On the dimly lit terrace of a hotel's second floor, a tall man in a suit retrieved a cigarette from his pocket. He leaned against the railing, his posture relaxed, but his grip on the cigarette was tense. He slightly turned his head to glance at the glittering windows on the side of the hotel.
One particular sight in the window caught his attention. He finished his cigarette, but instead of dropping the butt to the ground, he wedged his fingernail into the middle of it, tearing apart the unfinished part and setting it aflame with a lighter.
It wasn't until the flame almost singed his fingertips that he discarded the burning cigarette butt onto the ground. Using the tip of his shoe, he crushed it, ensuring no fingerprints were left behind.
He strode smoothly into the hotel, greeting the approaching waiter, before heading into the elevator and adjusting his suit.
With a "ping", the elevator door opened. As he walked out, his shoe pressed against the carpeting of the guest room floor, emitting a muffled sound. He maneuvered through the slightly dark hotel corridor and arrived at room 3103,
"Tap." "Tap." "Tap." He knocked on the door several times. There was no response from inside the room. He pulled out a note from his suit pocket and slid it under the door. After a moment, the lock clicked lightly. He entered to find an elderly man with a stern expression.
"Are you the liaison sent by the Doctor?" The old man gave him a once-over before saying, "You look like the kind of person Pierce would employ…come in."
He turned to walk into the room, but after only two steps, he felt something pressing against his back. The elderly man, a formidable figure in the world of espionage, immediately recognized that it was a silenced pistol.
He slowly raised his hands and asked calmly, "Who are you? Who do you work for? S.H.I.E.L.D. or the KGB?"
"I am working for the Doctor."
"Bang!"
Watching as the elderly man slowly toppled over, Grant dismantled the magazine of the handgun. He put away the gun and, after putting on gloves, sifted through the elderly man's possession to retrieve the note he had slipped beneath the door earlier. He calmly turned and left like nothing had happened.
Exiting the front doors of the hotel, the night was heavy in New York. He approached a payphone booth in a park, dialed a number, and spoke into the phone, "How have you been? Let's meet at that coffee shop west of Hell's Kitchen."
An indifferent voice responded from the other end, "Tomorrow afternoon at 3 o' clock…"
The following morning, in the S.H.I.E.L.D. Alliance cafeteria, Shiller and Stark faced each other over breakfast. Stark, while cutting the sausage on his plate, complained, "I don't know what's going on recently. A lot of congressmen are being assassinated. Even if they wanted to seek revenge during election season, they should take the overall situation into account, no?"
Shiller didn't reply, he was focused on his food, deftly using his knife and fork. Stark glanced at Shiller's movements and asked, "What's wrong with you these days?"
"What's wrong?" Shiller retorted without looking up.
"I feel like you're acting strange." Stark pulled down the corners of his mouth, saying, "Like you're someone else."
Shiller popped half a cherry tomato into his mouth, then lifted his gaze to Stark, asking him, "What made you think that?"
Stark opened his mouth as though there was too much he wanted to say and didn't know where to start. He looked down to slice a piece of beef, chewing as he went on, "Firstly, your clothes. Apart from a doctor's uniform, you seem to prefer shirts or sweaters. I don't remember ever seeing you wear a suit before."
Stark glanced at Shiller again, who was sitting across from him in a dark suit, sporting a geometric-patterned tie. He continued, "Granted, many people around Manhattan, especially near Wall Street, prefer suits all year round, but why has your dressing style suddenly changed so much?"
"What else?" Shiller asked, still eating.
Stark stared at Shiller's plate and asked, "I've been meaning to ask, why did you move the fried egg from the left to the right side, then from right back to left? Is this some kind of ritual?"
"Because the vegetables were meant to be on the left side initially."
"So?"
"So, the fried egg had to be moved to the right."
Taking a deep breath, Stark said, "If you have any grievances against me, just tell me directly. My temper has improved a lot lately, I've even managed to bear with Steve flaunting himself in front of me..."
"It's nothing, my anxiety disorder just flared up." Shiller continued eating, not lifting his gaze. Stark snorted, "You can't deceive me with that excuse. I also suffer from anxiety. Although it has been a long time since it last occurred, I know what it feels like."
"Panic, hyperventilation, bodily stiffness; when it gets severe, I have to lean against a wall and hold one hand up with the other to continue my experiment. I remember you wrote this in my medical history, don't you recall?"
Shiller suddenly stopped the motion of his hand, then turned to Stark and said, "Answer is perfect, but it doesn't matter."
After saying that, he put down his knife and fork, and wiped his mouth with a napkin. As he was about to stand up, Stark stopped him: "Really? Are you leaving just like that? We haven't finished talking! What is happening with you?"
"Is this really anxiety disorder? Why do I feel that something is not quite right?" Stark looked somewhat puzzled at the utensils left by Shiller, where the remaining food is neatly lined up.
Shiller stepped out of the chair, looking back at Stark and said, "Yes, it is anxiety disorder, but it's only a complication. You can also think of it as my allergic reaction to broccoli."
Saying that, he bent over to straighten a slightly skewed fork, then turned and left swiftly. Stark looked on, bewildered as he watched Shiller's retreating figure and muttered to himself, "What's going on with him?"
At this moment, another figure walked over and once the waiter cleared the dishes from Shiller's seat, Steve sat down across from Stark saying, "You don't mind me eating here, right? We can discuss the upcoming tasks for The Avengers."
Stark turned his head awkwardly, but didn't object. Steve leaned his upper body over the back of his seat and turned to look back, just in time to see Shiller leaving through the revolving door. He asked, "Do you feel something is off with him lately, as if he's changed?"
"I noticed it before you. The moment he said he wanted to move back to that small clinic in Hell's Kitchen, I knew something was off."
As Steve furrowed his brow and ate as he spoke, he said, "Do you remember our theory from last time? Hydra might be influencing everyone's emotions. Do you think this might apply to him as well?"
"Unlikely," Stark skewered a piece of potato with his fork and put it in his mouth. He then said, "He's a psychologist who can read minds, it would not be so easy to affect him."
"Have you forgotten?" Steve leaned forward, lowering his voice. "He touched base with the Hydra in a cloak at the sanitarium. They're experts at brainwashing. Shiller spent some time with them, we should investigate this."
"What's your plan? Will you go straight to him?" Stark turned his head, put down his fork, and said, "If he's not brainwashed, he'll just think we're crazy. If he is, do you think he'll admit it?"
"We need to find a professional." Steve said with certainty. Stark raised an eyebrow, looking at him. Their eyes met and they both thought of the same person.
In the afternoon, the sunlight became increasingly intense, causing the heavy snow that had blanketed the streets the night before to melt. The ground was muddy, and when Shiller walked into the café, he stomped his feet at the door to shake off the snow stuck to the edge of his shoes.
Grant noticed him but kept his expression unchanged, continuing to sip his coffee. After Shiller walked over and sat across from him, he took the coffee from the waiter's hand, stirred the latte art on the surface with a spoon, and said, "What number is this?"
"The sixth." Grant looked to the side. Shiller noticed his movement and said, "I have to say, even in S.H.I.E.L.D., you're a highly vigilant agent."
Grant let out a deep, sarcastic snort from his nostrils, saying, "So what? I still ended up in your hands."
"Don't rush, I haven't finished. You've changed from being naïve to having high vigilance. How do you think there would ever be a way out of this business?"
Grant sipped his mouth, he gave a self-deprecating laugh, "Indeed, why would I expect a cunning Hydra to keep its promises?"
Shiller took a sip from his coffee cup, he said, "Do you think I specifically chose you? If there were other available people, I wouldn't prefer to force an ordinary person to become an assassin."
An ordinary person? Grant was nearly amused by the absurdity. This was the first time he heard someone called him an ordinary person. Even Garrett often praised him for being quite talented in this field.
In the professions of a secret agent and an assassin, Grant's resume could be described as outstanding. He started at a young age, undergoing professional agent training day-in, day-out after being adopted by Garrett. Apart from this, Garrett also taught him many killing techniques. The teachings from an experienced agent allowed him to surpass many in this industry from the beginning.
If the situation at S.H.I.E.L.D. continued to develop as it had in the past, then it was highly likely that he would take over Hydra's leadership within S.H.I.E.L.D. at Pierce's age.
On mentioning this topic, Shiller seemed somewhat interested, he continued saying, "It may sound ridiculous to you, but many murderers are born that way. Or rather, some of them possess skills far beyond ordinary people."
"Like who?" Grant stared at him and asked.
"On rare occasions, patients with antisocial personality disorder may show signs of being born killers. They are cold-blooded, irritable, and good at controlling others. A recent case I encountered involves a teenager, much younger than you."
"Who's that?"
"You don't know him, but I'm rather familiar with him, his name is Oswald Kolbott."
"A little penguin with a sharp bird's beak."