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

Lynn flipped to the last file. The total number of files displayed at the bottom of the screen was—

"Thirty-seven. The youngest is eleven years old, and the oldest is twenty-six. Twenty-two were marked as 'involuntary transfer,' nine as 'conditional voluntary,' and six as 'active recruitment.'"

“What does ‘conditional voluntariness’ mean?” Pedro’s voice no longer carried any hint of sarcasm.

"That means they used coercion—dropping criminal charges, financial inducements, threats to family members—but ultimately got the subject to sign a legally binding agreement on paper." Lynn closed the computer screen, then covered his face with his hands and remained silent for a full ten seconds.

The photos kept flashing through his mind—those young, bewildered, fearful faces. Eleven-year-old children taken from orphanages, fifteen-year-old girls lured from foster homes under the guise of psychological counseling, nineteen-year-old university students lured to a deserted island in the middle of the Pacific by fake research grants—

and then?
He opened the "Protocol" subdirectory. The documents inside described how Midway Base operated—training plans, ability-stimulating experiments, and behavioral control methods. Some of the wording was sickeningly calm; for example, a document titled "Subject Compliance Improvement Program" detailed the parameters and frequencies of food deprivation, sleep deprivation, and "corrective electric shocks."

“They’re training mutants,” Diana said, her voice cracking like shattered ice. “Like training military dogs.”

“It’s not just training.” Mike pushed up his glasses, his face unusually pale in the blue light of the computer screen. “Look at this—” His finger pointed to a document labeled “Phase Three,” “Ability Limit Testing. They’re systematically forcing these mutants to push their limits. The records show three subjects who suffered ‘irreversible physiological collapse’ during the limit testing—in layman’s terms, they died from the torture of the experiment.”

A sound came from the corner—Kevin's water glass fell to the floor, spilling water everywhere. His hands trembled violently as he bent down to pick it up.

"I'm sorry—I—"

“It’s alright.” Diana walked over and patted him on the shoulder.

Lynn lifted his face from behind his hands. Something had changed in his eyes—no longer the weariness and alertness of a fugitive, but a sharper, harder light. It was the look of a hunter who had locked onto his prey.

“These people must be rescued,” he said.

“How do we rescue them?” Jason leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “Midway is right in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, 1,300 miles from Honolulu. We have no warships, no transport planes, not even a decent ship. Even if we could get transportation, the island's defenses are far beyond what six of us can handle—if the Brotherhood has built a training base there, there are at least twenty or thirty personnel stationed there, and the mutants there are living weapons.”

“Jason is right,” Mike said calmly and objectively. “Purely from a tactical standpoint, a six-man assault on an island facility far from the mainland is suicidal in terms of both troop deployment and firepower.”

“I didn’t plan on sending all six of us.” Lynn stood up and walked to the window. Warm yellow light shone from a window on a floor of the building across the street, and a silhouette was busy in a kitchen—a normal night for a normal person, cooking, eating, watching TV, and sleeping. He saw his reflection in the glass window—unshaven, with dark circles under his eyes, and a slightly crooked left shoulder—a man who had been chased from one hell to another in the past six days.

"Who are you planning to contact?" Diana asked.

Lynn turned around.

Have you ever heard of Professor Charles Xavier?

Jason and Pedro exchanged a glance.

“X-Schools?” Pedro raised an eyebrow. “The one in Westchester?”

Do you know that place?

"I know the gist of it. The narcotics unit had a case that bordered on theirs—three years ago, a methamphetamine lab in the Bronx exploded. When we got to the scene, the entire basement was frozen solid, the methamphetamine, equipment, even the cockroaches on the floor were frozen solid. Later we found out it was a student from Xavier's College—a seventeen-year-old girl—who sensed that drugs were being produced inside the building when she passed by, and took it upon herself to freeze the entire lab. By the time we got there, she was already gone, leaving only ice shards and three drug dealers frozen unconscious."

"Did you contact Xavier's School later?"

"Deputy Section Chief Jackson made a call, and a well-mannered-sounding female voice answered, saying they would 'communicate with the students to ensure due process is followed in the future.' That was it. The case went into the system as usual, with the section on the methamphetamine lab listed as 'unexplained refrigeration equipment malfunction.'"

Lynn nodded. “I’ve had contact with people from Xavier’s School more than once. I’ve only met Professor Xavier himself twice, but I’m quite familiar with a few of his subordinates. If I go to them, explain the situation, and show them these files—”

“They’ll help you?” Jason’s tone carried a hint of restrained skepticism. “Lynn, those people operate on a completely different logic from the federal law enforcement system. They’re not accountable to any government agency, they don’t follow any legal procedures, and they don’t accept any external orders. How can you guarantee they’ll cooperate with your plan instead of doing things their own way?”

“I don’t need any guarantees,” Lynn’s voice was steady. “Jason, look at those files. The youngest subject was eleven. Professor Xavier dedicated his life to protecting mutants—what do you think he’d say if he saw the Brotherhood doing this to a bunch of kids on a deserted island?”

Jason opened his mouth, then closed it again.

"He doesn't need to take orders from me. I just need him to be on my side."

Another silence fell. The dryer in the downstairs laundry room emitted a long, whirring whine, then stopped. An ambulance sped past a few blocks away, its siren blaring, the sound like a sharp crack cutting through the New York night before quickly fading into the city's perpetual noise.

"When are we going?" Diana asked.

"Tomorrow morning. Westchester is less than an hour's drive from here."

“I’ll go with you.”

"Need not--"

“This is not a discussion, Lynn. The last time you acted alone, you were hunted for six days.” Lynn looked into her eyes—those deep gray irises reflected the warm light of the ceiling chandelier, as firm as two glazed shields.

"Alright. You're coming with me. The rest of you stay here and wait."

That night, the six of them spent their first night back in New York at Jason's apartment. Jason gave the bedroom to Diana, while he and Pedro made do on the sofa and floor in the living room. Mike and Kevin squeezed into another small room. Lynn said he'd just lie down at the kitchen table for a bit—he still had something to look at.

He spent another three hours studying the data on the USB drive under the kitchen light.

The information about Midway Base was much more detailed than when he had initially scanned it. The "Protocol" folder contained an operations manual—a PDF over sixty pages long—detailing the base's organizational structure, daily routines, security systems, and emergency plans. For security, the base was staffed with twenty-four fully armed mercenaries who patrolled in three shifts around the clock. Sonar buoys and underwater motion sensors were deployed in the waters surrounding the island to prevent any unauthorized vessels from approaching. In the air, two light helicopters were parked on the runway for supply transport and emergency evacuation. The communication system used a satellite uplink to maintain encrypted contact with the Brotherhood command node on the mainland.

What concerned Lynn even more was the "internal deterrent force" mentioned in the security manual—three mutants who had completed training were designated as security personnel at the base, codenamed "Furnace," "Prism," and "Silence." Their abilities were described briefly but terrifyingly: "Furnace" could raise the surface temperature of objects it touched to over two thousand degrees Celsius; "Prism" possessed the ability to manipulate light—creating blindingly bright light or making himself invisible; and "Silence" could suppress the abilities of other mutants within a certain range.

Three mutants trained to be weapons, plus twenty-four mercenaries.

“This is not something the six of us can handle,” he muttered to the empty kitchen.

The New York night sky outside the window was tinged with a hazy orange-gray by the city lights, not a single star in sight. In the distance, the spire of the Empire State Building shone with white light, like a luminous needle inserted into the heart of the city. From some unknown direction came the metallic clang of a garbage truck's hydraulic arm lifting a trash can, followed by the dull hum of a diesel engine, fading into the distance.

He rested his head on his crossed arms and closed his eyes.

At 6:30 a.m. the next morning, Lynn was awakened by the sound of water dripping from the kitchen sink. When he sat up, his neck made an ominous crack. The bandage on his left shoulder needed to be changed, but it was much better than a few days ago—at least his range of motion had recovered to 70-80%.

Diana was awake. She was wearing a dark blue flannel shirt borrowed from Jason's closet—two sizes too big, with the sleeves rolled up three times—and was standing in the bathroom washing her face with cold water. Her short hair, wet and plastered to her forehead, revealed a face that looked slightly gaunt from days of traveling.

"Were you looking at those documents all night?" She saw his figure appear behind her in the mirror.

"I watched it until after 3 a.m.."

"Any new discoveries?"

"The base's defenses are more complex than I anticipated. It's not just about mercenaries and fences—they also have three highly trained mutants for internal security. One of them can suppress the abilities of the other mutants."

Diana turned on the tap and dried her face with a towel. "That power-suppressing ability—you mean, if the Xaviers went, their abilities might be ineffective against that person?"

"Within a certain range, yes. This means that the attacking side cannot rely entirely on the mutants' power; they also need conventional tactics to support them."

"So you need people from Xavier's School, and you also need us."

"Yes. Mutants fight mutants, conventional tactical personnel fight mercenaries, and someone is responsible for rescuing the trapped test subjects. Three lines of action are advancing simultaneously."

At 7:00 sharp, Lynn and Diana left the apartment. Jason handed them the keys to the car—the license plate was a New Jersey civilian plate and wouldn't attract any attention.

“Be careful.” Jason stood in the apartment doorway, wearing a crumpled white T-shirt and boxing shorts, one hand resting on the doorframe. “If you encounter any problems in Westchester—”

"No, it's probably one of the safest places in North America."

"Perhaps for one mutant. But for two ordinary people, it's hard to say."

Lynn patted his arm. "I'll call you."

They drove the Suburban from Essex Street onto the FDR Drive and then headed north. A thin layer of morning mist shrouded the East Riverbank in Manhattan; barges and tugboats moved slowly across the river, their long whistles echoing, like a group of sluggish, massive aquatic creatures. The suspension cables of the Brooklyn Bridge shimmered silver in the morning light, and a Q-line subway train rumbled past on the lower level of the bridge, its windows flashing against the steel frame of the structure.

After the Bronx, the city's density drops dramatically. The highways transform from apartment buildings and commercial streets into sprawling suburban homes and neatly manicured lawns, with the occasional stone church spire peeking out from the trees, bathed in the warm, honeyed light of the morning sun. Continuing north, even the suburban homes thin out, replaced by low hills covered in golden-red autumn leaves and winding country lanes. The air transforms from the city's gray to a crisp, transparent hue, carrying the mingled scents of fallen leaves, pine resin, and damp earth.

“We’re almost at the exit for Westchester,” Diana glanced at the navigation.

“Don’t take the main road. Take the Greystone exit and drive on Country Road 909A. The college isn’t next to any major road.”

They drove for about ten minutes on a tree-lined two-lane highway. Tall sycamores and oaks lined both sides of the road, their branches intertwining overhead to form an arched tunnel. Sunlight filtered through the leaves, painting countless golden spots on the road surface, which danced and changed shape with the gentle breeze.

Then an iron gate appeared at the end of the road.

The iron gate was made of wrought iron, with a weathered stone sphere perched on each of the two gateposts. On either side of the gate was a stone wall about two meters high, winding its way down the slope and disappearing from sight; the walls were covered in ivy, its leaves a dark red in the chilly autumn air. There were no markings on the gate—no school name, no address, not even a sign saying "Private Property, No Entry."

Lynn parked the car in front of the iron gate and pressed an inconspicuous button on the gatepost.

After about ten seconds, a voice came from the speaker next to the button—clear, polite, and with a hint of barely perceptible alertness. (End of Chapter)