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

The magician packed up his equipment in frustration, putting everything back into the large black box. He slung the box over his shoulder and began wandering the square again, searching for his next potential performance location.

“So that’s why he kept moving,” Sarah said, walking over to Lynn and seeing the scene too. “He wasn’t looking for a detonation site; he was looking for a performance spot where he wouldn’t get chased away by the city management.”

“Yes,” Lynn said, “he wasn’t looking around to check security, he was avoiding city administrators. Poor guy, just trying to make a living.”

“It was a false alarm,” Sarah said, a hint of embarrassment in her voice. “But you can’t blame the citizen who called the police; people are bound to be nervous during such a sensitive time.”

“That’s understandable,” Lynn said, “and we must take every call to the police seriously. If we miss a real threat even once due to negligence, the consequences would be dire.”

They watched as the magician continued searching for a spot in the square, finally stopping in a corner. This time, it seemed no attendant came to shoo him away. The magician opened his box again and began his performance, quickly attracting a small crowd of onlookers.

“At least he’s found a place,” Sarah said. “Hopefully he can make some money today.”

Lynn nodded and was about to leave when a thought suddenly flashed through his mind. He stopped and looked at the magician again.

"What's wrong?" Sarah noticed his expression.

“I’m thinking,” Lynn said slowly, “if our killer needed to place an explosive device in a public place, how would he do it? He can’t just openly carry around a big case like this magician; it’s too conspicuous. So what method would he use?”

"Disguise myself as something else?" Sarah pondered, "like a deliveryman or a repairman?"

“Possibly,” Lynn said, “but those identities require identification, need to be arranged in advance, and there’s the risk of being recorded. I’m thinking about the locations of the previous explosions—abandoned warehouses, construction sites, parking lots—what do those places have in common?”

Sarah thought for a moment: "Are they all relatively sparsely populated areas? And easy to access?"

“That’s right, and these are all places that don’t require much explanation,” Lynn said. “A person loitering near an abandoned warehouse could be a homeless person or a young person wanting to explore. At a construction site, they could be a worker or a foreman. In a parking lot, they could be a car owner or a visitor.”

“So the killer chose those locations partly because he could appear under some plausible identity,” Sarah understood. “That’s why the first five times were in relatively remote places.”

“But the sixth time he changed tactics,” Lynn continued, “to the stadium's lounge. That's a relatively enclosed space with tighter security. How did he manage to put the explosive device there?”

“We can check the security footage from that day,” Sarah said, “to see who went in and out of that lounge.”

“It’s already underway,” Lynn said, “but I suspect the killer might be disguised as a staff member—a cleaner, a maintenance worker, or someone else with a legitimate reason to enter that area.”

“If that’s the case, we can check the list of all the people who worked during that time period,” Sarah said, pulling out her notebook to start taking notes. “We can cross-check their backgrounds to see if there’s anything suspicious.”

“That’s one direction,” Lynn said. “The other question is, why has the killer escalated now? Why did a warning explosion with no casualties suddenly turn into a deadly attack?”

“Perhaps he felt no one was listening to his warnings?” Sarah guessed. “Those messages—'Remember history,' 'History won’t repeat itself'—maybe he was trying to convey a message through a non-lethal explosion, but because no one understood or took it seriously, he decided to escalate.”

“Possibly,” Lynn said, “or…the stadium attack was part of a plan, and the first five were just preparations and tests for the real attack.”

The two stood at the edge of Times Square, watching the bustling crowd, everyone busy with their own things, completely unaware of how close they had come to potential danger—though it turned out to be a false alarm.

Lynn's phone rang; it was Captain Reynolds.

"Agent Holt, I heard there's an alarm over there?"

“It’s been deactivated; it was a false alarm,” Lynn explained simply.

“Understood. But call me when you get back to your office; there’s some new information,” Reynolds said, “about Holmes.”

"How is he?" Lynn asked, though he was annoyed by Holmes's arrogance, he did not want him to die.

“He’s just out of danger, but the injuries are serious. His right leg will require multiple surgeries and may leave permanent damage. He also has extensive burns,” Reynolds said, his voice heavy. “However, the doctors say he’s regained consciousness, and you can ask him some questions if you want. Maybe he remembers some useful details.”

“I will go,” Lynn said, “but let him rest first, and we’ll talk about it when he’s feeling better.”

"Okay. Also, the preliminary results of the DNA analysis are in; like the fingerprints, no match was found in the database. But we have already established a complete genetic profile."

“Keep it safe, you’ll need it in the future,” Lynn said.

After hanging up the phone, Lynn and Sarah walked back to the parking lot. On the way back to the FBI office, Lynn kept thinking.

This near-miss made him realize that they were under immense pressure. The entire city was in a state of panic; every unusual action was suspected, and every large box could be a bomb. This fear itself was one of the effects the killer intended.

“You know,” Lynn said to Sarah, “the greatest weapon of terrorism isn’t the bomb itself, but fear. Look at what happened today—an innocent street performer was almost mistaken for a terrorist. The whole city was on edge. That’s exactly what the killers wanted.”

“Then how do we fight this fear?” Sarah asked.

“Use the truth,” Lynn said, “to find the killer, catch him, and let people know the threat is gone. Only then can the city return to normal.”

Back in his office, Lynn continued his in-depth investigation of the case. He pulled up all the surveillance footage from the stadium that day, examining frame by frame the footage of everyone entering and leaving the lounge.

Cleaners, equipment managers, team staff, media reporters, and even some tourists who looked like they had wandered in by mistake. Lynn wrote down the names of everyone, preparing to investigate them one by one.

Sarah was on the other side organizing the personnel list and cross-referencing the background information.

“Here’s an interesting discovery,” Sarah suddenly said. “A freelance photographer was there that day, claiming to be shooting for a sports magazine. He went into the locker room area and stayed for about fifteen minutes.”

"Name?"

“Mark Anderson, 32, freelance photographer,” Sarah read from the file, “but I checked the magazine, and they said they didn’t send any photographers to that competition.”

Lynn immediately became alert: "Do you have photos?"

“Yes, the surveillance cameras captured his face,” Sarah showed the image. The screen displayed a medium-sized white man wearing a baseball cap and glasses, carrying a camera bag. His facial features weren't particularly clear, but were recognizable.

“Send this photo to the tech department and have them improve the clarity,” Lynn said. “Then check everything about this Marc Andreessen—address, phone number, social media, credit history, everything.”

“I’ll get on it right away,” Sarah said, her fingers flying across the keyboard.

Lynn felt they might have found a breakthrough. An imposter photographer had entered the lounge before the explosion. If he was the killer, then fingerprints and DNA would eventually confirm it.

But Lynn also cautioned herself to be careful. She couldn't be as hasty in drawing conclusions as Holmes, nor could she abandon other possibilities based on a seemingly plausible clue. A true investigation requires patience, thoroughness, and verification from multiple sources.

“Found him,” Sarah said. “Mark Anderson, there really is such a person. His Social Security number and driver's license are real. He lives in Queens and has been a freelance photographer for five years. But…”

"But what?"

"His social media is almost devoid of content, consisting of only a few scattered photos, mostly landscapes, with no sports photography whatsoever. This is highly unusual for a photographer who claims to work for sports magazines."

“Keep investigating,” Lynn said. “Check his tax records to see if he really makes a living as a photographer. Check his education and work experience. Also, send someone to his address, but only to monitor him, don’t alert him.”

“Understood,” Sarah began coordinating the operation.

As evening fell, street magician Jason finally finished his day's performance. He counted the change and a few crumpled bills in his hat, a satisfied smile spreading across his face—today's earnings were pretty good, at least enough to pay this week's rent.

He packed up his props, put everything back into the large, black hard-shell box, then hoisted it onto his back, ready to go home. The box was heavy, making his shoulders ache, but it was his livelihood, and he had to take good care of it.

Jason walked south along Seventh Avenue, heading to catch the subway back to his apartment in Brooklyn. The streetlights were already on, and the evening rush hour crowds were beginning to emerge. He blended into the flow, just one of many New Yorkers heading home from get off work.

He was completely unaware that someone was following him about twenty meters behind.

The man was wearing a dark gray jacket and jeans, a black baseball cap, and had his hands in his pockets, looking no different from the other pedestrians around him. He kept a distance that wasn't too close or too far, stopping when Jason stopped and turning when Jason turned.

This person is the murderer.

A cold smile played on his lips, a morbid excitement gleaming in his eyes. This morning he had made that anonymous tip, deliberately leading the police to this innocent street performer. He had observed the entire process from a distance—the police's tense deployment, the arrival of the FBI agents, and then their relaxation after discovering it was just a false alarm.

“Stupid cops,” he sneered inwardly. “Did you really think I’d be caught so easily? You’ve been watching this guy all day, and now I’m going to actually put a bomb on his head. This is your punishment for your incompetence.”

Jason got off the subway, walked out of the station, and came to a relatively quiet street in Brooklyn. He lived in a single room on the third floor of an old five-story apartment building.

The killer continued to follow, always keeping his distance. He watched Jason enter the apartment building, waited a few minutes, and then went in as well.

The lobby was dimly lit, and the paint on the walls was peeling. The killer glanced up at the stairs, then tiptoed up. He knew Jason lived on the third floor—information he had already researched. From the moment he saw the morning news report, he had quickly found the street performer's identity and address.

Upon reaching the third floor, the killer saw light shining through a crack in a door, and heard the sound of a radio coming from inside. That was Jason's apartment.

The killer pulled a small tool from his jacket—a lock-picking kit. But he didn't use it immediately; instead, he knocked on the door first.

The radio inside was turned down, and footsteps could be heard.

"Who is it?" Jason's voice came from behind the door.

“Building management,” the killer altered his voice, making it sound hoarseer and older, “there’s a water pipe on your floor that needs checking; it won’t take much time.”

"Now? It's so late?" Jason hesitated.

“I’m sorry, but I couldn’t find you during the day,” the killer said. “If we don’t check, the whole floor might be without water tomorrow. Just two minutes.”

Jason sighed and opened the door. He had just showered and was wearing an old T-shirt and sweatpants; his hair was still wet.

"Where's the water pipe—"

Before he could finish speaking, the killer suddenly rushed in, grabbed him by the collar, and pulled out a stun gun with his other hand, pressing it against Jason's neck.

A crackling sound of electricity filled the air, Jason's body twitched a few times, and then he went limp. The killer quickly dragged him into the apartment, closed the door, and locked it.

The whole process took less than ten seconds, was clean and efficient, and made very little noise.

The killer looked around. It was a typical studio apartment—a small living room/bedroom, an even smaller kitchen, and a cramped bathroom. Simple but clean. The large black box sat by the door, Jason hadn't had time to unpack it yet.

“Perfect,” the killer whispered.

He took out the rope and duct tape he had prepared from his backpack, quickly tied the unconscious Jason to a chair, and taped his mouth shut. Then he walked to the black box and opened it.

Inside are juggling balls, magic props, and sound equipment—the tools a street performer uses to make a living.

The killer began taking these items out and carefully stacking them aside. Then he took a flat metal box, about the size of a laptop, from his backpack.

This is a bomb.

He placed the bomb at the bottom of the box, then carefully rearranged the performance props to look exactly the same as before. Without close inspection, no one would suspect the deadly explosive device hidden at the bottom of the box.

Next came the timer. The killer pulled a small remote control from his pocket and pressed a few buttons. A faint beeping sound came from the box—the countdown had begun.

Sixty minutes.

The killer nodded in satisfaction and closed the box. Then he walked up to Jason. Jason was now awake, his eyes filled with terror, struggling desperately but unable to break free of the ropes. (End of Chapter)