American comics: I am full of martial virtues and I love to be kind to others.

He crouched down and shone his flashlight inside the cabinet. It was empty, containing only some pipes and so on.

What Lynn saw was a small, fresh scratch on the inside of the cabinet, as if it had been made recently. Next to the scratch was a small patch that looked a bit off—the surface appeared to have been wiped, but not thoroughly.

“Give me an evidence bag and sampling tools,” Lynn said to the evidence collectors.

The forensic personnel handed over their equipment. Lynn carefully used a cotton swab to collect a sample from the suspicious area, then examined it closely with a magnifying glass.

“There are fingerprints here,” Lynn said, his heart starting to race. “Partial fingerprints, but enough to identify.”

“Fingerprints?” Reynolds immediately walked over. “Are you sure?”

“Look here,” Lynn pointed to him, “this is the fingerprint pattern. Although it’s only part of it, if we’re lucky, we should be able to extract it. The killer carefully wiped away most of the traces, but this corner is too well hidden; he probably didn’t notice it.”

“This could be the breakthrough,” Reynolds said, his voice tinged with excitement.

“Don’t get too excited,” Lynn said, continuing to carefully examine the surroundings. “We need to make sure the data is collected correctly, and even if we do successfully extract it, there’s no guarantee we’ll find a match in the database.”

But Lynn's intuition told him this was an important discovery. The killer was careful, but no one is perfect. In such a complex preparation process, leaving a small trace was possible, even inevitable.

Lynn continued searching inside the cupboard and found something else interesting—a few strands of hair stuck in a crack in the cupboard. The hair was black, of medium length, and looked quite fresh.

“For evidence, we also have hair samples here,” Lynn said.

Every discovery was carefully recorded, photographed, and sampled. Lynn knew that solving cases often relied on piecing together the truth from these minute clues.

“Send all the evidence to the lab, prioritizing that fingerprint and hair sample,” Lynn told the forensics team leader. “I need the results as soon as possible.”

“Understood, Agent Holt,” the team leader said. “The fingerprints can be processed by tomorrow morning, but the DNA analysis may take a few days.”

“As soon as possible,” Lynn said.

He walked out of the apartment building, went downstairs, and took a deep breath of fresh air. It was already late at night, and the streets were quiet, with only the flashing lights of police cars.

Reynolds walked up to him: "What do you think our chances are of catching him?"

“It depends on that fingerprint,” Lynn said. “If the killer has a criminal record, or has served in the military, applied for special permission, or something, his fingerprint will be in the system. That way, we can identify him immediately.”

"What if it's not in the system?"

“That’s a bit more difficult, but not impossible,” Lynn said. “Fingerprints are evidence in themselves. Once we have a suspect, we can use them to confirm their identity. And DNA samples will also be helpful.”

Reynolds nodded, then said, "Agent Hall, this time I hope for genuine cooperation. No more political games, no more xenophobia. You're now in charge of this case, and the NYPD will fully cooperate."

“I accept,” Lynn said, “but I need complete freedom of movement and access to all case files, including all the details of the previous five bombings.”

“No problem,” Reynolds said. “I’ll arrange it.”

The following morning at nine o'clock, Lynn's cell phone rang. It was a call from the lab.

"Agent Holt, the fingerprint analysis is complete," the technician said, a hint of regret in his voice. "We successfully extracted a complete fingerprint, and the quality is excellent, but..."

“But no match can be found in the database,” Lynn continued, having already anticipated this outcome.

"Yes. We searched the FBI's fingerprint database, the NYPD's database, and Interpol's database, but found no match. This person has no criminal record, has never served in the military, and has never applied for any work or permit that requires fingerprints."

"What about DNA?"

"The analysis is still ongoing, but even when it's complete, the result will be the same if his DNA isn't in the system."

Lynn sighed, but wasn't discouraged: "Keep the fingerprints and DNA records safe. They might not be useful now, but they'll be crucial evidence for conviction when we find the suspect."

"Understood, it has been created and saved."

After hanging up the phone, Lynn went to the FBI's New York office. Jason had already prepared a special office for him to investigate the case. A case board was already posted on the wall, containing all the information about the previous six bombings.

Sarah was also there; she volunteered to join the investigation team.

"Good morning, Lynn," she said, handing him a cup of coffee. "I heard you stayed up late last night."

“Thank you,” Lynn said, taking the coffee and walking to the caseboard. “Yes, but it was worth it. We found the killer’s fingerprints.”

“Really?” Sarah exclaimed excitedly. “That’s wonderful!”

“But it’s not in the database,” Lynn added, “so we can’t confirm its identity yet.”

“Oh,” Sarah’s excitement subsided somewhat, “What do we do now?”

“Now, let’s get back to the basics,” Lynn said, beginning to add new information to the case board. “We’re analyzing the killer’s patterns of behavior, looking for other places he might have left clues. He was careful, but he couldn’t be perfect.”

“This man isn’t an ordinary criminal,” Lynn told Sarah. “He has a certain sense of mission, a certain ideology that needs to be expressed through violence. We need to understand his way of thinking to predict his next move.”

“Do you think he will do it again?” Sarah asked.

“Definitely,” Lynn said firmly. “His ‘work’ isn’t finished yet. Holmes was just an interlude, an unexpected target. His real plan is likely much larger.”

“Then we must catch him before he makes another move,” Sarah said.

“Yes,” Lynn said, looking at the faceless killer file on the case board, “and we will. He left fingerprints, DNA, behavioral patterns. He thought he was smart, but every criminal makes mistakes. Our job is to find those mistakes and then use them.”

Lynn picked up a marker and wrote a line on the case board: "Fingerprints obtained, awaiting matching."

The following morning, Lynn was in his FBI office studying case files, trying to find more patterns in the six previous explosions. He paced back and forth in front of the case board, a marker in hand, adding new lines and annotations from time to time. Sarah sat at the computer, helping him organize various data—the geographical distribution of explosion sites, time intervals, and target selection patterns.

“Look at this,” Sarah said, pointing to the map on the screen, “if you connect the locations of the first five explosions, they form an irregular pentagram shape.”

Lynn walked over and examined it closely: "Interesting, but it might just be a coincidence. The killer chose the location more based on practicality and symbolism than geographical patterns. However, I'll write it down; it might come in handy later."

Just then, Lynn's phone rang. It was a call from the NYPD's duty room.

“Agent Holt, we’ve received an urgent tip,” the operator said, her voice tense. “A citizen reported seeing a suspicious person in Times Square, carrying a large black box, behaving suspiciously, and loitering in the crowd. Given the recent bombings, we believe this could be—”

“I’m coming right away,” Lynn interrupted her, already grabbing his coat. “Exact location?”

"At the north end of Times Square, near 47th Street, uniformed police officers are already on standby but are not approaching rashly; they are awaiting your instructions."

“Good. Have them keep their distance and observe, disperse the nearest people, but don’t alert the target,” Lynn said, walking towards the door. “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

“I’ll go too,” Sarah immediately stood up and picked up her gear.

The two rushed out of the office, took the elevator to the underground parking lot, and jumped into a black FBI SUV. Lynn drove, while Sarah, in the passenger seat, contacted the police at the scene via radio.

"Unit calling, this is FBI Agent Sarah Chen. We are on our way to the scene and will arrive in approximately eight minutes. Please report the target's current status."

“Roger that, FBI,” a young officer’s voice came through the radio. “The target is a man, around thirty years old, of medium build, wearing a black hoodie and jeans. He’s carrying a large, heavy black hard-shell case. The target is moving slowly through the crowd, stopping occasionally to look around before continuing. His behavior is certainly suspicious.”

"Did you see his face?" Lynn asked through Sarah's walkie-talkie.

“There wasn’t a clear view, he was wearing a hat the whole time, and his head was pulled down low,” the officer replied. “And the crowd was so dense that we didn’t dare get too close.”

Lynn quickly assessed the situation in his mind. Times Square is one of New York's busiest tourist attractions, always packed with visitors. If the perpetrator had indeed chosen to detonate the bomb here, the casualties would be catastrophic. But he couldn't act rashly either; a mistake could cause unnecessary panic.

“Sarah, notify the bomb disposal team to stand by, but have them wait on the perimeter,” Lynn said. “Also, contact traffic control to prepare to seal off the area if necessary.”

“Understood,” Sarah said, and began making calls to coordinate with the various departments.

The SUV sped through the streets of Manhattan, Lynn weaving skillfully through the traffic, police lights flashing but no siren—he didn't want to attract too much attention. Seven minutes later, they arrived near Times Square.

Lynn parked the car next to a fire hydrant on 46th Street, and the two got out and hurried toward the scene. Even on a weekday morning, Times Square was packed with people—tourists taking photos, street performers, and advertising screens displaying all sorts of content; it was all typical of New York's chaotic yet vibrant atmosphere.

An undercover police officer approached and whispered, "Agent Holt, the target is over there, near the red stairs."

Lynn looked in the direction he was pointing and quickly spotted his target. It was indeed a man wearing a black hoodie, carrying a large, heavy-looking black suitcase. The man was standing at the edge of the crowd, his head occasionally swaying from side to side, as if searching for something.

“Keep your distance, I’ll observe first,” Lynn told the police officer, then turned to Sarah, “You approach from the other side, maintain eye contact.”

Sarah nodded and went in another direction. Lynn, on the other hand, pretended to be an ordinary tourist, took out his phone and pretended to check it, slowly approaching the target.

His hand gripped a pistol under his jacket, ready to respond to any unexpected situation. But at the same time, his FBI training told him to remain calm, observe first, assess first, and not let fear or assumptions cloud his judgment.

Lynn stopped about twenty meters away from the target, pretending to take a picture of a building, but actually carefully observing the man's behavior.

The man was indeed looking around constantly, but Lynn noticed some details:
First, the man's eyes were not searching for a target or checking the surrounding security, but rather observing the ground—more precisely, looking for a suitable open space.

Secondly, although the box looked heavy, the man carried it naturally, clearly accustomed to the weight. Furthermore, the box showed signs of wear and had some stickers, suggesting it wasn't a newly prepared explosive device, but rather frequently used equipment.

Third, although the man's clothing was black, a closer look revealed some colored stains on the knees of his trousers and shoes, which looked like paint.

Fourth, and most importantly, the man's overall demeanor was not tense or alert, but rather somewhat frustrated and anxious, as if he were troubled by something mundane.

Lynn's heart began to slow. His intuition told him that this might be a false alarm.

The man moved a few more steps to a relatively open corner and finally stopped. He looked around to make sure no police or management personnel were paying attention to him, then began to put down the black box.

Lynn immediately whispered through the headset, "All units, stand by. Do not move. Let me confirm first."

The man opened the box.

Lynn's fingers tightened on the gun handle, his body tense, ready to rush forward the moment he saw any danger.

But what was found in the box was not explosives or a detonating device, but a set of street performance equipment.

A portable speaker, a few juggling balls, some magic props, and a small sign that reads "Street Magician Jason - Bringing You Surprises".

Lynn breathed a sigh of relief, a wry smile playing on his lips. This wasn't a terrorist, just a street performer trying to find a good spot to perform.

The man—or rather, the street magician Jason—began setting up his equipment. He placed the speaker on the ground, tested the volume, and then began practicing some simple juggling tricks, clearly preparing for a formal performance.

Lynn said through the headset, "Alarm cleared. The target is a street performer, posing no threat. Repeat, all cleared."

He heard a sigh of relief come through the radio.

“Roger that, Agent Holt. Should we check his identification?” the plainclothes officer asked.

“No need,” Lynn said. “Let him go. We’ll leave and not disturb his business.”

Lynn was about to turn and leave when he suddenly noticed the magician looking around anxiously again. Then a city administrator in uniform walked over, clearly intending to shoo him away.

The magician and the administrator began to negotiate, the magician gesturing wildly as he tried to explain, but the administrator shook his head, pointed to the "No Commercial Activities" sign, and told him to leave. (End of Chapter)