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

“Don’t struggle,” the killer said calmly, his voice carrying a chilling indifference. “Struggling will only tighten the rope. Now listen to me, and I’ll explain what happened.”

Jason stopped struggling and stared wide-eyed at the killer.

“You’re really unlucky today, becoming the subject of a social experiment,” the killer said, as if recounting an academic topic. “This morning, the police received an anonymous tip that you were loitering in Times Square with suspicious items. They investigated you all day, only to find out you were just an innocent street performer. They breathed a sigh of relief, thinking it was a false alarm.”

He walked to the window and looked out at the street: “But you know what? That’s what I wanted. I wanted them to lower their guard, to think they’d made a mistake. Then…”

He turned, a twisted smile spreading across his face. "Then I'll show them that the guy they're eyeing really is carrying a bomb. Not this morning, but right now. History repeats itself—their mistakes, their arrogance, will once again lead to tragedy."

Jason made a whimpering sound, and tears streamed down his face.

"You want to beg me to let you go?" The killer tilted his head. "Sorry, no. You are a necessary part of this lesson. Your death will prove my point—humanity always repeats itself, history always repeats itself."

The killer pulled a cell phone from his pocket—a disposable prepaid phone that he would throw away after use. He dialed the NYPD emergency number.

“I’m reporting an ongoing bomb threat,” the killer said, his voice altered to sound mechanical and alien. “Brooklyn, 337 Green Street, third-floor apartment 3C. There’s a black box containing a bomb. The countdown has started. You have…” He glanced at his watch. “Fifty-five minutes. Good luck.”

He hung up the phone, then took a piece of paper from his pocket and placed it on the table. A line of text was printed on the paper:
"Foolishness always repeats itself. The person you're watching now actually has a bomb."

“Goodbye, Jason,” the killer said to the terrified street performer. “You will become a part of history.”

Then he opened the door and quickly left the apartment.

He went down the stairs, out of the building, and blended into the crowd in the night. No one noticed him, no one knew what he had just done.

He walked to the street corner, stopped, and leaned against the shadow of a building. From this vantage point, he could see the entrance to apartment building number 337.

Then he waited.

Waiting for the police to arrive.

Wait for them to rush in and try to defuse the bomb.

Waiting for the explosion.

He awaits the moment when his idea will be proven true once again—that humanity is foolish, history always repeats itself, and those who think they can prevent tragedy will ultimately become part of it.

The NYPD operator immediately initiated emergency procedures upon receiving the call. She recorded the information while simultaneously notifying the duty supervisor. The supervisor, after reviewing the records, immediately turned ashen-faced.

337 Green Street, Brooklyn—isn't that where that street performer lived this morning?
He immediately contacted Captain Reynolds and Lynn.

Lynn was in his office researching the suspicious photographer Marc Anderson when he received the call. His heart sank upon hearing the news.

“The killer is playing us,” he told Sarah, grabbing his coat and rushing towards the door. “Today’s report was a setup. He led us to investigate that celebrity, making us think it was a false alarm, and then he actually did something to that celebrity.”

“This is insane,” Sarah said, following him as he ran toward the parking lot.

“That’s his style—teasing, humiliating, then killing,” Lynn said, starting the car. “He wants to prove we’re stupid, to prove he’s always one step ahead.”

The wheels screeched as it pulled out of the parking lot, police lights flashing and sirens blaring. Lynn drove at full speed, weaving through traffic, heading from Manhattan to Brooklyn.

“Where’s the bomb squad?” Sarah asked over the radio.

“They’ve already set off, but their base is farther away; we should arrive first,” Lynn said. “How much time do we have?”

“According to the killer, there are about forty minutes left,” Sarah said, glancing at her watch, “but we can’t be sure he’s telling the truth.”

“Even if it’s true, forty minutes isn’t enough to defuse the bomb,” Lynn said. “We need to evacuate the entire building, evacuate the surrounding buildings, and then—”

"What about that artist, Jason?"

“We must get him out,” Lynn said firmly. “He’s innocent.”

The car sped through the streets of Brooklyn, getting closer and closer to its destination. Lynn's mind raced, considering every possible solution.

Fifteen minutes later, they arrived at 337 Green Street. Several police cars were already there, and officers were evacuating the building's residents. People rushed out of the building, some in pajamas, some carrying pets, their faces filled with terror.

Lynn and Sarah rushed out of the car, and Captain Reynolds came to meet them.

“Third floor, 3C. Our people have confirmed the room number, but haven't gone in yet,” Reynolds said. “Wait for the bomb squad to arrive—”

“There’s no time,” Lynn interrupted him, rushing towards the building entrance. “I’m going up to check the situation.”

"Agent Hall, wait—"

But Lynn had already rushed into the building. He dashed up the stairs, Sarah close behind.

Upon reaching the third floor, Lynn found room 3C. The door was closed, but unlocked—the killer had clearly left in a hurry and forgotten to lock it.

Lynn carefully pushed open the door; the pistol was already drawn.

The scene in the apartment made his heart tighten.

Jason was tied to a chair, his face streaked with tears, his eyes filled with despair. The large black box sat in the center of the room, emanating a faint but clear beeping sound.

And there was that note on the table, with that sarcastic comment.

“Sarah, come in and help me,” Lynn said, putting away his gun and walking towards Jason. “We need to get him out of here.”

Sarah took out a knife and began cutting the ropes binding Jason. Lynn tore off the duct tape from his mouth.

“Please,” Jason cried, “save me! I don’t want to die! I didn’t do anything—”

“I know we’ll save you,” Lynn said, cutting the last rope. “Now stand up, let’s get out of here.”

Just then, the beeping sound from the black box suddenly increased.

Lynn's heart seemed to stop beating. He knew all too well what this change in voice meant.

"Go!" he yelled, grabbing Jason's arm and dragging him toward the door.

Sarah realized the danger and turned to run.

They rushed out of the apartment and into the hallway—

Explosion. A massive fireball erupted from apartment 3C, the shockwave crashing down on them like an invisible wall. Lynn felt a tremendous force shoving him from behind; instinctively, he grabbed Jason, shielding him with his body, and the three of them were thrown together to the end of the corridor.

Lynn slammed against the wall, sharp pain shooting through his back and head. A piercing ringing filled his ears, and his vision blurred. A wave of heat swept over him, accompanied by acrid smoke and the smell of burning.

He felt something hit him—perhaps a fragment of the ceiling or a piece of the wall. More debris rained down, and the whole building shook.

“Sarah,” Lynn called out with difficulty, but his voice was so weak that he could barely hear it himself.

His consciousness began to fade, but he forced himself to stay awake. He couldn't faint, he couldn't collapse here. There was Jason, there was Sarah, he had to make sure they were safe.

Lynn tried to stand up, but his body wouldn't obey him. His legs felt broken, and he couldn't move his right arm. The pain in his back made every breath feel like a knife cutting into him.

Through the smoke, he saw Jason lying motionless beside him. Further away, Sarah was lying on the ground, but her fingers were moving—she was still alive.

"Hold on," Lynn whispered, unsure whether he was speaking to them or to himself.

Then he heard footsteps, lots of footsteps. The rescuers were rushing up.

"Here! Someone's here!"

"Quickly, we need a stretcher!"

"The building structure is unstable; we need to act quickly!"

A strong arm supported Lynn and helped him up. He saw the firefighters' uniforms, the stretcher, and more rescue workers pouring into the corridor.

“The others,” Lynn said with difficulty, “Save the others.”

“We will, sir. You need to receive treatment now,” the firefighter said, placing him on a stretcher.

The stretcher began to move, through the smoke-filled corridor, down the stairs, and out of the building. Fresh air rushed into Lynn's lungs, causing him to cough violently.

Outside, chaos reigned. Ambulances, fire trucks, and police cars flashed their lights, illuminating the entire street. The crowd of onlookers was kept behind police tape, while reporters' cameras were pointed at them, filming the scene.

Lynn was lifted into an ambulance, and paramedics began to examine his injuries.

“Multiple contusions, possibly fractures, require immediate hospitalization,” a doctor said.

“Wait,” Lynn grabbed the doctor’s hand, “the other two, the young woman and the civilian man.”

“They are also receiving treatment and are all alive,” the doctor reassured him. “Now you need to rest and not talk.”

The ambulance doors closed, the vehicle started, and sirens blared. Through the window, Lynn took one last look at the apartment building—thick smoke billowed from the third floor, windows shattered, and huge cracks appeared in the walls.

He failed again. Although he rescued the hostages, he couldn't prevent the explosion. The perpetrator had once again taken the lead and successfully carried out his plan.

When Lynn woke up in the hospital, it was already the afternoon of the next day. He was lying on a clean white hospital bed, his right arm in a cast, his head wrapped in bandages, and his body covered in medical tape. He was in pain all over, but at least he was alive.

“You’re awake,” Sarah’s voice came from beside the bed. She was sitting in a chair, her face also bearing some scrapes and bruises, but she looked much better than Lynn. “The doctor said your injuries are less serious than they appear; there’s no internal bleeding, and the fractures aren’t severe. You’re very lucky.”

“Where’s Jason?” Lynn asked, his voice hoarse.

“He’s alive, a little injured, but he’ll recover,” Sarah said. “You shielded him with your body and saved his life. He wanted to come and thank you, but the doctor wouldn’t let him, saying he needed to rest.”

Lynn closed his eyes and breathed a sigh of relief. At least no one died this time. Although they couldn't stop the explosion, at least they rescued the hostages.

"Where is the killer?" Lynn asked, though he already knew the answer.

“It’s gone,” Sarah said, her voice filled with frustration. “There weren’t any useful clues left at the scene. The cell phone used to call the police was thrown in a trash can two blocks away; it was prepaid and untraceable. The apartment building’s security cameras captured a man wearing a hat going in and out, but we can’t see his face. We’re analyzing his gait and build, but the chances are slim.”

Lynn struggled to sit up, and Sarah quickly helped him.

"Don't push yourself, you need to rest—"

“I don’t have time to rest,” Lynn interrupted her. “The killer is still outside; he’ll strike again.”

“Lynn, you almost died,” Sarah said, her voice filled with worry. “If the explosion had happened thirty seconds earlier, you wouldn’t be out of here. This killer is too dangerous, and—”

"And what?"

“And he seems to be targeting you specifically,” Sarah said. “Holmes fell into the trap because he was too arrogant, but last night he deliberately led you there. He knew you would go to rescue the hostages, knew you would take the risk. He’s exploiting your sense of justice.”

Lynn fell silent. Sarah was right; this killer was not only intelligent, but he had begun to treat the FBI—and him—as part of a game. Each explosion was not only to prove his ideology, but also to demonstrate that he was smarter than law enforcement.

“He’s just an ordinary person,” Lynn suddenly said.

"What?"

“The killer wasn’t a mutant, nor was he an enhanced human; he was just an ordinary person,” Lynn said, his thoughts gradually becoming clearer. “No superpowers, no special abilities, only intelligence, planning, and an understanding of human nature.”

How can you be so sure?

“Because everything he did could be done by an ordinary person,” Lynn explained. “Making bombs—can be learned; tampering with files—can be done through hacking or bribery; tracking targets—only time and patience are needed; setting traps—only psychological knowledge is required. He didn’t demonstrate anything beyond human capabilities.”

"So what?" Sarah asked, puzzled.

“This means more pressure,” Lynn said, his eyes growing serious. “I’ve faced mutants in Alaska, I’ve faced enemies with real superpowers. Those threats were obvious, visible, predictable. But this killer is like a ghost. He has no superpowers to give him away, no special abilities to help us track him. He’s hidden among eight million ordinary New York City residents, completely invisible.”

Lynn's words made Sarah fall into deep thought as well. Indeed, in a sense, an intelligent ordinary person is harder to catch than a criminal with superpowers. Because he won't leave any unusual traces, and he won't reveal himself when using his abilities.

“He’s like he doesn’t exist,” Lynn continued. “We have his fingerprints, his DNA, evidence of his crimes, but we just can’t find him. In this city saturated with surveillance, in this digital age, he can come and go like a ghost, leaving no trace.”

Lynn suddenly stopped.

His eyes widened as an idea flashed through his mind.

does not exist at all.

Like a ghost.

Without leaving a trace.

“Wait,” Lynn grabbed Sarah’s arm, his voice urgent, “I’ve got it. How could he leave no trace? Because nobody noticed him. How could nobody notice him? Because he was so ordinary, so ordinary—no, not ordinary, but…” (End of Chapter)