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

Lynn walked to the bedside and carefully examined the body. Fisher's face showed no sign of pain; his eyes were closed and his lips were slightly parted, as if he had peacefully passed away in his sleep.

So peaceful.

Lynn had seen victims of heart attacks. Most of the time, their faces bore the marks of pain or terror from the intense agony of a heart attack. Even when it happened in their sleep, the instinctive pain response would wake them, leaving traces of their struggle.

But Fisher seemed to have been turned off, everything stopped cleanly and decisively.

"Can I examine the body?" Lynn asked.

The forensic doctor nodded and stepped aside.

Lynn put on gloves and began to carefully examine Fisher's body. He checked his neck, wrists, and ankles, finding no needle marks or injection sites. He checked his mouth and nasal cavity, finding no trace of any unusual substance. He even checked his ears and eyes, finding nothing suspicious there either.

"Have any toxicology tests been done?" he asked the forensic pathologist.

“The sample has been collected, but the results will take a few days,” the forensic pathologist said. “However, based on the current situation, I don’t think we’ll find anything. All signs point to natural death.”

Lynn stood up and looked around the room.

Something was wrong. He could sense it, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it.

“Sarah,” he said, “could you ask Mrs. Fisher a few questions for me? I’d like to stay here a little longer.”

“No problem,” Sarah nodded, then left the room.

Lynn stood alone in the bedroom, slowly pacing around, trying to spot any overlooked details.

The book on the bedside table was a fishing magazine, open to a page about a particular fishing rod. Next to it was a half-full glass of water, presumably Fisher's bedtime drink. In the bedside table drawer was a bottle of melatonin—a sleeping pill—a box of tissues, and some loose coins.

The windows were closed, and the latches were intact. The air conditioner was set to 68 degrees Fahrenheit and had been running all night. The blankets on the bed were half pulled back, probably when Fisher's wife found him.

Everything looks normal.

But Lynn's intuition told him that something was wrong.

He walked to the bedside and looked at the empty spot—the side where Fisher's wife had slept. There were dents in the pillow and wrinkles in the blankets.

"When did she discover it?" Lynn asked the forensic doctor who was still in the room.

“Around 3:15 a.m.,” the medical examiner said, “she said she got up to use the restroom and when she came back, she found her husband not breathing.”

"Did she notice anything unusual before that?"

“She said no,” the medical examiner said. “She said she was sound asleep and didn’t hear anything.”

Lynn frowned.

Fisher died between 2 and 3 a.m., while his wife, who was sleeping next to him, was completely unaware. Even a relatively "quiet" form of death like a heart attack should produce some signs—changes in breathing, convulsions, or at least a drop in body temperature.

unless
Lynn's gaze fell on the bottle of sleeping pills.

He picked up the bottle and looked at the label. Melatonin, three milligrams per tablet. The bottle was full, meaning Fisher hadn't taken it last night. But what about his wife?
He put the bottle back in its place, and then did something that surprised the forensic doctor.

He took off his shoes and then lay down on the bed.

"Uh, Agent? What are you doing?" the forensic doctor asked, looking confused.

“Feel it,” Lynn said.

He lay in the spot where Fisher had lain, face up, hands at his sides, trying to mimic the corpse's posture.

The mattress was soft, giving him a sinking feeling. The pillows were the perfect height, supporting his neck. From this angle, he could see the chandelier on the ceiling and the light streaming in from the window.

He closed his eyes and imagined himself as Fisher.

It's late at night. You're lying in your bed, your wife beside you. You fall asleep as usual, without any warning. Then...
Then what?
Heart attack. Severe chest pain, difficulty breathing, and the fear of impending death. In the case of a regular myocardial infarction, these symptoms appear within seconds to minutes, jolting you awake from sleep and causing you to struggle, cry for help, and try to survive.

But Fisher didn't. He died quietly, without changing his posture or showing any sign of pain.

Lynn opened her eyes and stared at the ceiling.

There is only one explanation for this manner of death—Fischer had lost consciousness before he died. Not the kind of loss of consciousness that can be awakened by sleep, but a deeper, completely unconscious state where he was utterly unable to perceive his surroundings.

What can make a person completely lose consciousness within seconds without leaving any physical trace?
Lynn recalled what Erin Shaw had done to him at the dinner party—the feeling of trying to invade his brain, the pressure as if something was squeezing his skull.

Psychological attack.

If someone were to use psychic abilities to attack Fisher's brain, causing him to fall into a deep coma instantly, and then somehow stop his heartbeat...
Such a death would appear to be a natural heart attack, without any signs of external injury or poisoning.

Lynn sat up in bed, her heart racing.

If his speculation is correct, then what killed Fisher was not disease, but murder. A mutant—most likely Erin Shaw herself—psychically interfered with Fisher remotely, killing him, and then sent people to remove the explosives.

This explains everything.

He was about to stand up when he heard footsteps at the door. Sarah walked into the room, her expression serious.

“Lynn,” she said, “you need to listen to what Mrs. Fisher has to say.”

"What?"

"She said that around 11 p.m. last night, Fisher received a phone call. After hanging up, his expression became strange, he said he had some things to take care of, and then he went out. He didn't return for about an hour, but he didn't say anything and went straight to bed."

Where did he go?

“She didn’t know,” Sarah said. “Fischer didn’t tell her. But she said he seemed off when he came back. Nervous, or rather, scared. His hands were shaking, and he wouldn’t say a word.”

Lynn got out of bed and put on her shoes.

Who made that call?

“She doesn’t know,” Sarah said, “but Fisher’s phone is in his pocket now. We can check the call logs.”

Lynn walked to the body and took Fisher's phone from the pocket of his pajamas. The phone was a regular smartphone, with several unread messages and missed calls on the screen.

He opened his call log and found the call that came in at 11:03 p.m. last night.

The number was an unfamiliar string of digits, with no contact information whatsoever. Lynn wrote the number down and then continued checking the other records.

In the days leading up to the call, Fisher had made several calls, mostly to his employees or clients. But one number appeared repeatedly—at least once a day, each call lasting ten to twenty minutes. “This number,” Lynn pointed to Sarah, “is appearing far too often. That’s not normal for the owner of a demolition company.”

“Maybe it’s his mistress?” Sarah said, half-jokingly.

“Perhaps,” Lynn said, “but it could be someone else. We need to track these numbers.”

He handed the phone to the forensic experts for safekeeping as evidence, and then left the bedroom with Sarah.

At the top of the stairs, they encountered Fisher's wife—a blonde woman in her fifties, her face streaked with tears and utterly exhausted. She wore a pink nightgown, her eyes were red and swollen, and she looked so fragile she seemed ready to collapse at any moment.

“Mrs. Fisher,” Lynn stopped, “I am FBI Agent Lynn Ashford. First of all, I offer my condolences on the passing of your husband.”

“Thank you,” the woman’s voice was hoarse, “but I don’t understand why the FBI is investigating? Robert just had a heart attack, didn’t he?”

“We’re just conducting a routine investigation,” Lynn said. “Mrs. Fisher, can you tell me if your husband said anything about where he was going or who he was meeting when he left last night?”

The woman shook her head. "He didn't say anything. After he finished the call, his face turned very pale, like...like he'd seen a ghost. I asked him what was wrong, and he just said, 'Nothing, some business to take care of,' and then he left."

Did he take anything with him when he went out?

“His car keys and wallet,” the woman said, “and…and a folder. A brown folder I’ve never seen before.”

"A folder?" Lynn and Sarah exchanged a glance. "What kind of folder?"

“It’s just a regular folder,” the woman said. “There are some papers inside, I don’t know what they are. He’s always kept it in the safe in his study, but he took it out last night.”

Was the folder still there when he came back?

The woman thought for a moment. "I'm not sure. He went straight upstairs to sleep after he came back, and I didn't notice if he had anything in his hand."

Lynn nodded. "Where's the study? Can I see the safe?"

The woman led them to the study on the first floor. It was a small office with an old wooden table, several bookshelves, and a desktop computer. On the wall hung several of Fisher's awards and certificates—membership in the demolition industry association, awards for outstanding entrepreneurs, and the like.

The safe was hidden behind a fake panel under the desk. Lynn crouched down and examined it.

“What’s the password?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” the woman said. “Robert never lets me touch this.”

Lynn glanced at the model of the safe—it was a common home safe with a low level of security. He turned to Sarah.

"Could you send someone to drive this over?"

“I’ll make the call,” Sarah said, taking out her phone and walking to the side to make the call.

Lynn stood up and looked around the study.

On the desk sat a computer, a desk lamp, several pens, and a stack of documents. Most of the documents were business contracts and invoices, all seemingly related to demolition work. But one document caught his attention—a hand-drawn sketch of a building's floor plan, marked with numbers and symbols.

Lynn picked up the sketch and examined it carefully.

This is not an ordinary architectural blueprint. It doesn't mark rooms and passageways, but rather the explosion points.

Each marked point has a small circle with the weight and detonation sequence written next to it. This is a demolition plan, and a very professional one at that.

"Where is this place?" he muttered to himself.

There's a small label in the corner of the sketch: GCB-Main
GCB? Lynn frowned, trying to figure out what the abbreviation meant.

“Lynn,” Sarah approached, “the locksmith will be here in half an hour. What did you find?”

Lynn handed her the sketch. "Take a look at this."

Sarah took the sketch, her brow furrowing. "Is this a demolition plan?"

“Yes, and it’s specific to a particular building,” Lynn said. “GCB-Main, do you know what that means?”

“GCB,” Sarah repeated, “wait, I feel like I’ve seen this abbreviation somewhere before.”

She took out her phone and quickly searched for information.

“My God,” her face changed, “GCB—Grand Central Building.”

Lynn's blood seemed to freeze in an instant.

The Grand Central Building is one of New York City's busiest transportation hubs, with over 750,000 people passing through it daily. If someone were to detonate 500 pounds of C4 there...
“We need to inform Morrison immediately,” he said, his voice tense, “if this plan is true—”

“But we’re not sure,” Sarah said, her voice tense. “It could just be a sketch, and that doesn’t mean they’ll actually carry it out. Besides, security at the Grand Central Building is extremely tight; planting explosives there would be virtually impossible.”

“Unless they have an inside man,” Lynn said, “or there’s another way to bypass security.”

He looked at the sketch again and noticed a line of small print at the bottom: D-Day: TBD
D-Day, the day of action. TBD, to be determined.

This means they haven't set a specific timeframe for action. Perhaps they're waiting for something, or there's still some preparatory work to be done.

But in any case, time is of the essence.

“Let’s go,” Lynn said, putting the sketch into the evidence bag. “We’re going back to the station. This is much more serious than I thought.”

As they were about to leave the study, Lynn's gaze fell on the computer on the desk.

“Wait a minute,” he said.

He walked to the computer and pressed the power button. The screen lit up, displaying the Windows login screen.

“Password protected,” Sarah said. “We need someone from the tech department to crack it.”

“Maybe not,” Lynn said.

He glanced around the keyboard and found a sticky note with a few numbers and letters scribbled on it: RF0523
“Most people write their passwords down somewhere,” he said, typing in the string of characters.

The screen is unlocked.

“How did you know that was a password?” Sarah asked.

“Just a guess,” Lynn said. “RF stands for Robert Fisher, and 0523 is probably an important date—a birthday, a wedding anniversary, or something like that. This kind of password is common, but also very insecure.” (End of Chapter)