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

Victor stepped out of the basement and locked the heavy metal door. The lights in the hallway were brighter than inside. He took off his gold-rimmed glasses and wiped them with a handkerchief.

His hands trembled slightly—this experiment had been more demanding than expected. Controlling a capable mutant required immense focus and mental strength. But the result was worthwhile.

He took out his phone and dialed an encrypted number.

“The experiment was a success,” he said succinctly. “Mutants can be influenced, but new methods are needed. I will continue my research and develop protocols.”

A woman's voice came from the other end of the phone; the voice was distorted.
"The Sanders case has attracted too much attention. The FBI agent—Lynn—is intelligent and could become a problem."

“Lynn,” Victor repeated the name, a thoughtful glint in his eyes, “Yes, he is indeed more difficult to deal with than the average agent. But that makes things more interesting, doesn’t it?”

"Don't underestimate him."

“I won’t,” Victor said. “In fact, I’m very curious about him. Such a persistent, such an intelligent person—I want to know what his mind is like, what his motivations are. Perhaps, someday in the future, I will have the opportunity to learn more about Special Agent Lynn.”

“Focus on your research,” the woman’s voice said. “The organization has invested significant resources in your project. We need results.”

“You will see results,” Victor said, his voice brimming with confidence. “Soon, I will have perfected the technology for controlling mutants. At that point, we will no longer be controlling individual humans—we will be able to influence the entire mutant community and guide its development.”

"Keep a low profile, Victor. Don't let the FBI or Professor X's people find you."

“I understand,” Victor said. “I’ve always been invisible. That’s my advantage.”

After the call ended, Victor put away his phone and put his glasses back on. He glanced at his watch—three in the morning. On the other side of the city, Lynn was probably interrogating Sanders, trying to piece together the truth.

But the truth is far more complex and darker than they imagined.

Victor walked to the parking lot and got into an inconspicuous gray sedan. In the driver's seat, he opened the black notebook and turned to the last page.

There are twelve names recorded there—his “works” over the past five years. Sanders is the twelfth.

He picked up his pen and added a thirteenth name below:
"Marcus Ryan—Mutant, first successful test"

Then he added a fourteenth one, marked with a question mark:
"Undetermined—could it be Special Agent Lynn?"

Victor smiled and started the car.

The following morning, the New York sky was overcast, and the air was thick with the dampness of impending rain. Lynn spent the entire night in the FBI office, working with Sarah and other agents to sift through all the files on the Sanders case, trying to find clues about the mysterious "professor."

At eight o'clock in the morning, Lynn decided to go home, take a shower, and change into clean clothes. The cast on his right hand had loosened somewhat, and although his ribs were still throbbing, they were much better than a few days ago. Exhaustion weighed heavily on his shoulders, but his brain was still working at high speed, analyzing every piece of information he had obtained during the interrogation the previous night.

He drove his black Ford north along Third Avenue. Traffic wasn't too congested at this time; most commuters were still on the subway. Lynn rolled down the window, letting the cool air in to hopefully clear his head.

But he didn't notice that a dark blue SUV had started following him from three blocks away.

Lynn's apartment was located on the Upper East Side, in a six-story building that was twenty years old. He parked his car in a roadside parking space, turned off the engine, and prepared to get out.

The moment he opened the car door, his instincts told him that something was wrong.

Perhaps it was the reflection of his movement on the car window, or perhaps it was the sense of crisis cultivated over years of training, but Lynn suddenly turned around—

A figure wearing a black hoodie rushed up from behind him, holding a metal rod in his hand.

Lynn didn't have time to fully dodge, and the metal rod slammed heavily into his left shoulder. A sharp pain instantly shot through his body, and he staggered backward, nearly falling.

But his FBI training allowed him to react in an instant. He blocked the second attack with his right hand—despite its cast—and then swept his left leg towards the attacker's groin.

The attacker moved swiftly, leaping to avoid the sweeping kick, but this gave Lynn a chance to catch his breath. He retreated behind the car and quickly scanned his surroundings.

More than one person.

Two other figures, also dressed in black, jumped out of a dark blue SUV parked across the street and ran quickly towards him. All three were well-trained and moved in unison.

"Damn it," Lynn cursed under his breath, reaching for his sidearm at his waist with his right hand.

But the first attacker had clearly anticipated this. He swung the metal bar again, this time aiming at Lynn's arm. Lynn was forced to abandon drawing his gun and rolled under a nearby car.

The metal rod slammed against the car body, making a piercing metallic clang.

Lynn rolled out of the car from the other side and finally drew his gun. But two other attackers had already arrived and flanked him from the left and right.

“FBI! Drop your weapons!” Lynn shouted, pointing his gun at the nearest attacker.

But they didn't hesitate and continued to approach. Lynn noticed that they were all wearing masks, so he couldn't see their faces, and they didn't have guns—only melee weapons, metal rods, daggers, and even a steel cable.

They wanted to capture him alive, or at least didn't want to use guns to avoid attracting too much attention.

This gave Lynn an opportunity.

He fired a shot into the leg of the attacker on his left. The gunshot was particularly jarring on the early morning street, and several pigeons took flight in alarm.

The bullet struck the target in the thigh, and the attacker fell to the ground in pain, but immediately began crawling towards cover. These men were highly trained and maintained tactical discipline even when wounded.

But this shot also revealed Lynn's position. The attacker on the right suddenly accelerated, the steel cable in his hand spinning in the air, and then swung it precisely at Lynn's wrist.

The steel cable wrapped around Lynn's right hand. The attacker pulled hard, and the gun flew out of his hand, sliding several meters on the ground.

"Damn it!" Lynn roared, grabbing the steel cable with his left hand and engaging in a struggle of strength with the attacker.

But the first attacker—the one with the metal rod—had already circled behind him. The metal rod swept across, aiming for the back of Lynn's head.

Lynn sensed the wind and instinctively ducked. The metal rod grazed his scalp, taking a few strands of hair with it. He seized the opportunity to turn sharply, using his right hand, which was wrapped with a steel cable, to pull the attacker holding the cable towards the attacker holding the metal rod.

The two attackers collided and briefly lost their balance.

Lynn seized the opportunity and used all his strength to break the steel cable wrapped around his hand—a sharp pain shot through his right hand, which was in a cast, and cracks appeared in the cast, but the steel cable broke.

He rushed toward his gun, but a sudden, sharp pain shot through his leg—the attacker he had wounded, though lying on the ground, had slashed Lynn's calf with a dagger.

Lynn staggered, but still managed to reach the gun, his fingers barely touching the handle—

A foot stepped on the back of his hand.

Lynn looked up and saw the attacker with the metal rod looking down at him, the rod pointed at his head.

Time seemed to stand still for a second. Then Lynn moved.

He grabbed the foot that was stepping on his hand with his left hand and twisted it sharply. The attacker lost his balance and fell backward, the metal rod missing its target and crashing to the ground, sparks flying.

Lynn rolled over and finally gripped the gun. He turned, pointing the muzzle—

But the attackers were already retreating.

Their movements were swift and coordinated; the injured man was supported by the other two and ran towards the SUV. The entire process took no more than three seconds.

Lynn raised his gun and aimed, but they had already jumped into the SUV, whose engine roared to life.

"Stop!" Lynn shouted, but the SUV had already reversed sharply, leaving black tire marks on the ground, before turning around and speeding away.

Lynn fired two shots at the vehicle, hitting the rear windshield. The glass shattered but didn't break completely. The SUV turned the corner and disappeared from sight.

The streets fell silent again, save for Lynn's rapid breathing and the distant sound of police sirens—someone had called the police.

Lynn bent over, bracing himself on his knees with his hands, trying to catch his breath. The adrenaline was starting to subside, and the pain from his wounds became more pronounced.

He examined his injuries: severe bruising on his left shoulder, possibly indicating a minor fracture. The cast on his right hand had cracked, suggesting the fracture, which was almost healed, might have been further damaged by impact. His left calf was cut by a dagger, and blood was seeping out, staining his trousers. There were also several abrasions and bruises.

But he's still alive, and that's the most important thing.

Two patrol cars approached from opposite ends of the street, their lights flashing. Lynn pulled out his FBI badge and held it above his head.

"FBI! Special Agent Lynn! I'm the victim!"

The police officers got out of the car, guns drawn but not aimed at him. One of the young officers recognized Lynn—he was the detective who had recently been the subject of much media coverage for solving the serial murder case.

"Detective Lynn? Are you alright?"

“I need medical assistance,” Lynn said, then pointed to the end of the street. “Three attackers, fleeing in a dark blue SUV, license plate number—” He closed his eyes, trying to recall the details he’d seen in the chaos, “New York license plate, I couldn’t make out the numbers after XJK, but there were bullet holes in the rear windshield and the left side mirror was damaged.”

“We’ll issue a notification immediately,” another officer said, beginning to report the situation over the radio.

The young officer approached Lynn: "Do you need to sit down?"

“I’m fine,” Lynn said, but the wound on his leg made it almost impossible for him to stand. He sat on the hood of his car. “But I need to contact my partner.”

He took out his phone and dialed Sarah's number.

“Lynn?” Sarah’s voice came through the phone. “I thought you had gone home to rest—”

“I was attacked outside my apartment,” Lynn interrupted her. “Three men, highly trained, wanted to capture me alive or kill me. I wounded one of them, but they escaped.”

There was a second of silence on the other end of the phone, then Sarah's voice became serious: "Are you hurt?"

“Minor injuries, I can handle. But Sarah, this isn’t accidental. They knew my address, they knew my routine; this was a premeditated attack.”

“Professor,” Sarah said.

“Very likely,” Lynn agreed, “he knows we’re tracking him, so he wants to strike first.”

"I'm coming right away, and FBI backup is on its way. Don't move, wait for me."

“Okay,” Lynn said, then added, “Also, activate the protection system. If they attack me, they might also go after Sanders, or other members of our team.”

“Understood,” Sarah said. “Stay alert.”

After the call ended, Lynn looked around. A crowd of onlookers had gathered on the street, some taking pictures with their phones. He noticed an elderly man in a gray coat standing in the distance, holding a newspaper, but his eyes were fixed on their direction.

When Lynn's gaze fell upon him, the old man immediately turned around and slowly walked away.

Too deliberate.

“That old man,” Lynn said to the young officer, pointing to the departing gray overcoat, “follow him, but don’t alert him.”

The officer paused for a moment, then quickly realized what was happening and began to walk in that direction without making a sound.

But the old man had already turned the corner, and by the time the officer reached the corner, he had vanished. The officer reported over the radio: "Target missing; may have entered a building or alley."

Lynn cursed. They were monitoring, confirming the outcome of the attack. And they were professional enough to know when to retreat.

The ambulance arrived, and paramedics began treating Lynn's wounds. They recommended he go to the hospital for a full checkup, but Lynn refused.

“Just bandage it up,” he said. “I still have work to do.”

“Detective Lynn, your injuries require—” a young female nurse began to say.

“I said, just bandage it up,” Lynn said, her tone leaving no room for argument.

The female nurse glanced at his eyes, sighed, and began cleaning the wound.

Fifteen minutes later, Sarah's car sped up and came to an abrupt stop. She jumped out and strode toward Lynn, followed by two fully armed FBI agents.

“You look terrible,” Sarah said, but her eyes were full of concern.

“You should take a look at the others,” Lynn tried to joke, but the smile on his lips was distorted by pain.

Sarah knelt down and carefully examined his wound. "You need to go to the hospital."

“I need to get back to the office,” Lynn corrected. “We need to analyze this attack and find out who they are.”

"Lynn—"

“Sarah, they’re after me,” Lynn interrupted, his eyes sharpening. “This means we’re getting closer to the truth. The professor feels threatened, so he sent people to stop me. This is a breakthrough.”

Sarah paused for a moment, then nodded. "Okay. But first, go to the office medical room and have the doctor examine you again. Then we'll have a meeting to discuss our next steps."

“Deal,” Lynn said.

With the help of two agents, Lynn stood up. His left leg was stiff from the wound, but he gritted his teeth and forced himself to walk normally—he didn't want to show any weakness, didn't want the professor, who might still be watching him somewhere, to think he had succeeded. (End of Chapter)