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

On the way back to the FBI office, Sarah drove while Lynn sat in the passenger seat, his eyes closed as he recalled every detail of the attack.

“They were very professional,” he said. “Their movements were coordinated, and they had a clear tactical division of labor. And they didn’t want to kill me—at least not immediately. If they wanted to, they could have used guns, sniped from a distance. But they chose close combat, wanting to capture me alive.”

“Why?” Sarah asked.

“Perhaps they want to interrogate me to see how much information we have. Or,” Lynn opened his eyes, “perhaps the professor wants me as his next experimental subject.”

Sarah gripped the steering wheel tightly. "Do you think he'd use that kind of mind control on you?"

“If Sanders is telling the truth, if the professor can really reconstruct human cognition, then an FBI agent would be a valuable target,” Lynn said, his voice calm but tinged with sarcasm. “Imagine how much a controlled federal agent could do for him.”

“We will not let that happen,” Sarah said firmly.

“I know,” Lynn said, then added, “but that also means we’ve become a real threat. The professor has kept a very good eye on things for the past five years, never revealing himself. But now, he’s taking the initiative, which shows he’s feeling the pressure.”

“Or he’s become bolder,” Sarah said.

Lynn considered the possibility. "Perhaps both. In any case, the rules of the game have changed. He's no longer content to manipulate from the shadows; he's started to participate directly. That was his mistake."

They arrived at the FBI building and went straight to the medical room on the fourth floor. The on-duty doctor—an elderly physician in his fifties who had seen far too many injured agents—gave Lynn a thorough examination.

“Your old rib injury has flared up again,” the doctor said, pointing to the X-ray, “and your right hand fracture was also impacted, disrupting the healing process. I need to re-immobilize it, and you may need to wear a cast for another two weeks.”

“Okay,” Lynn said.

“You have severe soft tissue damage in your left shoulder, but thankfully there's no fracture. I'll prescribe some painkillers and antibiotics to prevent infection.” The doctor paused. “But honestly, Agent Lynn, you need rest. Your body has been under too much stress, and if this continues, it could cause permanent damage.”

“I’ll rest,” Lynn said, “after the case is over.”

The doctor sighed, shook his head, but still began treating the wound and re-attaching the cast.

An hour later, Lynn walked out of the medical room with a thick bandage wrapped around his left shoulder and a brand-new cast on his right hand. He walked with a limp but insisted on not using crutches.

The entire investigation team had gathered in the conference room. Besides Sarah, there was Reynolds, several technical analysts, and two experts from the counterterrorism unit.

Lynn walked to the whiteboard, picked up a marker, and began to write. His movements were somewhat stiff due to his wound, but his handwriting remained clear.

“We’re not dealing with an ordinary criminal,” he said. “This professor, or Victor Lane—if the name Sanders remembers is accurate—is a highly intelligent, organized, and potentially superhuman dangerous individual.”

He drew a timeline on the whiteboard: "Over the past five years, twelve cases, all seemingly independent crimes. But now we know they are all connected to the same person."

“I’ve started reviewing suspicious cases from the past five years,” a technical analyst said. “The problem is, if the professor is really that adept at manipulation, many cases might not have even been flagged as suspicious.”

“Focus on a few key characteristics,” Lynn said. “First, the victim or suspect experienced a sudden personality change before the incident. Second, there is a history of significant psychological trauma or the loss of a loved one. Third, the crime demonstrates a high degree of planning, but the suspect may not have a relevant professional background.”

“This will generate a huge list,” Reynolds said.

“I know,” Lynn said, “but we have no choice. Also, regarding this morning’s attack—I need to see all the surveillance footage in the vicinity. They must have conducted reconnaissance beforehand and may have left traces.”

“The technical department is already reviewing the data,” Sarah said, “but the attackers are very professional; they may have used counter-surveillance techniques.”

“That SUV is also key,” Lynn said. “Dark blue, with a bullet hole in the rear windshield and a damaged left side mirror. The damage is obvious; they'll either repair it immediately or replace the car. Contact all the auto repair shops to see if they have a vehicle matching the description.”

“And that old man,” he continued, “wearing a gray overcoat, holding a newspaper, monitoring the scene after the attack. If we can find him, we can find a lead. Go through all the surveillance footage from that area, use facial recognition.”

“What if he was also disguised?” an agent asked.

“Then we’ll find everyone who was in that area during that time period and then suddenly disappeared,” Lynn said. “We’ll cross-reference them to narrow down the search.”

He turned to Sarah: "Any new information from Sanders?"

“He’s still cooperating, assisting the police sketch artist in drawing the professor’s portrait,” Sarah said, handing Lynn a sketch. “But the portrait is quite blurry because Sanders says his memory is becoming increasingly hazy—this could be some kind of mental suggestion implanted by the professor to prevent identification.”

Lynn looked at the portrait. It was of a middle-aged man with gray hair and glasses; his face was so ordinary that it could have been anyone's. But his eyes—the portrait artist caught something in them, a calm, scrutinizing, almost clinical observation.

“Distribute this sketch to all relevant departments,” Lynn said. “It’s not very accurate, but it’s better than nothing. Also—”

Suddenly his cell phone rang.

Lynn glanced at the caller ID; it was an unfamiliar number.

He hesitated for a moment, then answered: "Lynn."

A gentle, magnetic male voice came from the other end of the phone:
"Good morning, Agent Lynn. It's great to see you survived our little test."

Everyone in the conference room froze.

Lynn gestured to the technicians to begin tracking, then answered in a calm voice:
"You are the professor."

“That’s what Sanders calls me,” the voice said, a hint of amusement in it. “I prefer Victor, but the title doesn’t matter. What matters is, Agent Lynn, I want to speak with you.”

“What do you want to talk about?” Lynn asked, while observing the technicians’ gestures—they were tracing the source of the signal.

“It’s about history, about humanity, about the truth you’re pursuing,” Victor’s voice remained gentle, as if discussing the weather, “but not over the phone. I think we should meet, talk face-to-face.” “You think I’d agree?”

“You will,” Victor said, his voice brimming with absolute confidence, “because you know this might be your only chance to win me over. And, frankly, you're curious about me, just as I am about you.”

Lynn looked at Sarah, who was shaking her head frantically, signaling him to refuse. But Lynn knew Victor was right—this might be their closest chance to the mastermind behind everything.

"When and where?" Lynn asked.

“Tonight at eight o’clock, at the Harrington Museum of Art in Midtown Manhattan,” Victor said. “There’s an opening reception for a private art exhibition there, with over two hundred guests. Very public, very safe. You could bring the entire FBI, I don’t care.”

Why choose that location?

“Because art and crime have a lot in common, Detective Lynn—it’s all about creation, about pushing boundaries, about letting people see things they wouldn’t normally see,” Victor paused, “and a crowded party is the best cover. You don’t know who I am, I can observe you, study you, and you can only look for me in the crowd. Isn’t that interesting?”

The technician made a gesture – the signal was encrypted, and tracking failed.

“How do I know this isn’t a trap?” Lynn asked.

“You don’t know,” Victor said frankly, “but traps are usually set in secluded places, not in a public setting with two hundred witnesses. I just wanted to meet you, Detective Lynn. To see what kind of person could crack Sanders’ puzzle.”

What if I refuse?

“Then the game continues, but the rules will change,” Victor’s voice grew colder. “Next time, my men won’t just be testing you. And I might target other members of your team. Agent Sarah Chen, right? She seems intelligent and has potential.”

Lynn gripped her phone tightly. "You dare touch her—"

“So, tonight at eight o’clock, Harrington Art Museum,” Victor interrupted, his tone becoming more relaxed again, “dress formally; this is a high-class party. Oh, and by the way, don’t try to clear the place out beforehand or deploy obvious police. If I sense anything amiss, I’ll disappear, and you’ll lose that opportunity.”

The phone hangs up.

A heated discussion broke out in the conference room.

“This is a trap,” Reynolds spoke first. “He wants to lure you out and do something to you in public—maybe an attack, maybe humiliation.”

“Or he’s trying to control Lynn,” Sarah said, her face pale. “In a crowd, no one will notice a brief conversation, a glance. By the time we realize it, Lynn may already be under his influence.”

“We can equip Lynn with protective gear,” a technical expert said, “earphones, hidden cameras, heart rate monitors. If anything is amiss, we’ll intervene immediately.”

“But he said there couldn’t be any obvious police deployment,” another detective said. “If we send out a large number of detectives, he’ll notice.”

Lynn listened silently to the discussion, his mind racing. This could indeed be a trap, but it could also be an opportunity. Victor was clearly confident, confident enough to be willing to expose himself in public. What was the source of this confidence? Was it his ability? Or did he have some kind of backup plan?
“I’ll go,” Lynn finally said, his voice calm and firm.

“Lynn—” Sarah began to protest.

“Listen to me,” Lynn raised his hand. “This is our only chance. We have no other leads, no evidence, not even a clear portrait. Victor is like a ghost; if we miss this opportunity, he might disappear again and continue searching for his next victim.”

“But the risk is too great,” Reynolds said.

“I know the risks,” Lynn said, “but I won’t go alone. Sarah, I need you on site, disguised as a party guest. Reynolds, you take a team and keep watch around the art gallery, but stay hidden. The tech department has all possible tracking and surveillance equipment ready.”

He walked to the whiteboard and began to formulate a plan: "Victor's ability is mind control, which requires some form of direct contact—it could be eye contact, voice, or physical contact. So I will remain vigilant and avoid any deep interactions with strangers."

“But there are two hundred people at the party,” Sarah said. “How do you know which one is him?”

“I don’t know,” Lynn admitted, “but he would approach me. He invited me there for that reason—to observe me, test me, and perhaps try to control me. What I had to do was react quickly enough when he revealed himself.”

"What if you don't react in time?"

“Then it’s up to you,” Lynn said, looking at Sarah. “If you notice anything unusual about my behavior, intervene immediately. Don’t hesitate; don’t give him time to regain control.”

Over the next few hours, the team worked tirelessly to prepare. The tech department provided Lynn with a sophisticated surveillance setup: a miniature camera hidden in a shirt button, an invisible earpiece implanted in his ear canal, and a heart rate and brainwave monitor disguised as an expensive watch.

“This watch monitors your physiological indicators in real time,” the tech expert explained. “If your heart rate or brainwaves show abnormal patterns—such as signs of mind control—it will automatically sound an alarm and vibrate to alert you.”

"Does mind control have a characteristic pattern?" Lynn asked.

"Some studies have shown that when a person is hypnotized or under psychological influence, their brainwaves exhibit specific frequency changes," the expert said. "While not 100% accurate, it's better than nothing."

Sarah was also preparing. She changed into an elegant black evening gown, applied light makeup, and looked exactly like a young professional woman attending a high-end party. But hidden in her small handbag were a compact pistol and a strong tranquilizer.

“If things get out of control,” she told Lynn, “I’ll inject you immediately. The sedative will interrupt any psychological effects.”

“That would make me faint in front of a bunch of high society people,” Lynn said.

“It’s better than being controlled,” Sarah said firmly.

At 7:30 p.m., Lynn and Sarah arrived at the Harrington Art Museum. It's a five-story neoclassical building located on Fifth Avenue, surrounded by upscale shops and restaurants. A row of luxury cars was parked in front of the museum, and formally dressed guests were queuing to enter.

Lynn wore a dark blue suit—rented for him by the FBI—which concealed the bandages and cast on his body. His left arm was stiff, but this was barely noticeable under the suit jacket. He followed the crowd into the art museum, presenting the forged invitation—a masterpiece of the technical department. (End of Chapter)