By the time night fell, Schiller had confirmed something crucial: he could stay in Marvel as long as he wanted. Sleep in Gotham, hop over. Sleep again, hop back. DC time didn't move while he was gone, so in theory, he could loaf around Marvel forever, free from Gotham's smog.
But good things never last.
Before the weekend checkup with Peter's family, S.H.I.E.L.D. came knocking.
It was during work hours. Schiller had just finished his rounds and was sneaking Peter's family into the system for priority appointments when a knock came at his office door. He didn't look up—until his Spider-Sense jolted. He raised his eyes. A stranger stood in the doorway.
"Relax, Doc. Name's Coulson. Agent of S.H.I.E.L.D."
Schiller squinted over his glasses. "Not here. My patients are inside. Let's go out."
Coulson nodded quickly. They ended up in a café across from the hospital.
Schiller frowned. "What, S.H.I.E.L.D. couldn't spare a female agent who can pass for a nurse? Or do you guys just like creeping around in suits?"
Coulson blinked. Normally, people freaked when secret agents came calling. This man was… irritated. Suspiciously irritated. The Director had been right: this guy was not normal.
Schiller leaned back, exasperated. "Look, I've already been late one day, skipped another, and the whole ward thinks I'm a drunk who pops pills. If you tank my job right now, I'm finished!"
"Our records show you're just a temp," Coulson said, "covering for the absent psych director—"
"Is that the point? I need this job. If you get me fired, what then?"
Coulson softened. "We're not here to cause trouble. We just heard you've been consulting for Mr. Stark. We'd like some insight into his psychological condition. Of course, we'll pay—"
"One million dollars an hour."
"Pffft!" Coulson spat coffee everywhere. He wiped his mouth, spluttering. "If you don't want to talk, just say so—"
"Can't afford me? Then don't book the appointment," Schiller snapped, rolling his eyes and storming out like the world's most corrupt quack.
Coulson didn't stop him. Instead, he pressed his earpiece. "He bolted fast, very defensive. Definitely something up in that hospital. I'll keep tailing—yeah, understood."
Back in his office, Schiller cranked his telepathy to max, let the chaos of psychiatric patients flood in, and scratched down ten pages of raw madness. Then he locked the papers away.
When he got home that night, his Spider-Sense told him agents had already snooped around. No bugs, no cameras—he let it go.
At S.H.I.E.L.D. HQ, Fury studied the glowing dossier. Coulson stood behind him.
"He's obsessed with keeping his hospital job," Coulson reported. "House full of bottles, some pills. And these—" He handed over the notes. "We found more shredded into pulp in the sewers."
Fury flipped the pages. "This isn't gibberish. Not the ramblings of a single patient. These are… extractions. Secrets no normal psych could get."
"Hypnosis?" Coulson guessed.
"Our shrinks hypnotize, too. But can they make you confess what color underwear you liked in grade school?" Fury shot back.
"…Maybe he just made it up."
"Then explain how he zeroed in on Stark's weak points. Or why J.A.R.V.I.S. glitched into a logic crash after one conversation."
"You want him for S.H.I.E.L.D.?"
"I want to know what's in that hospital. And then we see. But men like him are dangerous—too calm, too clever. I hate clever. Harder to kill than muscle."
"Or he's just a shrink with eccentric hobbies," Coulson tried.
"Coulson, sometimes I wonder if your Level Eight clearance came from a cereal box," Fury growled. "A man who cracks Stark in thirty minutes, then strolls back into Stark Industries the next day—ordinary?"
"…I'll start moving him out of the hospital."
The very next day, Schiller was "terminated."
He strolled into Stark's office, threw up his hands. "See? Now I really do need your patronage. You won't let your hardworking shrink starve, right?"
Tony didn't look up from his tools. "Two million wasn't enough to start your own clinic?"
"Money's not the issue. Licenses are. I need a legal practice, not some roadside palm-reading stand."
"With your résumé? You can't get licensed?"
"I can. But the location's… special." Schiller sipped his wine.
"Where?"
"Hell's Kitchen."
Tony's hand slipped. Sparks burst from the Mark II's leg. "You? Hell's Kitchen? Since when do you play Mother Teresa, saving junkies and strays?"
Schiller only said, "I need a legal clinic in Hell's Kitchen. In return, you get one favor from me."
"I don't need you," Tony scoffed. "I'm Stark."
"You don't want to know if Pepper really loves you?"
BANG! The Mark II's right leg blew out. Tony whirled, face smudged, panic flickering in his eyes. "What did you say? What about Pepper?"
Schiller smiled thinly. "I can tell you the truth. When the time's right. You've seen my results."
"Pepper loves me. Every woman loves me."
"Just another face in the crowd? Nothing special?" Schiller asked softly.
Tony froze.
"…Fine," Tony muttered. "But no more therapy sessions. If Pepper asks, tell her you're unavailable."
"Short on cash, are we?"
Tony exploded. "I could pay ten million an hour and not blink! I just don't need therapy! I'm fine! Perfectly fine!"
Schiller nodded at the smoking armor. "The Mark II disagrees."
They both looked down at the legless suit.
"OUT!" Tony roared, pointing at the door.
Back at his place, Schiller texted Peter: Checkup booked. Staff will take care of you. But our meet-up has to wait—I left the hospital.
Peter, flustered, insisted on meeting anyway. Schiller deflected gently.
Instead, he messaged Charles: What if I opened a clinic in Hell's Kitchen?
"The devil won't thank you."
Sounds like you've been there yourself.
"Don't do it. Ordinary men can't resist demons."
But only criminals can deal with criminals. Isn't that right?
Charles stared at the words. His mind whispered another name. Marx, was this your truth, too?
That to fight evil, you had to become it?
He looked out the window. Students ran across the lawn, Ororo scolding them back to class, Jean watching quietly. The world looked peaceful.
But Charles knew. The shadow of Dark Phoenix had not gone far.
Footnote: What is Hell's Kitchen in Marvel?
Hell's Kitchen is a real neighborhood in New York City, but in Marvel Comics it carries special weight. It is best known as the home turf of Daredevil (Matt Murdock), who grew up there and swore to protect it. The district is infamous for its poverty, crime, and corruption, often controlled by mob bosses like the Kingpin (Wilson Fisk).
Unlike the cosmic battles of the Avengers, Hell's Kitchen represents Marvel's street-level storytelling—gritty crime dramas with heroes like Daredevil, Jessica Jones, Luke Cage, Iron Fist, and the Punisher. Symbolically, it's the opposite of Stark Tower: not glamorous or world-saving, but a place where survival, justice, and morality are tested night after night.
So when Schiller talks about opening a clinic there, he's essentially choosing to step into one of Marvel's darkest and most dangerous pressure cookers.