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

Little Rascal didn't listen. Her eyes turned pure white, and her body trembled as if struck by some immense force. Jason's face turned pale, his body began to wither, and his life force drained away at a visible rate.

"Enough!" Logan rushed over, grabbed the little rascal's wrist with his gloved hand, and forcibly pulled her away from Jason.

The moment the little rascal was pulled away, Jason collapsed in the truck bed, unconscious but still breathing. She herself stumbled a few steps, almost falling, but Logan caught her.

"Are you alright?" Logan asked.

The little rascal slowly raised her head. Her eyes returned to normal—those were different colors, but now they had a new gleam, as if Jason's power was flowing within her.

“I’m alright,” she said, her voice trembling but firm. “I can feel his strength. So strong.”

“Don’t get addicted to that feeling,” Logan warned. “It will consume you.”

Little Rascal nodded, but her expression showed that she was trying to control the new power surging within her.

Seeing Jason fall, the two SUVs behind finally began to slow down. Having lost their strongest fighting force, the risk of continuing the pursuit had become too great.

The pickup truck sped into Knoxville, merging into the morning rush hour traffic. All around were ordinary cars, ordinary pedestrians, and ordinary city life. The pursuers dared not fire, dared not attract public attention.

“We did it,” Sarah said in disbelief. “We really did it.”

Lynn didn't relax. He drove the pickup truck through several blocks and then stopped in front of a police station.

“Get out of the car,” he said. “Now.”

They crawled out of the ravaged pickup truck—a group of wounded and ragged men, accompanied by two unconscious prisoners and an exhausted mutant. Passersby watched them in horror, and some had already begun calling the police.

“Don’t worry,” Lynn said to the panicked passersby, pulling his FBI badge from his pocket. “I’m a federal agent. We need help.”

The police station doors opened, and several officers rushed out, guns in hand, their expressions tense.

"Don't move! Put your hands on your head!" the lead policeman shouted.

“I am FBI Agent Lynn Ashford,” Lynn held up his hands to show them his identification. “We have been attacked and need protection. Please contact the FBI New York field office; they can verify my identity.”

The police hesitated. They looked at the strange group of people—a man holding an FBI badge, several companions who were clearly not ordinary people, two bound and unconscious individuals, and a pickup truck riddled with bullet holes.

“Sir,” one of the policemen whispered, “there are at least fifty bullet holes in that car.”

“I know,” the lead officer said, then made the decision, “Everyone, come to the police station. We’ll verify your identities; until then, you are all suspects.”

“Yes,” Lynn said, “but please hurry. Our pursuers are still outside; they might try again.”

The police officers looked at each other, but still let them into the police station.

The Knoxville Police Department's interior is typical of an American police station—an open-plan office area, several interrogation rooms, and a wall covered with wanted posters and case photos. At this moment, almost all the officers stopped what they were doing and stared in surprise at the group of unexpected visitors.

"Get the wounded to the medical ward," ordered the lead officer—a middle-aged man with a name tag that read "Thompson." "The two unconscious suspects are in solitary confinement. The rest of you, follow me."

They were led into a conference room. Officer Thompson stood in the doorway, his expression serious.

“Now,” he said, “can someone tell me what exactly happened?”

Lynn explained the situation in the simplest terms possible—they were on a federal mission, escorting an important witness, when they were attacked by an organized crime group. He didn't mention mutants, the X-Men, or mind control, simply describing the whole thing as a routine law enforcement operation.

Officer Thompson's expression grew even more serious after hearing this. "The criminal group you're talking about, they used military-grade weapons? And modified SUVs?"

"Yes."

“This doesn’t sound like an ordinary criminal organization,” Thompson said. “It sounds more like some kind of paramilitary force.”

“That’s right,” Lynn said. “That’s why I need you to contact the FBI. This is beyond the jurisdiction of the local police.”

Thompson nodded, then walked out of the conference room to make a phone call.

Lynn leaned back in his chair, feeling every bone in his body protesting. The chase, the gunfight, the car chase—his body had pushed itself beyond its limits. But he knew they weren't truly safe yet.

“Do you think the police can protect us?” Sarah asked in a low voice.

“That's fine for now,” Lynn said, “but we need to contact Xavier's School as soon as possible. Only when we get there will we be truly safe.”

Logan sat in the corner, his expression somber. His healing abilities had restored all the wounds from the battle, but his eyes remained wary.

“That little girl worries me,” he whispered to Lynn, referring to the little rascal.

Lynn looked at Little Rascal, who sat alone at the other end of the room, her hands clenched tightly as if trying to control something. Her eyes occasionally flashed with different lights—sometimes Victor's blue, sometimes Jason's wild gleam.

“She’s absorbed too much,” Logan continued, “Victor’s memories and abilities, and now Jason’s power. All these things are mixed together inside her, and nobody knows what will happen.”

“Professor X can help her,” Lynn said.

“If we get there in time,” Logan said, “and I’m not sure if she even wants to be helped. Did you see the look on her face when she absorbed Jason? It wasn’t just self-defense, it was…enjoyment.”

Lynn fell silent. He had also noticed that—the expression that flashed across Little Rascal's face when he absorbed Jason's power wasn't fear, but rather a kind of almost ecstatic look.

“I will talk to her,” he said.

“You’d better hurry,” Logan said, “before she gets lost.”

Officer Thompson returned quickly, his expression complex. "I contacted the FBI's New York field office. They confirmed your identity, Agent Lynn. They said they'd send someone to pick you up, but it will take several hours."

“A few hours?” Sarah said, disgruntled. “We’re not safe here—” “I know,” Thompson said, “so I’ve increased security at the police station. You’ll have the maximum protection we can offer until the FBI arrives.”

“Thank you,” Lynn said. “We are extremely grateful.”

Thompson nodded, then hesitated. "Agent Lynn, there's something I need to confirm. Who are those two suspects you brought in?"

“One is a serial killer, the primary target of this mission,” Lynn said. “The other is his accomplice, who was subdued during the pursuit. They both need to be kept under close surveillance.”

“I’ve made the arrangements,” Thompson said, “but that woman—that young girl—something seems off about her. My men say her eyes are a different color, and she’s refusing to let anyone near her.”

Lynn sighed. "She's been through some trauma and needs special care. Please tell your people not to touch her; it's very important."

Thompson clearly had many questions, but he chose not to press them. "I'll pass them on. Do you need any food or drinks?"

“Coffee,” Logan said, “the stronger the better.”

“We also have medical supplies,” Lynn added. “We have several people who need treatment.”

Thompson nodded, then left to make the arrangements.

The next few hours were a long wait. Lynn had a police medic examine his injuries—two ribs were indeed broken, but none had pierced his lung; he only needed immobilization and rest. The bullet graze on his cheek was disinfected and bandaged, and the other minor wounds were treated.

One-Eyed contacted the Xavier's School and told them what had happened. Professor X said they would send another plane to pick them up, but because the first Blackbird had been shot down, they would need some time to prepare.

Storm finally woke up after being unconscious for several hours. Although weak, she was in stable condition. She insisted that she only needed to rest and did not need to be taken to the hospital.

Victor and Jason were held in separate cells, guarded by armed police 24 hours a day. Victor was still wearing his limiter and would be unable to use his powers even if he woke up. Jason fell into a deep coma after being absorbed by Rogue, and it was unknown when he would wake up.

While waiting, Lynn walked over to the corner where the little rascal was sitting.

“May I sit down?” he asked.

The little rascal looked up, his different colored eyes staring at him. "Whatever."

Lynn sat down in the chair next to her, keeping a safe distance.

"how are you feeling?"

“It’s a mess,” said the little rascal. “I have too much stuff in my head. Victor’s memories, Jason’s memories, and their abilities. They’re fighting inside me.”

"Logan said you enjoyed the feeling when you were absorbing Jason."

The little rascal stiffened for a moment, then lowered her head. "Are you here to interrogate me?"

“No, I’m here because I care about you,” Lynn said. “Anna, you’ve been through so much. Anyone would struggle in your situation. But I need to know—are you still you?”

The little rascal remained silent for a long time. When she finally spoke, her voice trembled.

“I don’t know,” she said. “Every time I absorb someone, I become less and less myself. Victor’s darkness, Jason’s anger, that silver-eyed man’s coldness—they’re all inside me, trying to become a part of me.”

She looked up, tears glistening in her eyes. "Sometimes, I can't even tell which thoughts are my own and which are theirs. When I absorbed Jason, I felt his power, and it felt so good. I know it's wrong, but I can't control myself. I'm afraid I'm turning into a monster."

Lynn wanted to hold her hand, but he knew he couldn't. He could only comfort her with words.

“You’re not a monster,” he said. “You’re someone struggling with something. Those feelings—enjoying power, craving more—aren’t necessarily things you absorbed; they can be part of human instinct. What matters is what you choose to do.”

“But what if I can’t control myself?” the mischievous boy asked. “What if one day, the darker parts take over, and I become another Victor?”

“That won’t happen,” Lynn said, “because you have us. Logan, Cyclops, Storm, Professor X—they’ll all help you. And you have me. I won’t let you get lost.”

Little Rascal looked at him, tears finally streaming down her face. "Why? Why are you helping me? You're just an FBI agent; this isn't your job."

“Perhaps not,” Lynn said, “but some things are more important than duty. You deserve to be helped, Anna. No matter how dangerous your abilities may be, no matter how many other people’s memories you hold in your mind, you are still someone who deserves to be loved and protected.”

The little rascal lowered her head, tears dripping onto her tightly clenched hands.

“Three years,” she whispered, “three years without anyone hugging me.”

Lynn looked at her, a complex mix of emotions welling up inside him. He wanted to hug her, to tell her that everything would be alright. But he knew he couldn't—skin contact was too dangerous for her, and for both of them.

“One day,” he said, “you will learn to control your abilities. One day, you will be able to hug anyone you want to hug again. That day will come, Anna. You just need to hang in there.”

The little rascal looked up, and a new light shone in her different colored eyes—not Victor's blue, nor Jason's wildness, but something that belonged to her alone: ​​hope.

“Thank you,” she said, “Lynn.”

“You’re welcome,” Lynn said. “That’s what friends do.”

At 3 p.m., the FBI support convoy finally arrived at the Knoxville Police Department.

Lynn looked out the conference room window at the parking lot. Three black FBI SUVs, used by federal agents, were neatly parked in front of the police station, their federal insignia gleaming in the sunlight. A dozen FBI agents in bulletproof vests jumped out of the vehicles and quickly established a cordon around the parking lot.

The team leader was someone Lynn knew—Michael Chen, a senior agent at the FBI's New York field office and also his old colleague.

“Lynn!” Michael burst through the police station doors and strode towards the conference room. “My God, you look like you’ve been run over by a truck.”

“Pretty much,” Lynn said with a wry smile, shaking his hand. “Only the trucks have been replaced by fighter jets and a bunch of heavily armed lunatics.”

Michael's expression turned serious. "I read your initial report on the way. Fighter jets? What's going on? What level of threat are we facing?" (End of Chapter)