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

His apartment was on the fifth floor, a small one-bedroom unit, but enough for a single FBI agent. Lynn pushed open the door, and a familiar scent wafted out—the smell of old books, the lingering aroma of coffee, and a touch of dust.

He hasn't been back for a week, and everything in the room is exactly as he left it—the files piled on the desk, the sports magazines on the sofa, and the coffee cup he forgot to wash in the kitchen sink.

Lynn threw her backpack on the sofa, walked to the window, and looked out at the city.

The afternoon sun slanted in through the New York streets, casting long shadows on the floor. In the distance, the spire of the Empire State Building glittered in the sunlight. The noise from the streets, carried up from the fifth floor, became a muffled background noise.

He remembered Rogue, and the expression on her face as she watched the fireflies in the Xavier's Garden. He remembered Logan's cigar smoke, Cyclops's serious face, and Storm's elegant figure. He remembered the professor's wise and gentle eyes.

That world and this world are only a few hours apart by train, yet they seem like two completely different universes.

Lynn sighed, left the window, and went into the bathroom to take a shower. The hot water washed over his tired body, gradually relaxing his tense muscles. He looked down at the scars on his body—some were old, from his rehabilitation at Xavier's School; others were new, souvenirs from the past week's battles.

His ribs were still throbbing, but the pain had become bearable.

After showering, Lynn changed into a clean T-shirt and jeans, lay down on the sofa, and closed her eyes.

He wanted to rest, but his thoughts just wouldn't stop. The Brotherhood, the Mutant Affairs Task Force, and tonight's charity gala were all swirling in his mind.

Doorbell rang.

Lynn glanced at the time—5:30 PM. The suit and invitation Morrison mentioned should have arrived.

He walked to the door, peeked through the peephole, and then opened the door.

Standing outside the door was a young man in a courier company uniform, holding a large clothing bag and an envelope.

“Mr. Lynn Ashford?” the courier asked.

"it's me."

Please sign for it.

Lynn signed the document, took the items, and closed the door.

He hung the bag of clothes on the closet door and unzipped it. Inside was a well-tailored black suit, a white shirt, and a dark blue tie. He touched the fabric—it was top-quality Italian material, quite expensive.

“It seems the FBI is taking this mission very seriously,” he muttered to himself.

Inside the envelope was an invitation with gold lettering that read "Metropolitan Museum of Art Annual Charity Gala," and a small card bearing his false identity: "John Reynolds, Partner at Reynolds Capital."

Lynn put the card in her pocket and started changing her clothes.

The suit fit him perfectly, as if it had been custom-made for him. He straightened his tie in front of the mirror, checking his appearance—a well-dressed financier, completely unlike someone who had been chasing an armed robber down the street just hours before.

He took his new gun—a Glock 19—from the safe, fitted it with a concealed shoulder holster, and hid it under his suit jacket. Although Morrison said it was just "observation," Lynn had learned from the past week's experiences to always prepare for the worst.

At 7:45 p.m., Lynn hailed a taxi and headed towards the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

The Manhattan skyline flashed past the car window—neon lights, shop window lights, car headlights, and warm glows from apartment windows. The dark silhouette of Central Park appeared on the right, tall trees swaying gently in the night breeze.

The main entrance of the Metropolitan Museum of Art was brightly lit, and limousines and limousines were parked at the foot of the steps as guests in evening gowns filed in. Security personnel checked invitations at the entrance, photographers' flashes went off frequently, and reporters on both sides of the red carpet captured every celebrity in attendance.

Lynn paid the fare and got out of the taxi.

He straightened his tie and blended into the crowd of people entering the venue.

“An invitation,” the security guard at the entrance said.

Lynn handed over the invitation, the security guard glanced at it, nodded, and waved him in.

The museum's lobby has been transformed into a lavish banquet hall. Huge floral decorations hang from the ceiling, and hundreds of small lights create a warm atmosphere. A string quartet plays soothing classical music in a corner, while waiters carry champagne trays through the crowd.

Lynn picked up a glass of champagne and began moving through the crowd, her eyes scanning the faces around her.

He saw politicians whispering among themselves, corporate executives exchanging business cards, and socialites flaunting their jewelry and gowns. It was a microcosm of New York's high society—power, wealth, and influence, all condensed into one room.

What is his goal?
Lynn found a spot with a panoramic view of the hall, leaned against a pillar, and pretended to admire a painting on the wall. His eyes, however, were searching the crowd for the three names Morrison had provided.

Richard Malcolm, industrialist. Erin Shaw, philanthropist. Dominic Pietro, financial advisor.

Just then, he saw a familiar figure.

Sarah Connors stood at the other end of the hall, wearing a deep red evening gown, her hair elegantly styled in an updo, and holding a glass of champagne. Her leg appeared to have fully recovered, at least outwardly there was no visible problem.

Lynn walked in her direction.

"Sarah."

Sarah turned her head, saw it was him, and a smile appeared on her lips. "Lynn. You've finally arrived."

“You don’t look like someone who’s just been shot,” Lynn said, glancing at her legs.

“A miracle of makeup,” Sarah said, “plus plenty of painkillers. Don’t worry, I’m just going to observe from the sidelines; I don’t need to do any strenuous exercise.”

"Did Morrison send you?"

"Yes. He said we might become partners in the future, so tonight was kind of a warm-up."

Lynn nodded and stood beside her, observing the crowd together.

"Did you see anything interesting?" he asked.

“Malcolm’s over there,” Sarah gestured toward the center of the hall, “the one in the white suit, talking to that redhead. Eileen Shaw hasn’t arrived yet. I haven’t found Pietro.”

Lynn followed her gaze and found Malcolm. He was a man in his sixties, his gray hair neatly combed, and a confident smile typical of successful men. He was talking to a young redhead, and the two were behaving in an overly intimate manner.

"Who is that red-haired woman?" Lynn asked.

“I’m not sure,” Sarah said. “I’m trying to find out.”

Just then, a commotion broke out at the entrance of the hall. The crowd began to part to make way for the newly arrived guests.

Lynn turned his head and saw a figure he hadn't expected. It was Eileen Shaw—but not the one he had imagined.

She was about thirty-five years old, wearing a deep purple evening gown, her golden hair cascading over her shoulders, and a dazzling diamond necklace around her neck. Her face was exquisitely beautiful, but her eyes...
Lynn noticed her eyes.

Those eyes were silver.

Not gray, not light blue, but true silver—like two miniature mirrors, shimmering with a cold light under the lamp.

“Did you see that?” Sarah whispered, her fingers unconsciously tightening around her wine glass.

“I saw it,” Lynn said, his heart pounding, “her eyes.”

"Mutants?"

“Very likely,” Lynn said. “Be careful not to let her realize we’re watching her.”

Erin, like a queen of portraits, moved through the crowd, smiling and greeting everyone. Everyone seemed to know her, respect her, even somewhat revere her. She walked over to Malcolm and exchanged a polite kiss on the cheek with him.

“They know each other,” Sarah observed.

“It’s not just that they know each other,” Lynn said. “Look at their body language. They’re very familiar with each other, and…”

He paused, noticing Malcolm's expression. It wasn't the warmth of friendship, but fear? Or at least extreme caution.

“Malcolm is afraid of her,” Lynn said.

“An industrialist afraid of a philanthropist?” Sarah frowned. “That doesn’t make sense.”

“Unless she’s not just a philanthropist,” Lynn said, “the fraternity’s leadership, Little Rascal, told me that one of them, codenamed ‘Priest,’ has some kind of mind control ability.”

Sarah's expression changed. "What do you think she is?"

“I’m not sure,” Lynn said, “but we need more information. I’ll try to get closer to her and see if I can hear anything.”

“Be careful,” Sarah said, “if she really does have telepathy.”

“I know,” Lynn said. “Keep your distance, don’t arouse her suspicion. If anything happens, contact Morrison.”

He placed the champagne glass on the nearest tray, straightened his suit jacket, and walked toward Erin Shaw and Malcolm.

The crowd moved around him, a mingled mix of conversation, laughter, and the clinking of glasses. Lynn weaved through the crowd, pretending to look for someone, but his eyes never left the silver-eyed woman.

He was getting closer and closer—fifteen meters, ten meters, five meters.
Just then, Erin Shaw suddenly turned her head and looked straight at him.

Those silver eyes were like two searchlights, piercing through all his disguises.

Lynn felt a strange pressure squeezing in from all directions, as if someone was trying to break into his brain. His temples began to throb, and his vision blurred for a moment.

Psychological attack.

When he was at Xavier's School of the Rising Sun, a professor once gave him a simple demonstration—showing him what telepathy felt like. That time, the feeling was gentle, like someone softly knocking on the door. But this time…
This time it looked like someone was trying to pry open his skull with a crowbar.

Lynn gritted his teeth, resisting the pressure with all his willpower. He remembered the technique his professor had taught him—imagine a wall, an unbreakable wall, protecting your mind.
The pressure suddenly disappeared.

Erin Shaw narrowed her eyes slightly, and a meaningful smile appeared on her lips.

Then she turned around and continued talking to Malcolm as if nothing had happened.

Lynn felt a cold sweat run down his back. What had he just experienced? Had she read his mind? Or was she just testing him?
He dared not approach any further.

Lynn turned around and quickly walked back to Sarah's side.

"What's wrong?" Sarah asked anxiously, noticing his expression. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

“Pretty much,” Lynn said in a low voice, his voice a little hoarse. “She…she just tried to get into my brain.”

"What?"

“A psychological attack, or at least some kind of mind detection,” Lynn said, wiping the cold sweat from his brow. “I don’t know what she saw. But she spotted me—she found out I wasn’t just an ordinary guest.”

Sarah's hand was already reaching for the small pistol hidden in the side of her dress leg. "Should we leave?"

“Not yet,” Lynn said. “If we leave now, she’ll be sure we’re here to spy on her. We need to act natural, stay a little longer, and then leave normally.”

"What if she attacks again?"

“She wouldn’t,” Lynn said, though he wasn’t entirely sure himself. “If she wanted to harm me, she could have done it just now. She’s just observing me. Just like I’m observing her.”

For the next hour, they kept a low profile, blending into the crowd and pretending to participate in various social activities. Lynn occasionally glanced in Eileen Shaw's direction, but she seemed to completely ignore his presence, focusing on talking to various dignitaries.

As the dinner party drew to a close, Lynn and Sarah made an excuse and quietly left the museum.

The night breeze outside brushed against his face, bringing a slight chill. Lynn took a deep breath of fresh air, feeling his mind finally clear up a bit.

"How was the harvest tonight?" Sarah asked, as she contacted their pick-up vehicle on her phone.

“It’s confirmed that Erin Shaw is a mutant,” Lynn said, “and she has some kind of connection to Malcolm. But I’m not sure about her specific role in the Brotherhood.”

"Do you think she's that 'pastor'?"

“Possibly,” Lynn said. “Her abilities match the description—mind control, or at least telepathy. But we need more evidence.”

A black SUV pulled up from the street corner and stopped in front of them. The driver was a young detective whom Lynn didn't recognize, but Sarah obviously did.

“Take us back to the precinct,” Sarah said to the driver, then got into the car with Lynn.

As the car drove into the New York night, the lights of the museum gradually faded into the distance in the rearview mirror.

It was late at night, and the FBI's New York office building was empty.

The corridor lights were switched to energy-saving mode, with only one lamp every ten meters emitting a dim, yellowish glow. Most offices were already dark, with only a few windows still letting in light—those were the night shift agents, or people like Lynn who were too tied up with work to leave. (End of Chapter)