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

“Elisa, I understand your concerns, but the answer is still no,” Lynn said firmly but gently. “It’s too dangerous. If Blackwood discovers your identity, the consequences will be unimaginable.”

“But my abilities might uncover important clues,” Elisa argued relentlessly. “I can sense their true thoughts, identify who is lying, and who knows more.”

Lynn sighed and walked to the window, looking at the street scene outside. "Alyssa, I've already lost such a kind mutant as Merlin. I can't let you take any more risks."

“But that’s exactly what I should do.” Elisa stood up. “Merlin used her abilities to help others, and I should use mine to serve justice.”

“At the right time, and in a safe way.” Lynn turned to face her. “Not this time. The Blackwood party could be a trap, and I can’t let you fall into it too.”

Elisa could sense Lynn's determination and knew that further arguing was pointless. "Then you must at least promise me that if we encounter danger, you will leave immediately."

“I’ll be careful,” Lynn promised. “And I’ll carry tracking equipment; headquarters will monitor my location at all times.”

"Do you really think you can gain useful information by attending this banquet?" Elisa asked.

“I’m not sure, but this is our only chance right now to get close to Blackwood’s inner circle,” Lynn said. “Maybe I can find out about his other associates, or find out their next move.”

On Saturday night, a black federal vehicle carried Lynn toward Long Island. Night had fallen, and the lights along the highway stretched into the distance like a galaxy. Lynn was wearing his best evening suit—a deep black tuxedo, which he had borrowed from a friend, because an FBI detective's salary couldn't afford clothing for such high-society occasions.

"Detective, are you sure you don't need backup?" the driver asked through the rearview mirror. "We can wait outside the manor."

“No need, that would be too obvious,” Lynn replied. “Blackwood will definitely have security measures monitoring the area. I will go in alone as planned.”

The car left the highway and entered a private road lined with ancient oak trees. A few minutes later, Blackwood Estate came into view, causing Lynn to gasp in surprise.

This is more than just a mansion; it's like a castle. The main building is a three-story stone mansion in the style of a French castle, adorned with exquisite sculptures and decorations. The estate's lawns are impeccably manicured, and the fountains shimmer in the moonlight. The parking lot is filled with a variety of luxury cars—Rolls-Royces, Bentleys, Aston Martins—each worth hundreds of thousands of dollars.

“Sir, welcome to Seaside Manor.” A valet in formal uniform greeted Lynn. “Mr. Blackwood is waiting for his guest in the hall. Please follow me.”

Lynn followed the valet toward the entrance to the main building. The portico, supported by massive stone pillars, exuded an overwhelming sense of grandeur. As they entered the hall, Lynn was awestruck by the opulence before him.

The hall's ceiling soared ten meters high, adorned with a massive crystal chandelier. Famous paintings hung on the walls, and handcrafted Persian carpets covered the floor. But the most striking feature was the group of guests gathered there—about fifty people, each dressed in an expensive evening gown, raising champagne glasses, and engaging in elegant socializing.

“Inspector Hall!” Blackwood’s voice rang out from the crowd. He was dressed in a perfectly tailored black tuxedo, a diamond brooch pinned to his breastplate, looking like an aristocrat from a movie. “Welcome to my home.”

“Thank you for your invitation, Mr. Blackwood,” Lynn replied politely. “Your estate is very impressive.”

“Thank you for the compliment,” Blackwood said with a smile. “Come, let me introduce you to some friends.”

Blackwood led Lynn to a small group of guests who were talking. “This is New York City Judge William Harrison, this is Chief Prosecutor Sarah Thompson from the State Attorney’s Office, and this is Michael Davis, editor-in-chief of The New York Times.”

Lynn shook hands with each of them, secretly shocked by the influence of Blackwood's social circle. These were some of the most powerful figures in New York, whose support could influence the outcome of any legal case.

“Detective Hall works for the FBI,” Blackwood explained. “He’s in charge of some very interesting cases.”

“What kind of cases?” Judge Harrison asked. “We are always very interested in law enforcement.”

“Mainly major criminal cases,” Lynn answered cautiously, not wanting to reveal too much information.

“Crime rates have indeed been rising in recent years,” Prosecutor Thompson said, “especially certain specific types of crime.”

The way she used the word "special" sounded odd, which puzzled Lynn. But before he could ask any further questions, Blackwood led him to another group of guests.

Over the next hour, Lynn was introduced to a variety of people—bankers, lawyers, politicians, media executives. Everyone was friendly, but Lynn sensed a subtle tension. These people talked about various topics, but always carefully avoided certain sensitive ones.

As Lynn enjoyed cocktails in the estate's garden, he began to notice some familiar faces. Several guests looked familiar, but he couldn't quite place where he had seen them before.

A woman in her fifties caught his attention. She had gray hair and a face etched with deep sorrow. She looked familiar, but Lynn couldn't quite place where he had seen her before.

“You look thoughtful, Inspector.” A voice sounded behind him.

Lynn turned around and saw a man in his sixties walking towards him. The man looked familiar, but he also puzzled Lynn.

“I’m sorry, I feel like we’ve met before, but I can’t remember when,” Lynn said honestly.

“Thomas Wilkins,” the man introduced himself. “You might remember my daughter, Jennifer Wilkins.”

The name struck Lynn's memory like a bolt of lightning. Jennifer Wilkins, twenty-two years old, the victim murdered three years ago in Central Park. Lynn remembered the case because the killer was a mutant with mind control abilities named Marcus Reynolds. Reynolds used his abilities to control his victims, then sexually assaulted and murdered them.

“Mr. Wilkins, I’m so sorry you lost your daughter,” Lynn said sincerely. “It was a tragic case.”

“Yes, it was indeed tragic,” Wilkins said, his voice filled with deep sorrow, “but thank God, the killer was caught and received his due punishment.”

Lynn nodded, but a sense of unease began to rise within him. Wilkins' presence here was no coincidence.

“Jennifer was a good girl,” Wilkins continued. “She had just graduated from Columbia University and was about to start her first job. She had a bright future ahead of her, until that monster destroyed everything.”

Lynn noticed that Wilkins used the word "monster" with a tone full of hatred and disgust.

“But now you’re attending Mr. Blackwood’s party,” Lynn said tentatively. “Richard is a good friend,” Wilkins replied, “He understands the pain of people like us. He knows we need more than just justice; we need prevention.”

"prevention?"

“Make sure this never happens again.” A fanatical glint shone in Wilkins’s eyes. “Make sure other families don’t experience the pain we went through.”

Just then, the gray-haired woman approached them. Now that she was closer, Lynn finally remembered who she was—Susan Morgan, the mother of another victim he remembered.

"Thomas, what are you talking about with the detective?" Susan asked, her voice visibly tense.

“We’re discussing Jennifer’s case,” Wilkins replied.

Susan's face paled. "Ms. Morgan, I remember you," Lynn said, his memory beginning to clear, "your son."

“Michael,” Susan said painfully, “five years ago, he was killed by a mutant with superpowers. That monster beat my child beyond recognition, just because Michael accidentally bumped into him.”

Lynn remembered the case. Michael Morgan, nineteen, a college student, was murdered by a mutant named Bruce Jackson after a campus party. Jackson possessed superhuman strength and, under the influence of alcohol and drugs, lost control, killing the innocent Michael with a single punch.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Lynn said, but his unease grew stronger.

“Thank you,” Susan said, “but an apology can’t bring my son back. Only ensuring this doesn’t happen again will give us some comfort.”

Lynn began to look around, carefully observing the other guests. Now that his memories were activated, he began to recognize more faces. The old gentleman over there was John Baker, whose wife had been burned to death in their home three years ago by a mutant with fire abilities. The middle-aged man in the corner was Robert Stone, whose two children had died in a shopping mall accident caused by a mutant with out-of-control teleportation abilities.

As memories flooded back, Lynn felt a surge of shock and fear. These people hadn't gathered here randomly; they all shared one thing in common—they were all family members of victims of mutant crimes.

“You look shocked, Inspector.” Blackwood’s voice suddenly rang out behind him.

Lynn turned around and saw Blackwood walking towards him with two glasses of champagne.

"Do you recognize some old friends?" Blackwood asked with a smile, but there was a dangerous sense of satisfaction in that smile.

“These people,” Lynn began.

“They are all victims,” Blackwood interrupted him. “The victims’ families, or more precisely, their families. They have all lost loved ones and endured unimaginable suffering.”

“You deliberately invited them to see me?” Lynn realized this was an elaborate trap.

“I want you to know the truth, Inspector.” Blackwood’s tone turned serious. “You’ve been investigating Merlin Chan’s death, portraying me as some kind of monster. But have you ever asked yourself why so many people support my cause?”

Lynn felt her throat go dry. "Because they lost loved ones."

“Because they know the truth,” Blackwood emphasized. “They know what kind of threat mutants represent. Not all mutants are as kind as Merlin Chan, Detective. In fact, most aren’t.”

“But that doesn’t prove anything,” Lynn began to retort.

“What can’t it prove?” Blackwood’s voice grew sharper. “Can’t it prove that the precautions were necessary? Can’t it prove that we need to protect innocent people?”

Just then, Susan Morgan walked toward them, tears welling in her eyes.

“Detective, I’d like to show you something.” She took a photograph from her handbag. “This is the last photograph of Michael before he was murdered.”

The photo shows a young, handsome man smiling at his university graduation ceremony. He looks hopeful and excited about the future.

“He wanted to be a teacher,” Susan said, her voice choked with emotion. “He wanted to help children learn. But Bruce Jackson ruined everything in one night.”

“Jackson has been brought to justice,” Lynn reminded him.

“But did that stop other attacks?” Susan countered. “Last month, a similar incident happened in Chicago. A mutant with freezing abilities killed three people during an argument. Last year, a mind controller in Los Angeles forced more than a dozen people to commit suicide by jumping off buildings.”

Lynn knew about these cases; they were all real and tragic. But he also knew that these were just a very small number of exceptions.

“These are individual cases,” Lynn began.

“An isolated case?” Thomas Wilkins interrupted him angrily. “Detective, how many murders involving mutants have you handled?”

This question made Lynn stop. He began to recall his career, counting the cases involving mutant criminals. The Jennifer Wilkins case, the Michael Morgan case, the Mrs. Baker case, the Stone children's case—the numbers began to rise as his memory deepened.

“In my fifteen years with the FBI,” Lynn said slowly, “I’ve handled about 120 homicides. Of those…” He paused, unwilling to give the rest of the number.

"How many of these involve mutant criminals?" Blackwood asked calmly.

Lynn remained silent for a long time. “Thirty-seven,” he finally admitted.

The number echoed in the air, silencing the surrounding conversations. Nearby guests turned to them, their faces displaying a range of emotions—anger, sadness, and the satisfaction of confirming a certain viewpoint.

“Thirty-seven cases,” Blackwood repeated. “Of the one hundred and twenty cases, mutant offenders accounted for thirty percent. But according to government statistics, mutants make up less than one percent of the total population.” (End of Chapter)