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Although Peter had promised to fetch the medicine shortly, it wasn't until the afternoon that he made his way to the clinic. This delay was due to Matt's leg still oozing blood, which forced Peter to try several different bandaging methods. By the time he finished tending to Matt's wounds, it was already well into the afternoon.

Peter hadn't had a chance to eat, and his hunger gnawed at him as he entered the clinic. A tantalizing aroma wafted through the air.

Schiller heard the doorbell and stepped out to find a young man in a hoodie standing at the door, vigorously inhaling as if he wanted to absorb the scent into his belly.

Schiller wiped his hands and said, "Come in."

Peter scratched his head and said, "Good afternoon, sir. A friend of mine told me to come here to pick up some medicine. He said you'd know."

"Oh, I know," Schiller replied. "But you'll have to wait until I've finished my meal. He shouldn't be in too much of a hurry, right?"

Peter said, "It's fine. His bleeding has stopped, but he's in quite a bit of pain. He needs some painkillers."

"Have you eaten?" Schiller asked. Peter blushed slightly, feeling that his gaze towards the kitchen might have been too intense and had been noticed by the doctor.

Schiller said, "If not, stay and have a meal. You can take some back for Matt as well."

With that, a small yellow creature appeared with a large bowl and eagerly sniffed the air, licking its lips as if it couldn't wait any longer.

Schiller prepared a Chinese meal, including rice, sweet and sour spare ribs, spicy shredded potatoes, and a bowl of tomato egg soup.

Peter, who was becoming quite famished, stared at the table without finding words to refuse. Ever since he acquired his spider abilities, his appetite had grown, and he was easily susceptible to hunger. After devouring an entire rice cooker full of rice, Peter began to feel embarrassed. He put down his bowl, his ears turning red, and said, "I'm really sorry, Doctor. It seems I've eaten all your food. I'll pay for it..."

"No need," Schiller interrupted. "I was planning to make another pot of rice anyway, and I have to take some back to my old friend. There are still some spare ribs in the pot. Scoop them out and put them in that lunchbox in the cupboard. You can take them for Matt."

The little spider scurried into the kitchen, not only making a fresh pot of rice but also washing the dishes.

Schiller thought this version of Spider-Man was quite likable.

In contrast, Pikachu had eaten until he was stuffed, and after finishing, he flopped onto a chair and began to snore. Schiller grabbed his Thunderbolt-shaped tail and shook it, saying, "Even if someone else is responsible for washing dishes today, it's not a reason for you to shirk your duty. Go take out the trash."

"Oh, sir, I can take it out on my way," Peter said.

"Alright, thank you. Oh, by the way, there's no garbage disposal fee in Hell's Kitchen. Just walk ahead, there's a corner with a pile of waste. You can throw the trash there."

Peter carried two large bags of kitchen waste and went out through the back door of the clinic. He quickly spotted the place Schiller mentioned, which was a bit of a distance from the clinic. It was piled high with broken bricks, scrap wood, and other garbage that emitted a strong, unpleasant odor.

Several homeless people were nearby, pointing at leftovers or discarded kitchen waste to fill their stomachs.

As Spider-Man walked past them, the homeless people were on the other side of the waste pile and didn't notice him. Perhaps they had already eaten their fill, or perhaps Schiller's Chinese cuisine was just to their liking. Peter's earlier feelings of depression dissipated, and he joyfully carried the two bags of trash. With a short sprint and a powerful swing of his arm, he tossed the trash onto the top of the waste pile.

"Bingo!" Peter shouted. He loved doing this with his Uncle Ben when they used to take out the trash, standing far away and flinging the garbage bag, hoping it would land perfectly in the trash can.

But he hadn't had this much strength before. Often, it was Uncle Ben who had to clean up the mess. Peter thought that next time he went to take out the trash, he would show his uncle his newfound arm strength.

He tossed the garbage bags up, and one of them burst open, spilling leftover bones from someone's meal, the leftover bits of meat from Schiller's cooking, some uneaten shredded potatoes, and half a sprouted potato. The homeless people saw this like they had stumbled upon a feast of gourmet delicacies. They rushed to grab whatever they could.

The waste pile had grown into a small hill, and the homeless people had to climb it, stepping on broken bricks and wooden boards. At the top of the pile, several large pieces of shattered wall formed a triangle. The homeless people struggled to climb up, and that's when Peter finally noticed someone scavenging.

Feeling a bit embarrassed, he dashed halfway up the waste pile to retrieve the garbage. These homeless people weren't mutation-powered Spider-Men; they were already starving, weak, and lacking in strength. An elderly woman, who had been the closest to the top, lost her grip and dropped the piece of waste she had been trying to grab. She fell backward.

Just as Spider-Man reached the top of the waste pile, he saw a homeless person fall. He reached out to grab them but was a fraction too late.

This waste pile contained all sorts of hazardous items: broken bottles thrown down by drunks from the floors above, steel rods, upright spiked wooden boards. Regardless of what she hit, it would likely take a considerable toll.

Luckily, Peter had superhuman abilities. He swiftly bent down and caught the falling homeless person. But before he could even feel a sense of relief, he heard a loud, thunderous roar, followed by a screeching brake sound, and a dull thud as something collided.

Blood splattered, and Peter turned his head in disbelief towards the nearest intersection. The figure that had been flung was all too familiar.

It was Daredevil.

A vast pool of fresh blood flowed from the spot where he had fallen, the heavy scent of iron and gore enveloping Peter's vision in a crimson haze.

He rushed forward, his actions akin to madness, finding Matt lying there, blood seeping from his eyes, nose, and mouth, his spine twisted into a grotesque shape, seemingly broken beyond repair.

Yet, Matt was not dead, only rendered immobile after losing the connection between his brain and nerves.

Peter trembled uncontrollably, sparing no time for contemplation as he hastily picked up Matt and rushed into the Schiller Clinic's rear entrance, shouting, "Doctor! Doctor! We need treatment here!"

A glance from Schiller at Matt was enough to deduce that he had likely been ambushed by those who sought his life. Schiller instructed, "The garage is right nearby. Place him in the car and rush him to Presbyterian Hospital."

For injuries this severe, only the best hospital held a sliver of hope for a possible rescue.

Schiller raced through the streets of Manhattan, determined to reach Presbyterian Hospital at the earliest. Here, he had some influence, and Matt was swiftly ushered into the emergency room.

However, the attending doctor soon approached them with a grave expression. "The chances of saving this gentleman are slim. Unfortunately, he is no longer able to write a will or leave verbal instructions. If you are his family, you might want to see him one last time."

Peter was on the brink of collapse. Everything seemed to converge on him, the realization hitting hard: the very day the gangs sought to murder someone, it turned out to be the only good person in all of Hell's Kitchen—Daredevil Matt.

He couldn't accept that all of this had transpired because of him. If he had killed those gang members when he first heard about their intentions, or even if he had just informed Matt of the danger, he might have been more cautious.

If he hadn't stayed at the clinic to eat, if he had left immediately after getting his medication, Matt might not have come looking for him.

If he hadn't played around and thrown those two garbage bags so high, perhaps he could have intercepted Matt as the car sped away.

He had so many opportunities to save his friend, but he had failed at every turn.

Daredevil was on the brink of death, a reality Peter could hardly bear.

Schiller, on the other hand, remained composed. He asked the specialist, "What is the primary issue? Cardiopulmonary function? Neurosurgery? Or internal injuries?"

The doctor shook his head. "None of the above. It's his spine. The nerves are likely beyond repair. Even if we barely manage to save his life, he'll be paralyzed for the rest of it."

Schiller took a deep breath. "I just need to know if there's any way to save him."

The doctor hesitated for a moment before responding, "Perhaps Doctor Strange can help. He's our best neurosurgeon, and he might be the only one capable of reconnecting those many nerves."

Schiller swiftly turned and said, "Peter, I'm going to find someone who can save Matt. But you must stay here. Matt has been taken to the hospital, but those who wanted him dead won't give up easily. After I leave, you must ensure that no one enters the operating room. I'll be back as soon as possible."

With that, he left.

Peter trembled all over, continuously muttering to himself, "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 need the home address of a doctor named Strange."

Pepper didn't inquire about the reason. Soon, Schiller received a string of addresses on his mobile phone. The location was not far from the Elder Council's hospital, in one of the most upscale apartments nearby.

Schiller activated his Blink, arriving at the apartment building with lightning speed. He didn't bother with the elevator or knocking on the door; instead, he used several consecutive Blinks to appear right behind Strange, who was sipping his afternoon tea.

Startled by the sudden movement, Strange turned to find a cane pressed firmly against his throat.

"Listen, I don't have time for small talk. My friend is critically injured and is currently undergoing treatment at Presbyterian Hospital. You're the best neurosurgeon there, so grab your things and get ready for surgery."

Strange wore an absurd expression, and Schiller released his grip on the cane, but it remained suspended in mid-air, pointing directly at Strange's throat.

Schiller extended his hand towards the air, and Strange's coat, hanging on a hanger, flew over. Wide-eyed and incredulous, Strange watched as Schiller tossed the coat to him and said, "I believe you understand that you have no right to refuse. Come with me immediately."

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