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

But at the same time, he also learned more about Victor. His fighting skills, his counter-surveillance abilities, his methods of mind control—all of this information pieced together a more complete picture in Lynn's mind.

“We’ll catch him,” Lynn said to Sarah, his tone firm. “He thought he was the hunter, but now he’s the hunted.”

Sarah looked into Lynn's tired but determined eyes and nodded. "I believe in you. We'll catch him."

Victor's safe house was located in the basement of an abandoned factory in Brooklyn's industrial district. It was one of his many hideouts, meticulously modified and equipped with advanced communication equipment, tools for forging identities, and the necessary facilities for conducting "research."

He took off his dusty and sweaty suit, threw it on the chair, and then slammed his fist on the table.

Damn it!

The water glass on the table bounced, and the water inside splashed out.

Damn it!

He smashed it again, this time with even greater force, cracking his knuckles and drawing blood. But he seemed oblivious to the pain, simply standing there, his chest heaving, his eyes flashing with anger and resentment.

Twenty years. A full twenty years of research and practice, and he has never failed. Whether vulnerable, sorrowful, angry, or calm, rational, and powerful—all ordinary people ultimately succumb to his abilities. He can reshape their beliefs, rewrite their memories, and turn them into perfect puppets.

But tonight, he failed.

It wasn't a complete failure—he had indeed touched Lynn's mind, sensed the edge of his consciousness. But just as he was about to delve deeper, about to implant those subtle hints and commands, he encountered resistance.

It wasn't ordinary willpower, nor was it a simple refusal. It was something deeper, like Lynn's spirit having a natural defensive wall, strong and impenetrable.

Victor walked to the mirror on the wall and looked at his reflection. His gray hair was disheveled, his gold-rimmed glasses were askew, and there were ripped marks on his collar. This image reminded him of himself long ago, when he was young, when his abilities had just awakened, and when he didn't yet know how to control them.

He had failed and been rejected back then. But that was forty years ago.

He took several deep breaths, forcing himself to calm down. Being emotional is a sign of weakness, but he was not weak. He was a researcher, a scientist; failure was merely a sign that he needed new data.

Victor took out the black notebook, turned to the latest page, and began to take notes:
"Agent Lynn - Special Case"

Their mental resistance far surpasses that of ordinary humans. They can partially penetrate upon initial contact, but fail to achieve deep control.

More data is needed. But direct contact is no longer feasible—Lynn now knows what I look like and will be more cautious.

Alternative solution

He stopped writing and fell into thought.

If he can't control Lynn directly, then he needs to use indirect methods. Through his colleagues and those around him, he needs to create situations that force Lynn to act in the direction he wants.

But this requires more tools and more pieces.

Marcus was just the beginning, an experiment to test the possibility of controlling mutants. Although the process was far more difficult than controlling ordinary people, he ultimately succeeded in implanting guiding suggestions into Marcus's mind. Now Marcus should have begun seeking out other mutants and establishing connections, which is exactly what Victor wanted.

But one is not enough.

Victor needs more mutants, a network, a team he controls from behind the scenes. Not complete puppets—that's too difficult for mutants to achieve—but collaborators with their own consciousness who will make the "right" choices at crucial moments.

He opened his encrypted laptop and began searching the database. This was information he had collected over the past decade—files on suspected mutants in the New York area. Some were discovered through news reports, some through hospital records, and some through unusual behavioral patterns on social media.

There were approximately twenty-three highly suspicious targets, of whom he had initially confirmed the identities and abilities of seven. Marcus was the first to be "recruited."

Now, he needs a second and a third.

Victor sifted through the files, searching for suitable targets. He needed not only powerful mutants, but more importantly, people who were psychologically vulnerable and easily influenced.

His gaze lingered on a file:
"Elena Walker, 29, nurse."

Suspected abilities: Healing/Biomanipulation.

Evidence: The hospital where she works has an unusually high patient recovery rate, especially during her shifts. There are three cases of unexplained rapid recovery, all of which involve contact with her.

Psychological profile: Lost her younger brother six months ago in a preventable medical accident. Shows severe guilt and disillusionment with the healthcare system. Social media activity indicates she has begun to question her career choices.

Perfect. A mutant with healing abilities is experiencing self-doubt and guilt. This emotional state weakens her mental defenses, making her more receptive to external "guidance."

Victor continued browsing and found his second target:
Jason Black, 35, construction worker.

Suspected abilities: Strength enhancement/Density control.

Evidence: Construction site surveillance footage shows him moving a two-ton steel beam by himself. He was injured three times in construction accidents, but his wounds healed unusually quickly and left no visible scars.

Psychological Profile: Former soldier, discharged due to PTSD. Has a history of violent tendencies, arrested twice for bar fights. Found his current job after six months of unemployment, facing significant financial pressure and a custody dispute with his ex-wife.

That's fine too. A physically powerful mutant, but plagued by trauma and anger. Such people are easily driven to violence, given a "legitimate" outlet.

Victor closed his laptop and began to formulate a plan.

Over the next three days, he conducted meticulous reconnaissance and preparations.

Elena's routine was very regular. She worked at St. Mary's Hospital, four days a week, in twelve-hour shifts. After get off work, she would usually go to a small café nearby, sit in a corner reading or daydreaming, and stay alone for an hour or two before going home.

Victor chose to approach her on a rainy evening.

Elena sat in her usual spot at the café, a cold latte in front of her, a medical journal in her hand, but she wasn't really reading it. Her eyes were vacant, she sighed occasionally, and she exuded an aura of weariness and sadness. "Is this seat taken?" Victor asked with a smile, holding his coffee.

Elena looked up and saw a kind-looking middle-aged man. She shook her head. "No, please sit down."

“Thank you,” Victor sat down, put down his coffee, and then “casually” glanced at her journal, “Advances in Emergency Medicine”. “Are you a doctor?”

“Nurse,” Elena replied curtly, her tone devoid of pride, only weary.

“A noble profession,” Victor said. “I have a friend who’s also a nurse, and she always says it’s both fulfilling and heartbreaking.”

Elena gave a wry smile: "It's probably more heartbreaking than anything else."

"It sounds like you've been through some difficulties?" Victor's tone was full of concern, not intrusive curiosity, but genuine concern—a skill he had honed over many years.

Elena hesitated for a moment, then perhaps because she desperately needed to talk, or perhaps because there was something relaxing about Victor's voice, she began to speak:
“My brother went to the hospital six months ago for appendicitis, which should have been a simple surgery. But—” her voice began to tremble, “the hospital was understaffed, and he waited in the emergency room for six hours. By the time he finally got into the operating room, his appendix had ruptured, causing sepsis. He was nineteen, and should have had a bright future ahead of him.”

“I’m sorry,” Victor said, as a faint blue light began to emanate from his eyes, hidden behind the reflection of his lenses. “It must have been very painful.”

“The most painful thing is,” Elena continued, tears welling in her eyes, “if I had been there, if I could—” She stopped abruptly, as if realizing she had said too much.

“What can you do?” Victor asked softly, as his power began to permeate, very gently, like a comforting embrace rather than a forceful intrusion.

Elena's mental defenses were weakened by grief and exhaustion. Victor could sense the cracks in her mind, the gaps formed by self-blame and guilt.

“If only I could… with my hands…” Elena murmured, then suddenly looked at Victor with alarm. “Excuse me, did I say something strange?”

“No,” Victor said with a smile, but his insight went a step further, “You’re just expressing a desire to do more. That’s normal; many healthcare workers feel that way.”

He continued speaking, his voice rhythmic and hypnotic:
“You are a special person, Elena. You have a gift, an ability to truly help others. But the system limits you, the rules bind you. If you could break through these limitations, how many lives could you save?”

Elena's gaze began to wander; she was listening, absorbing these ideas.

Victor spent forty minutes gradually implanting new beliefs into her mind:
She is not just a nurse; she is a person with special abilities.
Her brother's death was not her fault, but the system's fault.
But she can change all of that if she accepts her uniqueness, if she's willing to break the rules.
Someone will come to her, offer help, and give her a chance to truly save lives.
When Victor left the café, Elena remained seated, her eyes filled with a dazed yet subtly determined look. She didn't remember every detail of their conversation, but the ideas had taken root deep within her mind, ready to grow slowly in the days to come.

The second objective is more challenging.

Jason Black is not the type to sit in a coffee shop and daydream. His life is much rougher, rife with alcohol, anger, and the edge of violence.

Victor spent two days observing Jason and discovered that he went to the same bar every Friday night, usually got drunk, and then either left alone or got into a fight.

Victor chose a Friday night and dressed more casually—jeans, a leather jacket, and a baseball cap—to disguise himself as another ordinary bar patron.

Jason sat in the corner of the bar, having already downed five or six glasses of whiskey. His eyes were gloomy, and he exuded an aura of "don't mess with me."

Victor sat a few seats next to him and ordered a beer.

A dozen minutes later, when Jason got up to go to the bathroom, Victor "accidentally" bumped into him.

“Hey, watch out!” Jason said gruffly, anger flashing in his eyes.

“Sorry, brother,” Victor said, raising his hands in apology, “I’ll buy you a drink as an apology.”

Jason stared at him for a few seconds, then shrugged. "Whatever."

They returned to the bar, and Victor ordered Jason a double whiskey. Alcohol is a good tool; it can lower a person's mental defenses, making it easier for Victor's abilities to penetrate.

“You don’t seem to be in a good mood,” Victor said, taking a sip of his beer.

“None of your business,” Jason replied, but still took the whiskey and drank half of it in one gulp.

“I understand,” Victor said. “This world isn’t very friendly to veterans, is it?”

Jason turned sharply to look at him: "How did you know—"

“I can tell,” Victor said, pointing to Jason’s posture, “his stance, his alertness, and that look in his eyes. I used to be in the military; I recognize my own kind.”

It was a lie, but a valid lie. Jason's expression relaxed slightly.

“Which unit?” Jason asked.

“Special forces, but I don’t like talking about that,” Victor said, his voice tinged with just the right amount of weariness. “He’s done too many things he shouldn’t have done, seen too many things he shouldn’t have seen. What about you?”

“The Army, deployed to Iraq twice,” Jason said, finishing the rest of his whiskey, “and then got blown up by a damn IED, woke up with PTSD, and got kicked out.”

“The system abandoned you,” Victor said, a blue glint beginning to appear in his eyes. “You served the country, lost so much, and all they gave you was a discharge certificate and some medication, and then said, ‘Take care.’”

“That’s right,” Jason’s voice was filled with resentment, “Now I’m just an ordinary construction worker, earning a meager wage, and my ex-wife wants to take away custody of my son, saying I have ‘violent tendencies’ and am unfit to be a father.”

Victor's abilities began to infiltrate. Compared to Elena, Jason's mental defenses were stronger—military training and battlefield experience made his will more resilient. But the psychological trauma caused by alcohol, anger, and PTSD also gave Victor many openings.

“You’re not an ordinary construction worker,” Victor said in a low voice, drawing closer. “You’re far stronger than those weak civilians. You’ve faced death; you have power, real power. But they fear your power, so they try to suppress you, to turn you into a docile, harmless ordinary person.”

Jason stared at Victor, his eyes filled with confusion but also empathy: "What are you talking about?"

“You know what I’m talking about,” Victor’s eyes were fixed on Jason’s. “That day on the construction site, when you lifted that steel beam, you felt it, right? That superhuman strength? It wasn’t adrenaline; it was real, it was who you truly are.” (End of Chapter)