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"You've always been tense, longing to reclaim the identity of the Captain America from the last era, the perfect person of the golden age, who had an understanding of everything and had everything under control... You've dreamed of being in that state."

"But the reality is that, partly due to your unwillingness to adapt to this impetuous era, another part is that the times have developed so fast that it is gradually getting out of your control."

"I would guess, you would feel anxious because of Spider-Man's battlesuit, and be driven to lose control, not solely because the scene of his death left a shadow in your heart, but also due to the public's attitude towards the several generations of Spider-Men."

"In your view, it's both absurd and laughable that people elevate the already sacrificed first generation Spider-Man and denigrate the second and third generation Spider-Men. It's even more unimaginable that a hero who saves people is ridiculed by the public."

"Knowing the truth of this matter, that is, the first generation Spider-Man is actually the same person as the third generation Spider-Man, you feel even more absurd about their starkly different treatments."

"One is now being lavishly praised, there was a period where his reputation even vastly exceeded that of Iron Man and Captain America, while the other is now at the center of public opinion, being heavily criticised and called a reckless rich second-generation kid..."

"But they are both Peter Parker, you know this, it further proves your prejudice, that being, people of this era are far worse than those of the last, they're all just a bunch of duplicitous and flippant youngsters..."

"Such prejudice becoming more and more entrenched becomes your reason for evading the lifestyle of this era. After all, they're all a bunch of rotten people. Why should I learn their way of life? Why should I integrate into their society?"

"The more you despise the people of this era, the harder you want to prove that the spiritual beacon of the last era is a perfect person, so you're afraid of making mistakes and become more anxious..."

"So, what is the most professional psychiatrist's opinion?" Steve let out another burp, leaned back onto the sofa, revealing his chest and neck that he'd been concealing. Clearly, he was already a little drunk."

"But what Steve didn't expect was that Shiller didn't delve into a lengthy discussion, instead, he fell silent, right until Steve called out to him, "Shiller?... Shiller?""

"Shiller seemed to suddenly wake up. After a while, he closed his eyes and shook his head, then said: "What do you think I can do? If I had any solution, would I still be a psychiatrist in America right now?""

"Upon hearing these words, in his drowsiness, Steve suddenly remembered Shiller's identity as a relic from the former Soviet Union."

"Oh, right, I forgot that you're a Soviet." Steve slumped over to the side, curled up at the edge of the sofa, took another two swigs of his drink, and spilled them soaking his shirt in the process.

"Alright, the Soviet Union won this round." Steve said, covering his eyes. "After all this time, we meet again, you're the doctor, and I'm the patient."

"Wasn't it always this way?" Shiller leaned forward, staring at Steve and said in an indistinct voice: "Only the Soviet Union can cure America's hypocritical, extravagant, and inefficient disease…""

Steve suddenly burst out laughing, the remaining swig of drink caused him to start coughing. He leaned forward again and said repeatedly, nodding his head: "Yes... yes... it's always been like that, we... we're in a doctor-patient relationship…""

"Steve, listen..." Shiller extended a hand out, Steve focused his gaze on it. Shiller was wagging a finger round, like those people who start bragging when they're drunk, and said:

"I deceived the military, threatened Congress, and even blew up a bunch of important figures. They all fell for my tricks…""

"I'm a fraud, a villain, devoid of moral principles. If I want to do something, no one can stop me…""

"But... but..." Shiller took another sip of his drink, forcing clarity into his words, "From my ruthless practice, I've learned... the past era won't come back. Don't dream about it, Captain America, the Red Giant won't come back, the Golden Lighthouse won't either..."

"So, you're saying I'm still somewhat lucky?" Steve coughed a couple of times, then said, "The spirit of America is no longer, the golden age is no longer, but at least, the nation still exists..."

"Exactly... exactly... you happy now, American?" Shiller slammed the bottle down onto the table, speaking further, "I can't go back to my home country ever again; never... ever..."

"She's still around, but she's not the same anymore, they're different..." Shiller muttered unclearly, Steve felt pained by the deep sorrow in Shiller's voice and emotion. With trembling hands, he reached out and put his hand on Shiller's shoulder, saying,

"You can stay here, this is your home too, because your friends are here, we are all your friends..." Steve held his torso and retched, then proceeded to wipe his mouth, saying,

"Everything your country has sacrificed, history will remember. Everything you've sacrificed, your friends will remember..."

"You should take your own advice." Shiller looked directly into Steve's eyes, his expression slightly vacant, "If you could console yourself that way, you wouldn't need me, a professional psychiatrist..."

"I've noticed, you really do care about your professionalism..." Steve began to laugh foolishly, his low laughs echoing in the room, causing the air to pulse continuously. As he laughed, he said, "Even when you're this drunk, you insist on being a professional psychiatrist..."

"I'm not drunk." Shiller shook his head vigorously, mumbling, "I could write you a pathology analysis right now, eloquent and carefully worded, I wouldn't even get a punctuation wrong..."

Steve's laughter intensified, the anxiety and suppressed emotions, along with the chaos and madness brought about by alcohol, dissipated completely.

The two men sat on either side of the table, like a doctor and a patient separated by the furniture, candid and unrestricted comrades and friends, like waving across the Pacific Ocean, saluting the past era.

Steve covered his face, laughing uncontrollably, he composed himself after a while, then said, "Do you know? You're really similar to Howard."

"When he got drunk, he wrote a twenty-thousand-word thesis about the anti-gravity... possible studies of the automobile hub transmission system on the spot and dragged me to listen to his whole paper presentation, criticizing me for not asking him questions..."

"Then he's not professional at all, does he still think he's a college student?" Shiller also started laughing, then said, "I'm the one who always finds faults in others, in this world... there's...no one... more professional...than me..."

The bottle slipped from Shiller's hand, he leaned to one side of the couch, looking as if he had passed out from drunkenness.

Seeing that Shiller was completely drunk, Steve took several deep breaths, allowing the increased speed of his modified heart to quicken the circulation of his blood, accelerating the metabolism of the alcohol.

Once he was somewhat more lucid, Steve helped Shiller up. Now he was sure that Shiller was truly drunk, for a drunk person felt heavy unlike someone who is merely asleep.

The next morning, as Shiller woke up from bed and held his head that felt like it was about to split open, he said to the Gray Mist: "I had asked you not to filter the alcohol, but you didn't have to make the hangover so realistic, did you?"

The Gray Mist whined pityingly, about to explain when the phone on Shiller's bedside table rang. Enduring his discomfort, he answered the phone, then said: "Hello?... What did you say? Stark's anxiety acted up again, what happened?"

"He had a fight with Peter? How could they fight???... It sounds complicated, alright, I'll head over immediately."