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

Lynn checked the time. It was 1:40 PM. The event was scheduled to start at 2:00 PM, and if all went well, the opening remarks would last ten to fifteen minutes.

In other words, Sanders is most likely to detonate around 2:15 p.m. – when everyone is gathered in the main exhibition hall, when the mayor is speaking, when attention is at its peak.

They have thirty-five minutes left.

"Speed ​​up the bomb disposal," Lynn ordered. "I don't care what methods you use, all bombs must be defused by 2:15."

"We are trying our best, but—"

“It’s not just about trying, it’s about having to,” Lynn’s tone left no room for argument. “If we can’t dismantle everything, I will manually cut off the detonator, even if it’s risky.”

He turned to Sarah: “Prepare for the arrest. We need to subdue him before he explodes, but without causing panic.”

"How do I do it?"

“Wait until he gets the detonator out,” Lynn said. “He needs the detonator to detonate the bomb. That’s the moment we move.”

At 2 p.m., the opening ceremony officially began. The museum director walked onto the small, temporary stage and began his welcoming speech. About eighty people gathered in the main exhibition hall, ostensibly listening attentively, but many actually had their hands near the weapons and their eyes scanning their surroundings warily.

Sanders, disguised as an old man, stood at the edge of the crowd, near a side door leading to the logistics area. His right hand was in his pocket, and his left hand was on his cane. He appeared to be listening attentively, but his eyes kept darting around.

Lynn came out of the monitoring room and went downstairs to the vicinity of the main exhibition hall. He changed into a cultural worker's outfit, put on glasses, and mingled in the back of the crowd. From his position, he could clearly see Sanders.

The distance is less than twenty meters.

Lynn's right hand—though still in a cast—was resting on the pistol at his waist. Around him, at least five plainclothes agents were positioned to act swiftly.

After the curator finished speaking, the mayor went up on stage. The crowd applauded, and Sanders also clapped a few times as a token gesture, but Lynn noticed that his right hand quickly went back into his pocket.

The mayor began his address: "Today, we gather here to celebrate the history of New York City and to remember the moments and people who shaped this great city."

The bomb expert's voice came through Lynn's earpiece: "The fourth bomb has been defused. Only one bomb remains."

"Location?"

"We are currently working on the ventilation ducts in the third-floor exhibition hall—"

Suddenly, a piercing alarm sounded.

It wasn't the museum's fire alarm, but a sharper, more urgent sound—the warning of a bomb.

Sanders made a move.

He pulled his right hand out of his pocket and held a small remote control. His thumb was on the red button.

At the same time, his disguise completely changed—the hunchback disappeared, and the slowness of an old man was replaced by the agility of a young man. He turned sharply and rushed toward the side door.

"Action!" Lynn shouted as he charged toward Sanders.

Five plainclothes agents moved simultaneously, rushing towards Sanders from different angles. Screams erupted from the crowd; everyone realized something was wrong.

But Sanders was prepared. He swung his cane, and a metal spike suddenly sprang from the end, aiming at the nearest agent. The agent barely dodged, but was slowed down.

Sanders rushed toward the side door, but two other agents had already blocked the exit. He stopped abruptly, turned around, and pressed his thumb firmly on the remote control button.

"Don't come any closer!" Sanders yelled, his voice filled with madness. "If you come any closer, I'll detonate it! Everyone will die!"

“Put down the remote, Sanders,” Lynn said, raising his pistol and aiming it at him. “The game is over.”

“The end?” Sanders laughed, a twisted, sarcastic laugh. “No, Agent, this is just the beginning. You know what? Those bombs you found were just bait.”

Lynn's heart sank.

“The real bomb,” Sanders continued, his eyes gleaming with madness, “you didn’t find it. Because it’s not in this building.”

"What's the meaning?"

“It’s next door,” Sanders said, “in the Natural History Museum. There are over two thousand visitors there right now, many of them children. And the bomb is right under the dinosaur skeleton in the central exhibition hall, enough to blow the whole hall to smithereens.”

“You’re lying,” Lynn said, but she was already starting to have doubts.

“Why would I lie?” Sanders said. “Your security, your searches, all your preparations, are all here. And I’m just putting on a show to distract you. The real target has always been the museum next door.”

“Damn it,” Sarah’s voice came through the radio, “I checked the records, and the Natural History Museum has also been undergoing maintenance for the past two weeks, and one contractor’s name—John Miller—has appeared four times.”

Lynn's mind raced. If Sanders was telling the truth, if the real bomb was in the Natural History Museum, where thousands of innocent tourists were right now...
But this could also be a scam, Sanders' last psychological tactic.

“You see,” Sanders said, seemingly seeing through Lynn’s hesitation, “you don’t know whether to believe me. That’s what I want—to make you realize that you can never predict everything, you can never prevent every tragedy. History repeats itself because human wisdom is limited.”

His thumb moved slightly across the button.

“Now, I’m giving you a choice,” Sanders said. “You can grab me here, but the museum will explode. Or you can let me go and defuse the bomb over there. What would you choose, Agent?”

Lynn looked into Sanders' eyes, trying to tell whether he was telling the truth or bluffing.

Then, he made a decision.

“Shoot,” Lynn said calmly.

There was a gunshot.

The sniper—an FBI sharpshooter who had been hiding behind the second-floor railing—pulled the trigger.

The bullet struck Sanders precisely on the wrist where he was holding the remote control. The remote control flew from his hand and landed on the ground.

Sanders screamed in pain, but four agents immediately pounced on him and pinned him to the ground.

Lynn rushed over and picked up the remote control. He examined it closely—it was a homemade device, but the buttons were now deformed and unusable.

"Check him for any other explosive devices," Lynn ordered. The agents quickly searched him and found two spare remote controls and a cell phone. All equipment was confiscated.

Sanders was handcuffed, but he was still laughing, blood flowing from the wounds on his wrists, but he seemed to feel no pain.

“You’ve still lost,” he said. “Even if you catch me, you won’t know if the Natural History Museum is real or fake. You have to evacuate, you have to search, you have to create panic. And that’s what I want—to let you know fear, to let this city know that the shadow of history will forever loom over us.”

“Sarah,” Lynn said over the radio, “Contact the Natural History Museum immediately and send in a bomb squad to search the area. Evacuate the visitors, but in an orderly fashion to avoid a stampede.”

“Understood,” Sarah’s voice came through.

Lynn crouched down and looked Sanders straight in the eye.

“You’re wrong,” Lynn said. “History does repeat itself—not in tragedy, but in justice. Every time a criminal like you appears, there are people like us who stand up to stop him. That’s what history truly repeats.”

“We’ll see,” Sanders said, but the madness in his eyes had dimmed somewhat.

Two hours later, the results of the search of the Natural History Museum came out: no bombs were found.

Sanders was lying; it was his last psychological tactic, an attempt to create chaos and fear even after his defeat.

But he failed.

Lynn stood outside the Historical Society Museum, watching Sanders being led into a police car. There were no injuries during the entire operation, and all bombs were successfully defused.

“It’s over,” Sarah walked up to him. “It’s really over.”

“Yes,” Lynn said, finally allowing himself to feel tired, “it’s over.”

The interrogation room was brightly lit, the walls were a monotonous gray, and the entire space reeked of a mixture of disinfectant and sweat. Sanders sat in a metal chair, his hands cuffed to the table. His wrist wounds had been bandaged, but traces of blood still seeped through the bandages.

Lynn sat opposite him, a thick stack of files in front of him. Sarah stood in the corner of the room, arms crossed, calmly observing everything.

It was late at night, six hours after the museum incident. Sanders had remained silent since his arrest, refusing to answer any questions, simply sitting there with that unsettling smile on his face.

But Lynn knew the silence wouldn't last forever. Every criminal has weaknesses, a desire to confide, especially someone like Sanders who considered himself intelligent and craved understanding.

“You’re very clever,” Lynn broke the silence, his tone calm. “The whole plan was meticulously designed. Four victims, each representing a historical event. Locked-room murder, public execution, staged suicide, waterboarding—you turned them into works of art.”

Sanders did not respond, but a hint of interest flashed in his eyes.

“The bombs were cleverly placed,” Lynn continued. “You knew we’d find them, so you used them as bait to draw our attention to the Natural History Museum. Although the Natural History Museum’s threat turned out to be a bluff, that threat did make me hesitate for a few seconds.”

“A few seconds is enough,” Sanders finally spoke, his voice hoarse. “At a pivotal moment in history, a few seconds of hesitation can change everything.”

“But you still failed,” Lynn said.

“Did I fail?” Sanders looked up, his eyes regaining their former fervor. “I plunged the entire city into fear. I proved my theory—history repeats itself, and humanity cannot avoid tragedy. Even if you capture me, people will remember what happened this week, and they will realize that the shadow of history is always there.”

Lynn leaned back in his chair, carefully observing Sanders. This man's psychology was complex and full of contradictions. He craved recognition yet despised everyone. He wanted to prove a theory, but in the most extreme way.

“Tell me why,” Lynn said, “why these four people? Why these four historical events?”

“Because they represent the essence of human history,” Sanders said, his eyes glazing over as if lost in reminiscence. “The corruption of power, the madness of mobs, false honors, barbaric trials—these themes have recurred throughout history, from ancient Rome to the Middle Ages, from the French Revolution to the modern era. I’m simply letting contemporary people relive them.”

"But what did these four men—Martin, Chen, Weber, and Rosen—do? They weren't historical figures; they were just ordinary people."

“No one is innocent,” Sanders’ voice suddenly sharpened. “Martin abused his power, Chen spread hatred, Weber pursued false glory, Rosen—” He paused, “Rosen represents those who inflict violence in the name of justice. They are all modern embodiments of historical evils.”

Lynn noticed Sanders' hesitation when he mentioned Rosen. There was something there, something deeper.

"Do you know Rosen?" Lynn asked. "Have you had any contact before this case?"

Sanders' eyes flickered for a moment, then quickly regained their composure. But that fleeting change did not escape Lynn's notice.

“I studied all the victims,” Sanders said, “their backgrounds, behavioral patterns, their social circles. This is essential preparation.”

“But Rosen is different, right?” Lynn pressed. “You chose the other three victims because they fit your theory. But Rosen—he means something special to you.”

“You’re guessing,” Sanders said, but the certainty in his voice diminished.

Lynn opened the file and pulled out a report.

“John Rosen, a former federal prosecutor, specializes in mental health cases. He’s handled hundreds of cases, many involving psychiatric evaluations, psychotherapy records, and involuntary hospitalizations—” Lynn looked up, meeting Sanders’s gaze directly. “Ten years ago, he handled a case about a young historian who was involuntarily admitted to a mental hospital due to severe depression.”

Sanders' expression changed.

“That scholar had a younger brother,” Lynn continued, his voice becoming slower and clearer, “a young college student, just beginning to develop an interest in history. He watched his brother get hospitalized, watched how the legal system, in the name of ‘help,’ stripped a man of his freedom.”

“You don’t understand—” Sanders began, his voice trembling.

“Help me understand,” Lynn said, her tone softening. “Tell me what happened, Sanders. Tell me about your brother.”

silence.

There was a minute-long silence.

Then, Sanders' shoulders began to tremble. Not from crying, but from some deeper emotional release.

“His name is David,” Sanders finally said, almost in a whisper. “David Sanders. He’s a PhD student in history, studying the French Revolution. He’s brilliant, far more brilliant than I am. He can see patterns in history, he can understand why humans repeat the same mistakes.”

“He’s sick,” Lynn said softly.

“He’s not sick!” Sanders suddenly exclaimed, “He just sees things too clearly. He sees the truth of history, he sees the essence of humanity, and that causes him pain. But that’s not a disease, that’s enlightenment.”

“But the court doesn’t think so,” Sarah said from the corner. (End of Chapter)