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

“I don’t need a gun,” Lynn said, his eyes fixed on the other man’s gun. “I just need to talk to you. Put down your gun, let these people leave, and then we can have a proper chat. Nobody needs to get hurt.”

“Bullshit!” his accomplice shouted from the side, looking even more nervous than the man with the gun. “Jack, let’s go! He’s stalling for time; the police are on their way!”

The gunman—Jack—switched his eyes back and forth between Lynn and his accomplice. He was clearly weighing his options, his finger nervously moving on the trigger.

Lynn took advantage of that moment and took a step forward.

"Don't move!" Jack screamed, pointing the gun at Lynn's chest again.

“Okay, okay, I won’t move,” Lynn said, raising his hands. “But you need to calm down, Jack. Your hands are shaking, and at this distance, if you fire, the bullet could hit anyone—including that woman. You don’t want to hurt innocent people, right?”

Jack's eyes flickered. Lynn caught that hint of hesitation.

“I don’t care!” Jack roared, but his voice wasn’t as firm as before.

“You do care,” Lynn said, his voice lowering and becoming more gentle. “I can see that. You’re not a killer, Jack. You just made a wrong decision. But mistakes can be corrected, as long as no one gets hurt.”

The sound of sirens could be heard in the distance, rapidly approaching.

Jack's accomplices started backing away. "Damn, the police are here! Jack, I'm outta here!"

"You fucking stop right there!" Jack yelled at his accomplice as he turned around. In that instant, Lynn moved.

His body shot out like an arrow, rushing towards Jack. One fundamental principle of his FBI training was that when facing a gunman, if the distance is close enough and the movement is fast enough, a person's reaction time is often insufficient. For an average person, it takes about a quarter of a second from deciding to pull the trigger to the bullet leaving the barrel. In that quarter of a second, a trained person can move nearly two meters.

Lynn was betting on that quarter of a second.

Jack turned around and saw Lynn charging towards him. His eyes widened, and his finger slammed into the trigger—

Gunshots were fired.

Lynn dodged to the side at the last moment, a bullet whizzing past his shoulder, sending a blast of hot air through him. He heard the sound of shattering glass behind him—the bullet had struck a shop window across the street.

He didn't stop.

The second shot followed immediately. Lynn dodged sharply to the left, the bullet grazing his coat and leaving a charred mark on the fabric. He could smell the gunpowder and feel the heat of the muzzle flash—too close, too damn close.

Jack tried to fire a third shot, but Lynn had already arrived.

His hand coiled around Jack's gun-wielding wrist like a snake, twisting it outwards. Jack screamed as a crisp cracking sound came from his wrist. The gun slipped from his powerless fingers, bounced twice on the ground, and rolled to the side.

“My hand! You fucking broke my hand!” Jack screamed.

Lynn gave him no time to react. He kicked Jack in the back of the knee while simultaneously elbowing him in the stomach. Jack tumbled forward, then Lynn twisted his arm and slammed him to the ground face down, unable to move.

“You have the right to remain silent,” Lynn said breathlessly, his knee pressing against Jack’s back. “Anything you say could be used against you in court.”

"Fuck you! Let go of me! My wrist is broken! I need a doctor!"

“Someone will deal with your wrist when the police arrive,” Lynn said, glancing around for another robber.

His accomplice was long gone, having obviously fled the moment the gun went off. Lynn cursed under his breath, but he couldn't give chase now—he had to make sure the man wouldn't hurt anyone else.

"Sir, sir, are you alright?"

Lynn looked up and saw the young woman cautiously approaching. Her face was still streaked with tears, but she was no longer trembling.

“I’m fine,” Lynn said. “How about you? Did he hurt you?”

“No, no, I was just so scared,” the woman said, her eyes glistening with grateful tears. “Thank you, sir. If you hadn’t shown up…”

“Don’t think about that,” Lynn said. “You’re safe now.”

The sirens grew closer, and a few seconds later, two police cars sped out from the street corner and screeched to a stop near the scene. Four officers jumped out of the cars, each holding a gun.

"Everyone stay still!" the lead policeman shouted, his gun pointed at Lynn and Jack on the ground.

“I’m an FBI agent!” Lynn shouted, slowly rising from Jack’s lap and raising his hands above his head. “My badge is in my left pocket!”

One of the police officers cautiously approached, took his badge from Lynn's pocket, and glanced at it.

“He’s an FBI agent,” he called to his colleagues, then turned to Lynn. “Sorry, Agent. We got a call about an armed robbery here.”

“It’s alright, you did the right thing,” Lynn said, lowering his hands. “This man is one of the robbers. His accomplice ran east; he was wearing a black coat, about five feet ten inches tall, and a white male.”

“Roger that,” the officer shouted into the walkie-talkie. “Attention all units, robber number two is fleeing east, black jacket, white male, approximately five feet ten inches tall.”

Two other officers came over, pulled Jack up from the ground, and handcuffed him. Jack was still complaining about his wrists, but no one paid much attention to his complaints.

“You don’t look well, Detective,” the lead officer said, noticing the bullet holes in Lynn’s coat. “Do you need medical attention?”

Lynn looked down at his coat; the spot where the bullet had grazed was charred, revealing a torn shirt underneath. He moved his shoulders to make sure the bullet hadn't actually hit him.

“I’m fine,” he said. “It’s just a superficial injury.”

"You chased an armed robber without a weapon?" The police officer's tone was clearly surprised. "That's pretty crazy, Detective."

“I just had a crazy week,” Lynn said, a slight smile playing on his lips. “By comparison, this was just a warm-up.”

The next hour was a long procedural process.

More police arrived at the scene and cordoned off the area. Paramedics temporarily immobilized Jack's wrist and then took him to an ambulance. The victims—the young woman and the elderly man—were taken aside to give statements. Media vans also began to appear, and reporters carrying cameras attempted to cross the police line.

Lynn was questioned by an agent next to a police car, where she gave a detailed account of the entire incident.

"So you just got off the train and ran into this?" the agent—a middle-aged woman with short hair—asked, her eyebrows raised high.

“Yes,” Lynn said, “I just want to find a place to have lunch.”

“Some people are just that lucky,” the agent shook his head, jotting something down in his notebook. “But then again, that woman and the old man were lucky you showed up. According to witnesses, Jack seemed very nervous and could pull the trigger at any moment.”

“I noticed,” Lynn said. “That’s why I try to stay close to him when I’m talking. Once he’s distracted, I have a chance to strike.”

Aren't you afraid of getting hit?

Lynn thought for a moment. "There wasn't time to be afraid." The agent closed his notebook and handed Lynn a business card. "If you recall any other details, you can call this number. Also, you may need to come to the station in the next few days to supplement some formal written materials."

“No problem,” Lynn said, taking the business card and putting it in her pocket.

As he was about to leave, a black Federal SUV turned the corner and stopped outside the police line. The door opened, and a man in a dark suit stepped out and walked straight toward Lynn.

Lynn recognized him—James Morrison, the deputy director of the FBI's New York field office and also the superior of his direct superior.

“Detective Ashford,” Morrison approached him, his expression unreadable, “I heard you subdued an armed robber as soon as you got off the train.”

“The news travels fast,” Lynn said.

“In this city, shootings involving federal agents always spread very quickly,” Morrison said. “And I’ve been keeping an eye on you. Ever since that mutant mission.”

Lynn straightened up. He wasn't sure if Morrison's appearance was a good thing or a bad thing.

“Come with me,” Morrison said. “We’ll talk in the car.”

They walked to the black SUV and got in. Morrison gestured for the driver to drive off, then pressed a button to raise the soundproof glass between the front and back seats.

"How many days did you spend at Xavier's School of Thought?" Morrison asked directly.

“Three days,” Lynn replied. “I need to wait for some people to arrive, and also do some reporting.”

"How is that girl—the little rascal—?"

“She’s stable,” Lynn said. “Professor X is helping her process those memories. She’s starting to adjust to life at the academy.”

Morrison nodded, his expression still unreadable. "Victor Creed's interrogation has begun. So far, he's refused to say anything, but we have time to proceed."

“He’s an old fox,” Lynn said. “Don’t expect him to talk easily.”

“I know,” Morrison said, “but that’s not why I came to see you.”

He took a document out of his briefcase and handed it to Lynn.

"What?" Lynn took the document, opened it, and glanced at it.

“Official transfer notice,” Morrison said. “Effective today, you are being transferred to a newly formed special task force specifically tasked with investigating cases involving mutants.”

Lynn was stunned. He looked at the contents of the document—"Special Task Force on Mutant Affairs," reporting directly to the Director's office and possessing cross-departmental coordination authority.

"When was this decision made?" he asked.

“A few days ago,” Morrison said, “your performance on this mission impressed the higher-ups. You not only completed the mission, but also established a good working relationship with the X-Men. This is very rare within the FBI.”

"I just did what I was supposed to do."

“Yes, but you’ve done a better job than most,” Morrison said. “We need someone to bridge the gap between the FBI and the mutant community. You’re the perfect person for that.”

Lynn looked down at the document, a complex mix of emotions swirling in his mind. This meant he would no longer be an ordinary field agent, but had entered a completely new field—a field that most people were unaware of even existing.

“What if I refuse?” he asked.

“You can refuse,” Morrison said. “It’s voluntary. But I hope you’ll think it over seriously. The Brotherhood is still out there, and there are other threats we don’t even know exist. We need people like you, Ashford.”

Lynn remained silent for a long time, watching the New York street scene rushing past the window.

“I need time to think about it,” he finally said.

“Of course,” Morrison said, “I’ll give you a week. But during that time, there’s one thing I expect you to do.”

"What's up?"

Morrison took another document from his briefcase. "There's a charity dinner tonight at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Attendees include several political figures, corporate executives, and some special guests."

"Mutants?"

“Possibly,” Morrison said. “We’ve received intelligence that the Brotherhood might be making moves at this dinner. Not an attack, but contact—they’re trying to infiltrate high society and build influence.”

"You want me to spy on them?"

“Observe,” Morrison corrected, “just observe. You don’t need to take any action, just see who’s talking to whom, and whether there are any suspicious contacts.”

Lynn considered it for a moment. He had just gone through a crazy week and had planned to get some rest tonight. But on the other hand, what if the Brotherhood really did have operations in New York?
“Okay,” he said, “but I need a proper outfit. All I have right now is this bullet-riddled jacket.”

Morrison's lips curled up slightly—this was the first time Lynn had seen him show such a smile.

"It's all arranged. The dinner starts at eight o'clock, and your suit and invitations will be delivered to your apartment at six."

The SUV stopped in front of Lynn's apartment building. He got out and looked back at Morrison.

"Deputy Director, I have a question."

"explain."

"Will I be working alone in this team?"

Morrison's expression became meaningful. "No. You'll have a partner. Someone you already know."

"who?"

“Agent Sarah Connors,” Morrison said, “her leg injury has stabilized, and doctors say she can return to light work. She has volunteered to join the task force.”

Lynn paused for a moment, then nodded. "I understand."

"See you tonight, Agent Ashford."

The SUV started and drove into the traffic of New York.

Lynn stood in front of the apartment building, watching the car disappear around the corner. He glanced down at the documents in his hand, then took a deep breath and pushed open the apartment building door. (End of Chapter)