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

“I appreciate it,” Lynn said, “but please tell him to keep a low profile. There are police and firefighters everywhere here right now, and if the X-Men show up publicly, it could cause unnecessary trouble.”

“I will pass on his message,” the professor said. “Lynn, there’s one more thing. Should I tell her about Anna’s situation?”

Lynn thought for a moment. Little Rogue had just settled into Xavier's School of the Rogue and was just beginning to build a new life. What kind of impact would it have on her to know she was being followed and that someone was planning an operation against mutants?
“Let’s wait until we have more information,” he said. “Telling her now will only unsettle her, and we don’t have enough information to draw any conclusions.”

“I understand,” the professor said. “Keep in touch, Lynn. Let me know immediately if there are any new findings.”

"I will."

Lynn hung up the phone and looked up at the sky, which was gradually brightening.

The sun was rising in the east, its golden rays piercing through the smoke and clouds, illuminating the destroyed factory. Firefighters began collecting equipment, police were setting up cordons, and reporters' trucks were already gathering around the perimeter.

This is going to be a long day.

Lynn walked back to the scene and found Sarah talking to an eyewitness.

"What did you find?" he asked.

“Many,” Sarah said, her expression serious. “This is Tom Harris, the factory’s night shift supervisor. He saw those people going into the storage area.”

Harris was a man in his fifties, his face covered in soot and sweat, his hands trembling slightly. He sat on the steps of the command vehicle, holding a cup of coffee that had long since gone cold.

“Can you describe the person you saw?” Lynn crouched down to look him in the eye.

“There were three people,” Harris said, his voice hoarse as if he had been speaking for a long time. “Two men and one woman. They were dressed casually, looking like factory managers. But their eyes… something was off. Too cold, too empty.”

Did they say anything?

“They didn’t speak to me,” Harris shook his head. “One of the men just glanced at me, then they went into the storage area. The woman… her eyes…”

"What's wrong with her eyes?" Lynn pressed, already having a premonition.

“It was silver,” Harris said, his voice trembling with fear, “like two mirrors. At first, I thought I was seeing things, or it was the lighting. But now I realize it wasn’t normal. It wasn’t a human eye.”

Lynn and Sarah exchanged glances again.

Eileen Shaw.

“Do you remember what that silver-eyed woman looked like?” Sarah asked.

“Very beautiful,” Harris said. “Long blonde hair, wearing a dark coat. Probably in her thirties. She didn’t say a word, just stood there, watching everything. Like she was inspecting something.”

How long did they stay in the storage area?

“About ten minutes, maybe less,” Harris said. “Then they left. About five minutes after they left, the first explosion happened. I should have stopped them; I should have asked them who they were.”

“This isn’t your fault,” Lynn said. “You couldn’t possibly have known what would happen.”

He stood up, walked to the side, and said in a voice only Sarah could hear, “Eileen Shaw came in person. This wasn’t an ordinary operation; she carried it out herself.”

“Why?” Sarah asked. “If she’s a high-ranking member of the Brotherhood, why would she risk her life herself?”

“Perhaps it’s because this matter is too important to be handed over to someone else,” Lynn said. “Or…she wants to make sure something is completely destroyed.”

"what?"

“I don’t know,” Lynn admitted, “but whatever it is, she obviously doesn’t want anyone to find it.”

He stared at the still-smoking factory ruins, his mind racing with various possibilities.

Erin Shaw blew up Malcolm's factory. What does this signify? Is there a conflict between her and Malcolm? What did Malcolm do to displease her? Or is this simply part of an internal power struggle within the fraternity?

Too many questions, too few answers.

“We need to find Malcolm,” Lynn said, “and ask him what he knows.”

Where is he now?

“I don’t know,” Lynn said, “but I intend to find out.”

He took out his phone and texted Morrison, requesting Malcolm's current location. A few minutes later, a reply came—Malcolm was in a private hospital in Manhattan, "feeling unwell."

“He’s not feeling well,” Sarah read out, her tone laced with sarcasm. “His own factory was bombed, seventeen people died, and he’s hiding in the hospital. What a funny guy.”

“Maybe he knows what’s going to happen,” Lynn said. “Maybe he’s scared. Either way, we need to talk to him.”

They handed over the evidence they collected at the scene to the local police and then drove back to New York.

The sun had fully risen, and the morning rush hour traffic was beginning to congest the roads. Lynn sat in the passenger seat, flipping through the tattered documents they had found. Most of the content was blurred, but some fragments were still legible.

"The inhibitor's effect lasts approximately 72 hours."

"Tests on Omega-level mutants show partial effectiveness."

"Production batch #47 is complete and awaiting shipment."

“Transportation,” Lynn murmured, “They’re getting these things somewhere.”

“Where to?” Sarah asked.

“I don’t know,” Lynn said, “but if they’ve produced 47 batches, that means a large amount of inhibitor has already been shipped out. The question is, to whom? And what are they being used for?”

"A large-scale crackdown on mutants?"

“Possibly,” Lynn said, “but it could also be for other uses. This inhibitor could strip mutants of their powers, making them just as vulnerable as ordinary humans. If someone wants to control mutants, rather than kill them.”

He didn't finish speaking, but Sarah understood what he meant.

“The Brotherhood needs mutants,” she said. “Their entire ideology is built on mutant superiority. If they can control mutants who don’t obey them…”

“Then they can establish a true mutant empire,” Lynn finished her sentence, “not through persuasion or cooperation, but through coercion. Any disobedient mutant will have their powers stripped away by inhibitors, turning them into ordinary humans, or worse.”

The thought sent a chill down his spine. If this were true, the Brotherhood's ambitions were far more terrifying than he had imagined. They didn't just want mutants to rule the world; they wanted to establish an order under which all mutants had to obey them. A mutant fascist regime.

“We need to stop them,” Sarah said, her voice hardening, “no matter the cost.”

Lynn nodded.

Lynn's phone rang just as the car drove through the Lincoln Tunnel.

He glanced at the caller ID—it was an internal FBI intelligence number.

Ashford.

“Agent Lynn, this is Kevin Zhang from the intelligence analysis team,” a young man’s voice came through the phone, speaking quickly as if it were urgent. “Deputy Director Morrison asked me to contact you; we’ve just intercepted important intelligence.”

"What intelligence?"

“Explosives,” Kevin said. “A large quantity of explosives. We monitored an unusual transaction about three weeks ago, where someone purchased nearly 500 pounds of C4 plastic explosives, along with detonators and remote detonation devices, through underground channels.”

Lynn frowned. Five hundred pounds of C4—enough to destroy a medium-sized building or cause a large-scale terrorist attack.

Who is the buyer?

“A guy named Robert Fisher,” Kevin said, “was the head of a demolition company in Brooklyn called ‘Fisher Demolition Services.’ On the surface, the deal could be explained by business purposes—the demolition company did need explosives to demolish buildings. But the problem is…”

"what is the problem?"

“The quantity of explosives in this shipment far exceeds the needs of any of their projects under construction,” Kevin said, “and the purchase was illegal, bypassing all regulatory procedures. We were planning to send someone to investigate this morning, but…”

Kevin paused for a moment.

"But what?" Lynn pressed.

“Robert Fisher is dead,” Kevin said. “His wife found him dead in his bed around 3 a.m. this morning. The preliminary diagnosis is sudden cardiac arrest.”

Lynn and Sarah exchanged a glance.

“What a coincidence,” Sarah said softly.

“And there’s an even bigger coincidence,” Kevin continued. “After Fisher died, we sent people to his company warehouse to check the explosives. They found the warehouse empty. All the C4, detonators, and detonators were gone.”

When did they disappear?

“I’m not sure,” Kevin said. “The warehouse’s surveillance system malfunctioned two days ago; there’s no footage. The security guard on night watch said he didn’t see any suspicious people or vehicles go in or out all night, but apparently someone moved things.”

Lynn remained silent for a while, processing this information.

A man who had purchased a large quantity of explosives suddenly died, the cause of death appearing to be a natural heart attack. Then the explosives disappeared. This was no coincidence; it was a meticulously planned operation.

“Where is Fisher’s body?” he asked.

“He’s still at his house,” Kevin said. “The forensic pathologist is on his way, but hasn’t arrived yet. Deputy Chief Morrison said he’d like you to go to the scene if you have time.”

“Send me the address,” Lynn said. “I’ll be right there.”

He hung up the phone and told Sarah what had happened.

“Do you think this is related to the chemical plant explosion?” Sarah asked, having already turned the car around and headed towards Brooklyn.

“Very likely,” Lynn said. “The chemical plant was blown up, and then five hundred pounds of C4 went missing. Someone is planning something big.”

"But why kill Fisher? He was just a middleman, wasn't he?"

“Perhaps he knew too much,” Lynn said, “or perhaps he had completed his task and become useless. In any case, his death was not natural.”

Fisher's residence is a two-story detached house in a middle-class neighborhood in Brooklyn, with a manicured lawn and a white wooden fence. In the morning sunlight, it looks like a typical American Dream scene—quiet, peaceful, and full of the cozy atmosphere of suburban life.

But now, this peaceful scene has been broken by several police cars and an ambulance.

Yellow police tape cordoned off the entire front yard, and several uniformed police officers stood guard at the door. Neighbors gathered on both sides of the street, whispering and watching with curiosity and worry.

Lynn and Sarah parked their car outside the police line, showed their identification, and were let in.

"FBI?" The police officer at the door was somewhat surprised. "This is just a natural death case, why are federal agents here?"

“Routine investigation,” Lynn replied curtly. “Take me to the scene.”

The policeman shrugged and led them into the house.

The interior of the house was as ordinary as the exterior—beige walls, brown wooden floors, and simple furniture and decorations. There was a large-screen TV in the living room, a family photo on the wall, and an open magazine on the coffee table. Everything here spoke of the ordinary life of an ordinary American family.

“Where is Mr. Fisher’s wife?” Lynn asked.

“She’s in the guest room upstairs,” the police officer said. “She broke down after finding her husband’s body and is resting now. Should I call her down?”

“Not yet,” Lynn said. “I want to see the body first.”

They went up the stairs to the second floor. The door to the master bedroom was open, and two forensic doctors in white protective suits were working inside.

Lynn walked into the bedroom and looked around.

This is a typical bedroom, about twenty square meters. A double bed occupies the center of the room, with two bedside tables beside it. One table has a lamp and a book, while the other has a pair of glasses and a glass of water. Dark blue curtains hang in the window, half-drawn to let in the morning sunlight.

Robert Fisher's body was still lying in bed.

He was a white male in his fifties, slightly overweight, with thinning gray hair. He was wearing a blue striped pajama set and lay on the right side of the bed in a seemingly natural position—face up, hands at his sides, as if he had died in his sleep.

“The time of death is estimated to be between 2 and 3 a.m.,” one of the forensic doctors said to Lynn, looking up. “The preliminary diagnosis is sudden death due to a myocardial infarction. There were no external injuries, no signs of struggling, and no symptoms of poisoning.”

"Does he have a history of heart disease?" Lynn asked.

“According to his wife, no,” the forensic pathologist said. “He had always been very healthy, had annual checkups, and never had any heart problems. But…” the pathologist shrugged, “a heart attack can sometimes happen without warning. Especially for someone his age and weight, the risk is always there.” (End of Chapter)