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

The museum's lobby was opulent, with crystal chandeliers hanging from the high ceiling and artworks of various styles adorning the walls. Guests, champagne glasses in hand, lingered before the exhibits or conversed quietly. Soft classical music flowed through the air.

Lynn took a glass of champagne—he wouldn't actually drink it, but he needed to pretend—and began to move slowly through the hall, observing every face, every person.

“I’m coming in,” he said in a low voice, knowing that Sarah could hear him through the earpiece.

“I see you,” Sarah’s voice came through the earpiece. “I’m at your three o’clock position, next to the red sofa.”

Lynn caught a glimpse of her out of the corner of his eye, but didn't look directly at her. He continued wandering through the exhibition hall, ostensibly admiring the artworks, but actually searching for suspicious individuals.

But everyone seemed perfectly normal. There were older collectors, young art critics, businessmen in expensive suits, and stylish socialites. No one seemed particularly suspicious, and no one stared at him.

"Physiological indicators are normal," came the voice from the technical department through the headset. "Stay vigilant."

Time passed second by second. Eight o'clock, eight ten, eight twenty.

Lynn began to doubt whether Victor would actually show up, or if it was just a bluff to drain the FBI's resources and energy.

Then, at 8:25, someone spoke from behind him:
"This painting is very interesting, isn't it?"

Lynn turned around.

A man in his fifties stood beside him, looking at an abstract painting on the wall. He had gray hair, gold-rimmed glasses, and was of medium build, wearing a well-tailored dark gray suit. He held a champagne glass in his right hand, and there was an old scar on his index finger.

That's the person Sanders described.

Lynn's heart raced, but he forced himself to remain calm. He didn't react immediately, but instead turned to the painting as well, seemingly lost in thought.

“Indeed,” Lynn said, his voice relaxed, “although I don’t know much about abstract art.”

“Most people don’t understand,” Victor said with a smile, “but that’s the beauty of abstract art—everyone sees something different. This painting is called ‘Divided Reality,’ and the artist wanted to express that each of us sees the world differently because our brains interpret reality based on our own experiences and beliefs.”

“It has a strong philosophical flavor,” Lynn said, carefully avoiding looking directly into Victor’s eyes and continuing to look at the painting.

“Art is always connected to philosophy,” Victor said, then turned to Lynn, extending his right hand. “My name is Victor Lynn, an art historian. And you?”

Lynn had to turn to face him, but he deliberately avoided direct eye contact, his gaze landing on Victor's nose—an old trick that made it look like he was making eye contact, but didn't.

“John Gray,” Lynn said using a pseudonym, taking Victor’s hand.

The moment they shook hands, Lynn felt a strange stinging sensation in his palm, like a faint electric current. His watch began to vibrate—a warning signal.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, John,” Victor said, a barely perceptible glint of blue in his eyes. “You don’t seem like an art enthusiast. If I’m not mistaken, you’re more like—” He paused, his eyes fixed on Lynn, “someone looking for someone.”

Lynn felt his thoughts begin to blur, as if a thin mist were shrouding his consciousness. Victor's voice became exceptionally clear and penetrating:
“You’re tired, John. You’ve been through so much stress, so much pain. You need to relax, you need to trust.”

“I’m looking for a friend here,” Lynn interrupted, taking a step back to break the physical contact. “Excuse me, I have to go—”

But Victor followed, maintaining a proper social distance so as not to attract the attention of those around him, yet close enough that his voice could reach Lynn's ears clearly:
“You’re resisting, I can feel it. Your willpower is strong, stronger than most people’s. But willpower has its limits, John—or should I call you Agent Lynn?”

Lynn turned sharply to face him, his right hand instinctively reaching for the gun at his waist.

But Victor simply smiled, raised his hands in a harmless gesture: "Don't be nervous, Agent. We're in a public setting with two hundred witnesses. Are you really going to draw your gun here?"

People around them began to notice their interaction. Some guests looked over curiously.

“You are him,” Lynn whispered, struggling against the urge to relax and trust that was not his own thought, but something implanted in his mind.

“Who am I?” Victor continued to smile. “An art historian? A researcher interested in human psychology? Or the ghost you’re hunting?”

Lynn's watch vibrated even more violently—his brainwaves were malfunctioning. He could feel Victor's abilities trying to penetrate his mind, like invisible tentacles exploring the edges of his consciousness.

“Sarah,” Lynn said into the headset, “Target confirmed, gray suit, at my eleven o’clock position—”

But before he could finish speaking, Victor suddenly reached out and, with astonishing speed, ripped the camera button off Lynn's shirt, threw it on the ground, and crushed it with his foot.

“I know you’re carrying equipment,” Victor said, his tone remaining calm, “but that’s alright, our communication doesn’t need an audience.”

Lynn reacted quickly, grabbing Victor's wrist while simultaneously kneeing him in the abdomen.

But Victor reacted just as quickly. He dodged to the side, grabbing Lynn's collar with his other hand, and the two wrestled together.

Screams erupted around them, and the guests retreated, forming a circle.

During their scuffle, Lynn and Victor knocked over a display stand, smashing the sculpture on it to the ground. Victor's strength was unexpected, and his fighting skills were professional—not street fighting, but systematic training.

“You’re more resistant than I expected,” Victor said during the struggle, his voice slightly breathless from the exertion. “Most people’s will begins to crumble the moment I touch them. But you—your spirit has some kind of natural barrier.”

Lynn didn't answer, his focus entirely on the fight. But his injuries hampered his movements—pain in his left shoulder, the cast on his right hand, and the wound on his left leg.

Victor seized the opportunity and, with a skillful grappling move, threw Lynn off balance, sending him crashing to the ground. The impact to his back caused his old rib injury to flare up with excruciating pain.

Victor straddled Lynn, his hands on Lynn's shoulders, his eyes fixed on Lynn's—this time, Lynn couldn't escape that gaze.

A blue light surged in Victor's pupils, intense and dazzling.

“Look at me, Lynn,” Victor said, his voice becoming deep and rhythmic, “let me see what your mind is like, let me understand what makes you so special—”

Lynn felt an immense pressure invading his consciousness. It wasn't physical pressure, but mental pressure, as if someone was forcibly opening every door of his brain, going through every memory, and examining every thought.

He saw flashes of images—not his own memories, but images that Victor was trying to implant:
Relax trust and obedience
But at the same time, Lynn's consciousness was fighting back. He remembered training, his duties, and Sanders' victims. Their faces flashed through his mind, reminding him that he could not yield, that he could not let this monster escape.

“You won’t succeed,” Lynn said through gritted teeth, each word delivered with full force. Victor frowned and increased his mental output. The blue light intensified, and the surrounding air seemed to vibrate.

But just then, a figure rushed over—Sarah.

She held the compact pistol in her hand, aiming it at Victor: "FBI! Let him go!"

Victor sighed, released Lynn, and raised his hands: "Someone always interrupts."

But just as Sarah approached, Victor suddenly moved. His movements were as fast as lightning; he kicked the gun out of Sarah's hand, then grabbed a metal sculpture base and smashed it at the oncoming security guard.

Chaos erupted inside the art museum. Guests screamed and fled for the exits, while security guards tried to control the situation but were pushed aside by the crowd.

Taking advantage of the chaos, Victor rushed toward the side door.

Lynn struggled to his feet, ignoring all the pain signals in his body, and chased after him: "Don't let him get away!"

Sarah was also in pursuit, shouting into her headset, "All units, target fleeing, gray suit, around fifty years old, moving towards the east side of the art museum!"

But Victor knew the building very well—he had clearly scouted it beforehand. He walked through the staff entrance, pushed open a door marked "No Entry," and entered the backstage area.

Lynn followed closely behind, with Sarah behind him. They entered a storage room filled with boxes of art pieces, Victor's figure flashing between the boxes.

“You can’t catch me, Agent Lynn,” Victor’s voice echoed in the storeroom. “And even if you did, you wouldn’t be able to catch me. I’ve studied human psychology for twenty years; I know how to escape, how to hide, how to disappear.”

Lynn didn't answer, but continued tracking. His training allowed him to determine direction by sound and lock onto targets by subtle movements.

He walked around a pile of boxes and saw Victor's back—he was opening a fire door leading to a back alley.

Lynn sped up, ignoring the tearing pain in his leg, and lunged at Victor.

His fingers brushed against Victor's suit jacket, grasping a corner—

But Victor suddenly turned and struck Lynn's injured shoulder with his elbow. The sharp pain caused Lynn to loosen his grip, and Victor broke free.

“See you next time, Agent,” Victor said, then rushed out of the fire door.

Lynn rushed out the door after him, only to find himself in a narrow back alley. Victor had already run more than ten meters and was turning towards the main street.

Lynn drew his gun: "Stop! FBI!"

But Victor didn't stop; he kept running.

Lynn aimed at his leg and pulled the trigger—

The bullet struck the wall beside Victor, sending shrapnel flying. Victor lost his balance and staggered, but quickly regained his footing, turned the corner, and disappeared.

When Lynn reached the street corner, he saw a waiting motorcycle speed away, carrying Victor, and disappear into the Manhattan traffic. Within seconds, he vanished into the countless vehicles, beyond tracking.

Reynolds arrived from another direction with a team of agents: "We've set up roadblocks around here, but—"

“He escaped,” Lynn said, his breathing rapid, his body trembling from the exertion and his wounds. “Damn it, he escaped.”

Sarah ran to his side and supported him: "Are you alright?"

“Not good,” Lynn admitted, then looked at her. “What about you? Did he hurt you?”

“I’m fine,” Sarah said, “but his fighting skills—that’s not something an ordinary person has. He’s had professional training; he might have a military or intelligence background.”

“And his abilities,” Lynn said, touching his temple, “I could feel him trying to invade my mind. It felt like someone was prying open your skull, touching your brain directly. I don’t know how long I could have lasted if Sarah hadn’t interrupted.”

The technical department's vehicle arrived, and paramedics began examining Lynn's injuries. His shoulder bandage was bleeding again, the wound on his left leg had reopened, and there were new abrasions on his face.

“You need to go to the hospital,” the medical staff said.

“Later,” Lynn said, then turned to Reynolds, “we have to act now. Victor has exposed himself; he'll definitely change his hiding place. We need to access all the surveillance footage, track that motorcycle, and find his whereabouts.”

“Lynn, you’re exhausted,” Sarah said. “Let the others—”

“No,” Lynn interrupted her, his eyes resolute. “I saw his eyes, I felt his power. I know what kind of person he is, I know how dangerous he is. I can't back down now.”

He looked at Reynolds and Sarah: "And, we finally have an advantage."

“What advantages?” Reynolds asked.

“His arrogance,” Lynn said. “Victor came to see me not because he was afraid or wanted to negotiate. He came because he was curious, because he wanted to test me, to prove he was stronger than me. That arrogance is his weakness. He will make the same mistake again, and next time, we will be ready.”

It was late at night when they returned to the FBI building. Lynn's wound was treated again, he changed into clean clothes, and immediately began his analysis.

The technical department retrieved all CCTV footage from the art museum and surrounding streets. They tracked the motorcycle and found it stopped three blocks away, where Victor switched to a taxi. The taxi then circled downtown several times before finally stopping near Times Square, where Victor disappeared into the crowd.

“He’s too cautious,” the tech expert said. “He knows all the anti-tracking techniques and how to exploit crowds and blind spots in surveillance.”

“But he left something behind,” Lynn said, pointing to an image on the screen. “Look here, in the museum’s storage room, he touched a box. There might be his fingerprints on it.”

“A forensics team has already been dispatched,” Sarah said, “but if his fingerprints aren’t in the database—”

“Then at least we have his DNA and fingerprints,” Lynn said. “Next time we encounter him, we can identify him immediately.”

He sat down in the chair, finally allowing exhaustion to wash over him. Tonight's events made him realize that the enemy they faced was far more dangerous and unpredictable than he had imagined. (End of Chapter)