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

“Wait, Mr. Holmes, are you sure—”

“I’m absolutely certain,” Holmes said impatiently. “I’ll be announcing the findings at tonight’s press conference. Get ready to face the media, Captain. This will be a huge victory for the NYPD—and, of course, primarily for me.”

He hung up the phone and turned to the driver: "Take me to 327 Fifth Avenue, Brooklyn."

Yes, sir!

The car drove towards Brooklyn. Holmes leaned back in his seat, already brainstorming what to say at the upcoming press conference. He imagined himself in front of the cameras, speaking eloquently, receiving praise and admiration from reporters. These were the moments he enjoyed most.

It was 4 p.m. when they arrived at their destination. Number 327 was an old apartment building located on a relatively quiet street. Holmes got out of the car and observed the building.

“You wait in the car,” he told the driver. “If I’m not out in thirty minutes, call for backup.”

"Are you sure you don't need me to go in with you? It might be dangerous—"

“Danger?” Holmes scoffed. “What danger could a disabled person with mobility issues pose? You just need to stay here and keep watch.”

He entered the apartment building. The lobby was dilapidated, with peeling paint and various advertisements and notices plastered on the walls. A "Out of Service" sign was posted on the elevator door, so Holmes had to take the stairs.

According to the mailbox information, Thomas Weber lived in apartment 3B on the third floor. Holmes climbed the stairs—a bit strenuous for someone who rarely exercised—and arrived at the door of 3B.

He knocked on the door. There was no response.

I knocked on the door again, but there was still no response.

Holmes tried turning the doorknob and found the door unlocked. This made him somewhat alert, but his arrogance outweighed his caution. He believed he could handle any situation.

“Mr. Weber?” He pushed open the door and entered the apartment. “I am Sherlock Holmes, on behalf of the police investigating—”

The apartment was pitch black. The curtains were drawn, and only a sliver of light shone through the crack in the door. Holmes fumbled for the light switch on the wall.

His finger touched the switch and pressed it.

light is on.

Holmes' pupils dilated instantly.

The sight before him stunned him. This was no ordinary apartment. The walls were covered with photos and clippings—but not about football or Lincoln High School, but about himself.

His news reports, the cases he solved, photos of him being interviewed, and even some of his private photos, taken from who-knows-where.

In the center of the room was a table with a package on it. A note attached to the package, printed with the words: "For the greatest detective—a special gift."

Holmes's heart began to race. A kind of instinctive alertness rang in his mind, but his arrogance made him continue forward.

“What is this? Some kind of fan prank?” he muttered to himself, walking toward the table.

He reached out to take the package.

The moment his fingers touched the package, he heard a faint ticking sound.

Time seemed to freeze. Holmes's mind realized the truth in that instant—this wasn't Thomas Weber's residence. The entire investigation was a hoax. Lincoln High School, the football team, the accident—it was all a carefully orchestrated trap.

And he, Sherlock Holmes, the arrogant, haughty, and self-important detective, fell perfectly into this trap.

He tried to back away, tried to escape, but it was too late.

explosion.

A massive fireball erupted in the cramped apartment, the shockwave hurling Holmes backward and slamming him against the wall. Intense pain instantly engulfed him; he felt his ribs break, his skin burn, and all he could hear was a piercing ringing in his ears.

He collapsed to the ground, his vision blurred and his breathing labored. Through his shattered vision, he saw that the apartment door had been blown off, cracks had appeared in the walls, and part of the ceiling had collapsed.

"Help!" he tried to shout, but his voice was so weak that he couldn't even hear it himself.

His consciousness began to fade. His last thought flashed through his mind—he was wrong. He thought he was the smartest, that he could solve everything on his own, and that all the warnings and caution were signs of cowardice.

But now he knows: arrogance is deadly.

The price he paid might be his life.

Then, everything went dark.

The driver downstairs heard the explosion and rushed out of his car in terror. He saw thick smoke and flames coming from the third-floor windows and immediately dialed 911.

"This is the NYPD. An explosion has occurred at 327 Fifth Avenue in Brooklyn. Emergency assistance is needed! Police officers have been injured!"

Fire trucks and ambulances arrived within ten minutes. Firefighters rushed into the smoke-filled building and found Holmes on the third floor.

He was still alive, but his injuries were extremely severe. He had burns all over his body, a fractured right leg, multiple broken ribs, and possible internal bleeding. Paramedics immediately provided first aid and then transported him to the nearest hospital.

Captain Reynolds rushed to the scene immediately after receiving the news. Looking at Holmes being carried out on a stretcher—the once impeccably dressed, arrogant detective—now covered in blood and on the verge of death, he felt no schadenfreude, only a heavy heart.

"Seal off the scene," Reynolds ordered. "Forensic investigators, go in. I need to know what happened here."

The bomb disposal team entered the apartment and began their investigation. Half an hour later, the team leader came out to report.

“This is an elaborate trap, Captain,” the team leader said. “The entire room is a fake scene. Those photos and clippings were only recently put up. The explosive device is disguised as a package connected to a pressure trigger. Anyone who picks up that package will detonate the explosives.”

"Did the killer know Holmes would be here?"

“Not only did they know, they prepared it specifically for him,” the team leader said. “Those photos on the wall are all about Holmes. The killer is waiting for him, luring him into a trap.”

Reynolds' face turned ashen. "What about Thomas Webber? What about that lead?" "We've sent people to investigate," another detective said. "Preliminary investigations suggest the school records may have been tampered with. Thomas Webber does exist, but he emigrated ten years ago and now lives in Australia. The whole revenge story may be fabricated."

“Damn it,” Reynolds cursed, “the killer planned all of this from the beginning. He left false clues, waited for someone to find them, and then set a trap. Holmes was too eager to prove himself, too arrogant, and walked right into the trap.”

Evidence collectors found another note at the scene, damaged by the blast but still legible. It read:
Pride precedes downfall. History always repeats itself—including human folly.

Reynolds looked at the note and felt a chill run down his spine. This killer was not only intelligent, but also ruthless. He not only wanted to kill, but also to humiliate those who tried to catch him.

Reynolds took out his phone, hesitated for a moment, and finally dialed a number.

"Agent Hall? This is Reynolds. We...we need your help."

Lynn was preparing dinner in his apartment when he received Reynolds' call. He had planned to continue resting that night, perhaps watching a movie or reading a book, but the captain's somber tone immediately made him realize that something was wrong.

"What happened?" Lynn asked, turning off the fire.

“Holmes is in trouble,” Reynolds said briefly. “He fell into the killer’s trap and was injured in a bombing in an apartment in Brooklyn. He’s in the hospital now. His injuries are serious.”

Lynn remained silent for a moment. Although he disliked Holmes's arrogant attitude, he was still shocked to hear the news.

"Did the killer set a trap?" Lynn asked, already changing his clothes.

“An elaborate trap,” Reynolds said. “Holmes followed a seemingly plausible lead, only to find the whole thing was a hoax, designed to lure him into that apartment. Agent Holmes, I know it was a mistake to exclude you from the investigation before. Now… we need your help.”

“I’ll be there in twenty minutes,” Lynn said, without needing further explanation.

He quickly packed his gear—FBI badge, handgun, flashlight, gloves, and evidence bag. Fifteen minutes later, he drove towards Brooklyn. On the way, he sent a message to Supervisor Jensen, briefly explaining the situation. Jensen quickly replied: “Be careful, this killer is clearly more dangerous than we thought. You have been authorized to handle this case.”

Upon arrival, the street was already cordoned off. Fire trucks and police cars were parked everywhere, and onlookers had been evacuated to a safe distance. Lynn showed his identification, crossed the cordon, and saw Reynolds standing in front of the apartment building, looking grave.

“Agent Hall, thank you for coming,” Reynolds said, shaking hands with Lynn. “I apologize for what happened before. We should have cooperated with the FBI from the beginning.”

“This isn’t the time to talk about that,” Lynn said. “Let me see the scene.”

The two men walked up the stairs to apartment 3B on the third floor. The door had been blown off, and smoke was still rising from the charred frame. The interior of the apartment was a mess; the walls were blackened, and the furniture was scattered and broken. Forensic investigators were carefully collecting evidence.

Lynn stood at the doorway, not immediately entering, but carefully observing the overall situation. This was something he had learned from Wolverine in Alaska—observe, think, and plan before taking action.

“The epicenter of the explosion was in the center of the room,” Reynolds said, pointing to a wrecked table. “There was originally an explosive device disguised as a gift there. Holmes picked it up and triggered the pressure switch.”

"Why did he pick it up?" Lynn asked.

“Because there was a note in the package addressed to him,” Reynolds said, “and the whole room was meticulously staged. The walls were covered with photos and articles about Holmes, like the room of some crazy fan. The killer exploited Holmes’s ego.”

Lynn nodded, beginning to understand the killer's strategy. This wasn't a simple murder plan, but a psychological trap. The killer had studied Holmes, understood his personality, knew he would be drawn to such a scene, and knew he would lower his guard due to arrogance.

“What was the clue that led him here?” Lynn asked.

Reynolds briefly explained Thomas Weber's story—Lincoln High School, the football team accident, and the motivation for revenge.

“But is all of this fake?” Lynn asked.

“Mostly yes,” Reynolds said. “Thomas Weber did exist, and the accident did happen. But Weber moved overseas long ago and couldn’t possibly be the killer. We suspect the killer tampered with the school records, inserting false information to make the whole story seem more convincing.”

“Clever,” Lynn commented. “He didn’t completely fabricate a story, but rather used real events and added fictitious details to make it difficult to distinguish between fact and fiction. This requires a great deal of preparation and in-depth research into the target.”

Lynn finally entered the apartment, carefully avoiding the debris and evidence markers on the floor. His eyes scanned every corner, searching for any details that might have been overlooked.

The photos and clippings of Holmes on the wall had been partially burned, but the original content was still discernible. Some were publicly available news photos, but others were clearly taken candidly—Holmes in a café, walking on the street, in a hotel lobby.

“The killer had been following Holmes,” Lynn said. “These photos weren’t just downloaded randomly from the internet. He spent time observing his target, taking pictures, and learning his habits.”

“What does this mean?” Reynolds asked.

"This means the killer was patient, planned, and may have been in New York for some time," Lynn said. "It wasn't a spur-of-the-moment decision; it was something he had meticulously prepared for a long time."

Lynn walked to the vicinity of the explosion's epicenter. The table had been blown to pieces, leaving only its frame, but the ground around it was littered with various fragments—metal, plastic, and electronic components.

"Has the bomb squad analyzed the explosive device?" Lynn asked.

“Preliminary analysis complete,” a bomb expert approached. “Similar to the device used in previous explosions, but much more powerful. It uses homemade C4 explosives, with a dual triggering mechanism of timer and pressure switch. A very professional level of craftsmanship.”

“Double trigger?” Lynn noticed this detail. “Why are two triggers needed?”

“Safety,” the expert explained, “is that the timer is set to detonate automatically at a certain time, while the pressure switch is designed to detonate prematurely if someone touches it. The perpetrator wanted to ensure that the bomb would explode no matter what.”

“He’s very cautious,” Lynn said, “leaving no room for failure.”

Lynn continued examining the scene. He noticed some unusual marks on the windowsill—they looked like residue from duct tape.

“Here,” Lynn pointed to the evidence collectors, “there might have been something stuck here originally.”

The forensic team carefully examined the site and took photos: "It looks like traces left by some kind of surveillance equipment. The perpetrator may have installed a camera here."

“Monitor the explosion?” Reynolds asked.

“Or monitoring who will fall into the trap,” Lynn said. “The killer wants to see his masterpiece.”

This discovery further confirmed Lynn's suspicions about the killer's psychology—he wasn't a simple avenger or terrorist, but a criminal who enjoyed the process. He not only wanted to achieve his goal, but also to observe, record, and savor his success.

Lynn walked to the other end of the room, where there was a small kitchen. The kitchen was largely unaffected by the explosion; the cabinets and sink were intact. However, Lynn noticed that the cabinet door under the sink was slightly ajar. (End of Chapter)