's cooking, a little unfinished shredded potato, and half a sprouted potato. The beggars, however, looked as if they had seen some peerless delicacy and wanted to snatch it for themselves.
The scrap pile had already formed a small mountain. For the beggars to climb up, they had to step on broken bricks and wooden planks, and the top of the scrap pile was a triangle formed by several large pieces of broken wall. The beggars struggled to climb up, and it was then that Peter saw people picking through the trash.
He felt a little embarrassed, so he rushed to the middle of the scrap pile, wanting to reach the very top and retrieve the trash.
The beggars were not Spider-Man with mutated abilities; they had been hungry for a long time and had little strength. One older woman was originally closest to the top of the mountain, but in her haste, the piece of scrap she was holding broke off, and losing her handhold, she fell straight backward.
Spider-Man had just stood on the very top of the scrap pile when he saw a beggar on the opposite side fall. He reached out to grab him, but it was a step too late.
This scrap heap contained everything: broken bottles thrown from upstairs by drunkards, rebar, sharp wooden spikes. No matter what he hit, he would probably lose half his life.
Fortunately, Peter had superpowers. He quickly bent down and caught the falling beggar. Before he could even feel proud, he heard a violent roar, followed by a sharp, piercing screech of brakes, and a dull thud of something being hit.
Blood splattered. Peter turned his head, looking incredulously at the nearest intersection. The figure that flew out was incredibly familiar to him.
That was Nightcrawler.
A large amount of blood flowed from where he landed. That strong, fishy blood smell covered Peter's World in a hazy red.
He rushed down like a madman. Matt lay there, countless streams of blood seeping from his eyes, nose, and mouth. His spine was twisted into a bizarre shape, seemingly broken.
But he wasn't dead yet; he just couldn't move at all after losing the nerves connected to his brain.
Peter trembled all over. He didn't care about anything else and quickly picked up Matt, then rushed through the back door of Schiller's clinic, shouting, "Doctor! Doctor! Someone here needs treatment!!!"
As soon as Schiller saw Matt, he knew he had probably been ambushed again by those who sought to assassinate him. He said, "The garage is right next door. Put him in the car and take him to Elders Hospital immediately."
Such severe injuries, perhaps only the best hospital had a chance of rescuing him.
Schiller sped through the streets of Manhattan, still getting Matt to Elders Hospital as quickly as possible. He had some pull at this hospital, and Matt was quickly rushed into the emergency room.
However, very quickly, the attending Doctor, with a serious expression, told them, "There's little chance of saving this gentleman. It's a pity he no longer has the ability to write a will or make an oral one. If you are his relatives, perhaps you can see him one last time."
Peter was on the verge of collapse. Everything connected in his mind. He truly hadn't realized that the person the gangsters wanted to murder that day was precisely the only good person in all of Hell's Kitchen—Nightcrawler Matt.
He found it even harder to accept that all of this was his fault. If he had killed those gangsters when he heard about it—no, or even just told Matt about it, he would have been more careful.
If he hadn't stayed at the clinic to eat, but left immediately after getting the medicine, Matt wouldn't have come out to look for him.
If he hadn't been so playful and hadn't thrown those two trash bags so high, perhaps he would have had enough time to tackle Matt the moment the car came rushing out.
He had so many opportunities to save his friend, yet he still failed to do anything.
Nightcrawler was dying, and Peter absolutely could not accept this fact.
Schiller, however, was very calm. He asked the attending Doctor, "Where exactly is his problem? Cardiopulmonary function? Neurosurgery? Or internal abdominal trauma?"
The Doctor shook his head and said, "None of those. His spine is the problem. The nerves probably can't be reconnected. Even if he could barely keep his life, he would be paralyzed for the rest of his life."
Schiller took a deep breath and said, "I just want to know if there's any way to save him."
The Doctor hesitated for a moment and said, "Perhaps Dr. Stephen Strange has a way. He's the best neurosurgeon here. Perhaps only he can reconnect so many nerves."
Schiller immediately turned around and said, "Peter, I'm going to find someone who can save Matt now, but you must stay here. You know, Matt was taken to the hospital, but those who want to kill him won't give up. After I leave, you must ensure that no one enters the operating room. I will be back as quickly as possible."
With that, he immediately left.
Peter trembled, repeatedly muttering, "No one will enter the operating room, no one will enter the operating room, I won't let anyone in..."
After Schiller left the hospital, he immediately called Pepper and said, "I hope to get the home address of a Doctor named Strange."
Pepper didn't ask him why. Soon, he received an address on his phone, not far from Elders Hospital, in the most upscale apartment complex nearby.
Schiller immediately activated his teleportation, arriving at the apartment building as quickly as possible. He didn't take the elevator and didn't plan to knock. He simply used several consecutive wall-penetrating teleports and appeared behind Strange, who was having afternoon tea.
Strange heard a slight movement. He turned his head, and a cane was pointed directly at his Adam's apple.
"Listen, I don't have time to waste with you. A friend of mine is critically injured and is currently in the Elders Hospital emergency room. You are the best neurosurgeon there. Now, grab your things and go operate immediately."
Strange showed an absurd expression. Schiller let go of the cane he was holding, but the cane still floated in mid-air, pointing directly at Strange. Strange raised his hands and stepped back. The cane was not being held by anyone, but it remained pressed against his neck.
Schiller reached out into the air, and Strange's coat, hanging on a hanger, flew over. Strange's eyes widened, watching the scene in disbelief. Schiller threw the coat to him and said, "I think you understand that you have no right to refuse right now. Come with me immediately."