On the way back to his apartment, Schiller could feel the eyes on him. His enhanced sight, boosted by spider-sense, picked out the faintest reflection in the glass façade of the building across the street. Someone was watching.
That was why he'd chosen Hell's Kitchen for his clinic. It wasn't random. After a few days here, he'd mapped out his neighbors' routines. White-collar workers. Yuppies. Rigid schedules. Predictable social circles.
Perfect prey for S.H.I.E.L.D. spies. Within a week, half his neighbors would be swapped with agents. They'd "accidentally" bump into him, strike up conversations, poke around for intel on him—or on Stark. Privacy? Not in their dictionary.
Hell's Kitchen was different. Yes, it was New York's largest slum, crawling with gangs, junkies, and criminals. But that chaos made it the perfect camouflage. Strangers came and went. Identities blurred. No one asked too many questions.
Luxury condos offered comfort. Hell's Kitchen offered freedom.
Stark, efficient as always, had already greased the wheels. A few politicians were happy to "donate" a clinic license there, scoring cheap brownie points about "never giving up on the people." Of course, none of them believed it would last.
Because who in their right mind opened a hospital in Hell's Kitchen? You'd need tanks at the door and nurses with machine guns. Otherwise, the meds would vanish overnight.
But a small psychiatric clinic still rose on Ninth-Tail Alley.
Hell's Kitchen wasn't just eight streets—it sprawled across dozens of blocks, ruled by a hundred little gangs. People claimed Fisk, the Kingpin, ran it. In truth, Fisk's empire sprawled far beyond this cesspit. Drugs, smuggling, rackets—Hell's Kitchen was just one line item. He rarely bothered with its squabbles.
Daredevil had been born here, his sworn enemy. Spider-Man, in his skirmishes, had crossed Fisk, too. But Peter was still just a clueless high-schooler.
Fisk wanted the coast. Hell's Kitchen? Just background noise.
So when word drifted across town that some of his men had gone insane in Ninth-Tail Alley, Fisk dismissed it. Probably drugs.
But inside Hell's Kitchen, rumors exploded. People whispered about a cursed clinic at the alley's end. Gangsters who'd tried to shake down its doctor had staggered out screaming, clawing the air, raving like lunatics.
Even big-name bosses had gone in—and come out broken. Fights with invisible enemies. Crying. Running from shadows.
The rumor spread like wildfire: Ninth-Tail Alley was cursed. Anyone who entered would see their deepest fear and go mad.
And then the culprit showed himself. Not a ghost, but a strange psychiatrist.
Schiller.
When asked, he'd simply say: "They did too many bad things. I gave them a little… counseling."
As for why they went insane? "Evil begets evil."
No one believed him. In Hell's Kitchen, everyone knew evil prospered. Nobody felt guilty here. Not dealers. Not killers. Not extortionists. Guilt? Conscience? That was for people outside.
So the neighborhood called him something else: a black magician. A man who cursed.
Schiller didn't bother to correct them. Fear gas traveled well. And since he'd discovered he could bring objects across universes, he'd been testing imports. Gotham's nightmares worked just fine here. And unlike in Gotham, no one in Marvel knew what "Scarecrow" was. No copyright issues.
The result? The gangs stopped knocking.
But of course, drive off criminals and you attract heroes.
One chilly night, Schiller was locking up the clinic, coffee steaming on his desk, ready to sleep. Then came a click at the door.
He turned. In the half-light, a tall figure in red spandex loomed.
Schiller picked up his coffee. "You're late, Daredevil."
"You know me, Doctor?"
"Of course. In Hell's Kitchen, everyone knows Daredevil." Schiller sipped. "Though I'm more familiar with your other identity… Matt Murdock."
Daredevil froze. How did this stranger know?
Before he could ask, Schiller went on. "Top marks at Columbia. Bright future. A promising lawyer with your own firm. Tell me, Matt—why become Daredevil? Wasn't justice through law enough?"
"Lawyers, justice…" Daredevil scoffed. "That's what people think—defend the weak, uphold the law. But in practice—"
"You couldn't do it as a lawyer. So you tried another way. But tell me—if you couldn't do it in court, what makes you think spandex and a mask will help?"
"My decisions are none of your business!" Daredevil snapped.
"You sound like a teenager rebelling against his dad."
Daredevil realized too late: the conversation had slipped from his hands the moment he walked in. In minutes, Schiller had stripped away his mask, poked his deepest insecurities, and spun him in circles.
Matt forced himself to breathe. Focus. "You're a good shrink. Clever tricks. But who are you? Why here? And what did you do to those men?"
"Too many questions. Tonight, one answer. I'm tired. And unlike you, I'm not a criminal. You've no grounds to harass me."
"You made them insane."
"You have no proof."
"Cops need proof."
"And you're better than cops?"
"Stop beating the bush."
"If you listened properly, you'd know how I found your name. But your memory seems short."
Daredevil bit down on frustration. He'd forgotten the first exchanges, rattled from the start. Schiller smirked.
"See? Heroes, no better memory than thugs."
Then he laid it out. "Two years ago, I taught at Columbia. I saw your name on the graduation list. A lawyer, bound for Kansas. Your old professor spoke highly of you."
Matt's jaw tightened.
"And then I noticed Daredevil's first costume. Your father's old colors. The same boxing trunks are still reused in underground fights. I traced the line. A murdered boxer. A vengeful son. The rest was easy."
"You investigated me?"
"Of course. You rent a house, you check the landlord."
"I'm no landlord."
"Oh? Then maybe I should ask Fisk. But funny—his men told me he's sick of a certain insect buzzing around. He's sending someone to squash you."
Daredevil stiffened.
"Consider that my rent." Schiller raised his cup. "Sleep light, Matt."
Later, back in his base, Daredevil fumed. He'd accomplished nothing. No answers. No warnings given. No evidence.
He'd walked in as a hunter. And left like a tenant, rent paid in advance, while a dangerous new neighbor settled comfortably into Hell's Kitchen.