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

“Rosen doesn’t think so,” Sanders corrected. “Rosen said David was dangerous, that his ‘history repeats itself’ theory was a sign of paranoia. He persuaded the judge to force David to be hospitalized, saying it was for his own good, to protect him and others.”

"And then?" Lynn asked.

“Then David spent two years in the hospital,” Sanders’ voice became hollow, “two years of medication, two years of psychological counseling, two years being told his ideas were wrong, his theories were insane. When he came out, he wasn’t the same David anymore. He became quiet, compliant, ‘normal.’ He stopped talking about history, stopped researching, and even stopped reading.”

“They healed him,” Sarah said.

“They destroyed him,” Sanders roared. “They took away his passion, his purpose, his reason for being. Three months later, he committed suicide.”

Silence fell over the interrogation room. Lynn could feel Sanders' pain—a real, profound, and undisguised emotion.

“So it’s all for revenge,” Lynn said, “for your brother.”

“It’s not just revenge,” Sanders looked up, his eyes glistening with tears and madness, “it’s about proving him right. David said history repeats itself, and they said he was crazy. But I’m going to show everyone that history does repeat itself, that humanity does repeat the same mistakes. I’m going to let them know that David is right, and that they—those so-called experts, judges, prosecutors—are the ones who are blind.”

Lynn nodded. Now, the whole puzzle was beginning to fall into place. This wasn't just a serial killer case; it was a twisted attempt by a younger brother to vindicate his deceased older brother.

“But there’s a problem,” Lynn said, his voice becoming more serious. “Your plan is too perfect, Sanders. Too precise, too meticulous. Four carefully planned murders, each requiring different skills—chemistry, psychology, engineering, medicine. The manufacture and placement of the bombs require specialized training. How could you learn all of that in three years?”

Sanders did not answer.

“Furthermore,” Lynn continued, “your mental state is also strange. You clearly loved your brother deeply, and were angered and saddened by his death. But at the same time, the calmness and precision you displayed when killing, that ability to treat human life as theoretical evidence—that requires an extreme psychological separation, a trait few are born with.”

Sanders' fingers began to tap lightly on the table, a sign of tension.

“Unless,” Lynn said, his voice slowing, “someone helps you. Someone trains you, mentors you, shapes your mindset. Someone transforms your grief and anger into this elaborate series of crimes.”

“Nobody—” Sanders began.

“We’ve checked your background,” Sarah interrupted him. “After your brother died, you disappeared for six months. No work record, no credit card usage, no digital footprint whatsoever. Where did you go, Sanders? What were you doing for those six months?”

Sanders' breathing quickened. His eyes darted between Lynn and Sarah, as if searching for a way to escape.

“Tell us,” Lynn said, his tone becoming more determined, “who? Who helped you orchestrate all of this?”

“You don’t understand,” Sanders said, his voice strained, “He—he helped me. When I lost David, when I felt hopeless and didn’t know how to go on living, he found me.”

"who?"

“A doctor,” Sanders said, “a psychiatrist. He said he understood my pain, understood David’s theories. He said he could help me, make me stronger, strong enough to prove David right.”

Lynn and Sarah exchanged a glance.

"What's the doctor's name?" Lynn asked.

“He never told me his real name,” Sanders said. “He just told me to call him ‘Professor.’ We met once a week, in different places—coffee shops, parks, libraries. He taught me how to control my emotions, how to plan, and how to execute. He said that if I wanted David’s theories to be proven, I needed to create an irrefutable example.”

“So all of this was his idea?” Sarah asked.

“No,” Sanders shook his head, “it was my idea, but he—he perfected it. He provided the technical knowledge, teaching me how to create a locked room, how to leave no trace, how to choose the victim. He said every detail had to be perfect, because only a perfect crime could prove the inevitability of history.”

Lynn felt a chill. This wasn't a simple serial killing case; it was part of a much larger conspiracy. Someone was manipulating Sanders behind the scenes, exploiting his grief and anger to turn him into a killing machine.

“Where is this ‘professor’ now?” Lynn asked.

“I don’t know,” Sanders said. “We last met three weeks ago. He said the plan was ready, and the rest was up to me. He gave me a phone number, saying I could call if anything went wrong. But—”

"But what?"

“But after I was arrested, I tried to recall the number, but I couldn’t remember it,” Sanders said, a puzzled look on his face. “I clearly remember him giving me the number, and I repeated it several times. But now, those numbers are a blur in my mind.”

“He may have used hypnosis or psychological suggestion on you,” Sarah said, “to make sure you don’t betray him even if you are arrested.”

Lynn stood up and paced back and forth in the interrogation room. This "professor" was clearly a highly professional psychological manipulator who had chosen Sanders as his target, exploiting his vulnerability and grief to mold him into a perfect scapegoat.

“Describe his appearance,” Lynn said.

“In his fifties, with gray hair and gold-rimmed glasses,” Sanders said, trying to recall. “Of medium build, nothing particularly striking. His voice was gentle, and his manner of speaking was very comfortable and trustworthy.”

“This description could apply to thousands of people,” Sarah said.

“Anything else?” Lynn asked. “Any detail, even the smallest one.”

Sanders frowned, deep in thought.

“His hands,” Sanders said abruptly, “have an old scar on his right index finger, running from the tip to the second joint. And—he always carries a black leather notebook with him, but he never opens it in front of me.”

Lynn memorized these details.

"Did he mention anything else?" Lynn asked. "Besides your plan, did he talk about anything else?"

“Sometimes he talks about history,” Sanders said. “He knows history very well, especially about power, manipulation, and the psychology of the masses. He says that people who truly understand history can predict and control the future.”

Did he mention any other cases? Other people like you?

Sanders paused, as if the question had touched on a territory he hadn't considered before. "Once," he said slowly, "when we were discussing the details of the plan, I asked him why he seemed so familiar with all this. He laughed and said it wasn't the first time he'd helped someone 'achieve justice.' He said there were so many people like me in this world—hurt by the system, ignored by society, yearning to prove some kind of truth. He said his job was to find these people and help them unleash their potential."

Lynn's heart raced. This meant that Sanders might not be the first victim—or rather, not the first person manipulated by this "professor."

"Did he give any specific examples?" Sarah pressed.

“No details,” Sanders shook his head, “but he has hinted that in the past few years, there have been some seemingly unrelated cases—suicides, accidents, even ‘self-defense’—that were actually the work of his students. He said the most perfect crimes are those that aren’t even considered crimes.”

"Did he say anything unusual during our last meeting?" Lynn asked.

Sanders remained silent for a long time, his eyes becoming unfocused.

“He said,” Sanders finally spoke, his voice very soft, “'Whatever the outcome, you’ve become part of history. And history is always written by the victors.' At the time, I thought he was encouraging me, but now that I think about it—”

“Looking back now, he already knew you would fail,” Lynn said. “He knew from the beginning. You weren’t his collaborator, Sanders. You were his experiment.”

Sanders' face turned pale.

“He exploited your grief, your love for your brother, and your desire to prove yourself,” Lynn continued. “He molded you into the perfect killer and then watched you act according to his plan. And when you were arrested, he had made sure you couldn’t find him or provide any useful information.”

“No,” Sanders shook his head, but his voice was full of doubt, “He—he understands me, he helped me—”

“He manipulated you,” Sarah said sternly. “He turned you into a tool, used and discarded. Now you sit here facing four counts of first-degree murder and multiple terrorism charges, and somewhere, he’s probably looking for the next target like you.”

Sanders' hands began to tremble. He lowered his head, his shoulders shaking, as if he had suddenly realized some terrible truth.

“He never cared about David,” Sanders murmured. “He never cared about my brother, or the theory I was trying to prove. He was just—he was just playing a game, and I was his pawn.”

“Help us find him,” Lynn said, his voice urgent. “Tell us everything about him, even the smallest details. We can track him down and stop him from doing the same thing again.”

Sanders looked up, his eyes now filled with despair, the madness replaced by hopelessness.

“I don’t really know much,” he said, “but there’s one thing—we first met in a coffee shop near Columbia University. I had just attended a memorial service for David and was on the verge of a breakdown. He sat down next to me, handed me a coffee, and started talking to me.”

“Are you sure that wasn’t a coincidence?” Sarah asked.

“Looking back now, it couldn’t have been a coincidence,” Sanders said. “He knew so much about my situation. He knew David’s case, Rosen’s role, even my mental state at the time. He must have investigated me beforehand and selected me.”

“Anything else?” Lynn asked. “Any clues that can help us track him down.”

Sanders closed his eyes and tried hard to remember.

“His coffee,” he said suddenly, “he always drinks a special kind of coffee—Ethiopian Yirgacheffe, single-origin black coffee, without sugar or milk. He says it keeps his mind clear.”

“This is a bit too much—” Sarah began.

“No,” Lynn interrupted her, “every detail matters. If he has consistent preferences, we can track his purchases.”

“And his notebook,” Sanders continued, “that black leather notebook. The surface was smooth, but the corners were worn, it looked like it had been used for years. And—” he paused, “there was a small gold-stamped mark on the cover, like some kind of logo or badge, but it was too small for me to see clearly.”

Lynn memorized all of this information.

“Okay,” he said, “we’ll follow those leads. Now, I need you to work with our officers to draw his portrait. Be as detailed as possible; every feature is important.”

“I will,” Sanders said, his voice filled with weariness and regret, “but please promise me one thing.”

"What?"

“Grab him,” Sanders said, his eyes pleading. “Don’t let him find another person like me. Don’t let him exploit other people’s suffering.”

Lynn nodded.

“We will,” he said. “I promise.”

It was three in the morning when they left the interrogation room. Lynn and Sarah stood in the corridor, both feeling deeply exhausted, but also a new sense of urgency.

“Do you believe what he said?” Sarah asked.

“I believe he was indeed being manipulated,” Lynn said, “but we still don’t know who this 'professor' is or what his real purpose is.”

"If he really did manipulate multiple people over the past few years, those cases—"

“We need to launch a full investigation,” Lynn said. “Look at all suspicious suicides, accidents, and ‘self-defense’ cases from the past five years. Look for patterns, look for connections.”

"This will be a huge job."

“I know,” Lynn said, “but we have no choice. This man is still out there, he’s dangerous, and he’s proven he can turn ordinary people into killers.”

The basement was dimly lit, with only a single incandescent bulb in the corner casting a faint glow. The walls were rough concrete, and the air was damp and musty. Located in an abandoned industrial area of ​​the city, surrounded by empty warehouses, it was a place where even if someone screamed, no one would hear them.

The professor—or rather, his real name, Victor Lane—stood in the center of the room, his hands behind his back, calmly observing the scene before him.

A young man was strapped to a metal chair, his wrists, ankles, and chest secured with thick leather straps. He was about twenty-five years old, his brown hair disheveled and falling across his forehead, his eyes filled with fear and anger. He struggled incessantly, the leather straps screeching against the metal buckles. (End of Chapter)