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

"Are four people enough?" Diana asked.

“Five.” A voice came from the doorway.

Everyone turned their heads away.

A young man, about twenty-four or twenty-five years old, stood in the doorway. His brown curly hair was messy and sticking out, and he was wearing an old T-shirt with "Department of Physics, Michigan State University" printed on it and a pair of pajama pants. His feet were bare, and his toes were cold as they stepped on the marble floor of the corridor.

But what caught Lynn's eye were his hands—perfectly normal, human hands. His skin was a normal color, his fingers were of normal thickness, and his nails were neatly trimmed.

“Taylor?” Lynn stood up.

Tyler Anderson—the college student who cried as he tore apart concrete on the bridge in Battle Creek—walked toward him. His eyes were still red, but no longer the desperate bloodshot of yesterday. There was something in those young, brown eyes of a twenty-one-year-old college student that Lynn hadn't seen on the bridge yesterday—it wasn't calm, nor entirely resolve, but more like a small but irreversible decision made by someone just awakened from a nightmare in the first rays of dawn.

“I heard what you were saying.” Taylor’s voice was a little hoarse, but much steadyer than yesterday. “Those people in the files—those children who were taken away—I want to help them.”

“Taylor,” Xavier’s voice was as gentle as a soft blanket, “you only arrived last night. Your abilities haven’t undergone any systematic training. The danger of this operation—”

“I know.” Taylor looked down at his hands. “When I woke up this morning, they were all over again.” He clenched his fist, then released it. “But Hank taught me a breathing technique—four seconds to inhale, seven seconds to hold, eight seconds to exhale—I did it, and they…went back down. I can’t say I’ve learned to control them, but I’m not the person I was yesterday on the bridge who couldn’t control anything.”

“One morning isn’t enough,” Ororo’s voice came from the window, uncritical, simply stating a fact.

“I know it’s not enough. But what if there’s an eleven-year-old in those files—” Taylor’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “I have a sister. She’s thirteen. When I woke up here this morning, the first thing I thought of was her. What if it was her? What if she was the one who got arrested?”

The room was silent for a few seconds.

Lynn looked at Taylor. He thought of Kevin—another young man caught in a vortex far beyond his control. Kevin wasn't a warrior, and neither was Taylor. But Kevin hadn't broken down in the most dangerous moments, choosing to stay where he had every reason to give up.

“Professor,” Lynn turned to Xavier, “I have no right to make that decision for you. He is your student.”

Xavier looked at Taylor with a kind of calculation in his eyes—not a cold weighing of pros and cons, but a more complex measurement involving trust, responsibility, and possibility.

“Taylor,” Xavier said.

"professor."

“If I allow you to go, you must obey orders—whether it's Detective Carter's orders or Scott and Ororo's. You cannot act alone, you cannot act impulsively, and you cannot lose control just because you see something that angers you. Can you do that?”

Taylor took a deep breath. His hands trembled slightly again—but nothing changed. His skin was still the normal color, and his fingers were still the normal thickness.

"I can do it."

Xavier stared at him for a long time. Then something in those light blue eyes softened slightly.

"it is good."

Taylor's shoulders relaxed, as if an invisible weight had been lifted.

"But you'll be in the same group as Logan. He'll look after you."

"Logan is that—"

"You'll see when you see it." When Ororo said this, there was a slight smile at the corner of his mouth that was hard to tell whether it was comforting or a warning.

Lynn sat up straight in his chair again. The sunlight outside the window was fully up, illuminating every corner of the principal's office with exquisite detail. The spines of the old books on the shelves gleamed with a dark golden light, and tiny dust particles floated in the air like a cluster of tiny stars slowly falling.

“A timeline,” he said. “We need a timeline. The data on the USB drive needs to be delivered to the FBI Director as soon as possible—not Deputy Director Brooks, but the Director himself. Jason is arranging a reporting channel that bypasses Brooks. But at the same time, the Midway base can’t operate for another day—every extra day means another day of torture for the subjects, and if the Brotherhood discovers their data has been stolen, they might destroy evidence, relocate personnel, or even—”

He didn't finish the last possibility. But everyone in the room knew what followed "even".

“Silence him,” Diana said for him.

"Yes. So both things must be done simultaneously. Jason in New York will deliver the evidence to the director and initiate a full-scale purge of the Brotherhood. We'll raid Midway base in the Pacific, rescue the people, secure the evidence, and arrest those who need to be arrested. Both lines of operation will proceed at the same time, giving them no time to react."

“The ‘people you’re referring to who should be arrested,’” Xavier tapped his finger lightly on the desk, “are you specifically referring to—”

"The kidnapped subjects—twenty-two individuals—were victims who, after being rescued, entered the federal protection system, received psychological counseling and capacity control training, and were eventually reintegrated into normal life. This part can be handled by your school."

"Can."

"The nine who signed under conditional consent—their legal status is somewhat ambiguous. Each case needs to be assessed. Some were coerced into signing, and legally they can still be considered victims. Others may have participated voluntarily while aware of the fraternity's nature—that's a different story."

"What about the six who were recruited voluntarily?"

"If they voluntarily joined the fraternity's training program with full knowledge and participated in the surveillance, custody, or persecution of other participants—then they are accomplices. Arrest them, deport them to the mainland, and transfer them to federal court for prosecution."

Xavier's expression didn't change, but his gaze lingered on Lynn's face for a second or two longer than before.

“You know,” Xavier said slowly, “what it means for a mutant to be prosecuted in federal court. They don’t go to ordinary prisons. They go to—”

“I know,” Lynn said, his voice lowering. “But the law is the law, Professor. If a mutant voluntarily joins a criminal organization that kidnaps and abuses its own kind, his identity cannot be a reason for him to escape legal consequences. What I can guarantee is that they will receive a fair trial and legal treatment—I’m personally overseeing this—but I cannot guarantee they won’t go to jail.” Xavier’s fingers tapped silently three times on the desk.

“Justice.” He repeated the word, as if savoring its taste. “In this world, justice has always been a scarce commodity for mutants. But you’re right—the law shouldn’t differ based on race, origin, or genetics. That’s Magneto’s logic, not mine.”

He turned his wheelchair toward Ororo.

"Notify Scott, Jane, and Logan. Assemble in the Situation Room at 2 PM. Full mission briefing."

Ororo walked towards the door.

“And,” Xavier added, “have Hank prepare the Blackbird.”

Ororo stopped and glanced back at him.

When do we leave?

Xavier looked at Lynn.

Lynn looked down at the red, blue and white woven bracelet on her wrist.

"Tomorrow morning."

The situation room at 2 PM is located on the second basement level of the main building.

When Lynn followed Ororo into the elevator, he assumed it would be some kind of ordinary conference room—with a long table, projector, whiteboard, and the like. Only after the elevator doors opened did he realize he had underestimated the school's facilities.

The command center was roughly the size of three standard tennis courts. Its domed ceiling, covered with a layer of frosted steel and inlaid with hundreds of LED beads, cast a uniform, shadowless, cool white light onto the floor. In the center of the room was a circular control panel. At least twelve displays were arranged on the semi-circular metal surface, and below the screens, a control panel was densely packed with buttons, dials, and touchpads. Hanging directly above the control panel was a holographic projector—not currently powered on, but judging from the blue indicator lights scattered on its base, it could be activated at any moment.

Three of the four walls are embedded with huge display panels, currently in standby mode, showing only the Xavier's emblem and a ticking system clock. The fourth wall features a hand-drawn world map, antique in style, as if it were taken from a 19th-century archive and framed there. However, upon closer inspection, one can see that the map is marked with points pricked with red and blue pins, distributed across various corners of the globe.

"Was your renovation company recommended by the Pentagon?" Diana paused at the door for two seconds before stepping inside.

“Hank designed it himself,” Ororo said casually. “He said if you’re going to do something, do it to the best of your ability; otherwise, don’t do it at all.”

There are already people in the room.

A tall, well-built man stood in front of the control panel, his hands resting on the surface, looking down at the data on one of the screens. He was probably in his early thirties, with a sharply defined face and a jawline that looked as if it had been measured with a ruler. A pair of specially made glasses with red quartz lenses covered his eyes; the lenses were so dark they were almost opaque, making it impossible to see his gaze from behind. He wore a black turtleneck and tight-fitting clothes, and dark gray combat trousers, exuding a disciplined and restrained air reminiscent of a military cadet.

“Scott Summers,” Ororo introduced. “Operation codename: Laser Eye.”

Scott gestured with his chin toward them. “Detective Carter.”

“Mr. Summers.”

"Just call me Scott."

Standing next to Scott was a redhead. Her hair was an extremely rich, deep red—not dyed, but a natural, almost unrealistic saturation—that cascaded long over her shoulders, with a few stray strands falling across her smooth forehead. Her face was beautiful, but not the kind that made you want to look twice—it was the kind of beauty that instinctively made you look away, like staring at a quietly burning flame. She wore a simple dark green cardigan and jeans, and stood barefoot on the cold metal floor, seemingly unaffected by the temperature.

“Jane Grey.” She nodded slightly to Lynn, her voice as soft as the wind through velvet. “Your shoulder still hurts.”

Lynn paused for a moment. "You—"

"Sorry, it wasn't intentional. The pain signals are quite strong, and sometimes I receive them unintentionally."

"It's okay. Yes, it still hurts, but it doesn't affect my mobility."

Jane smiled apologetically and then stepped back to Scott's side.

A man sat on a folding chair in the corner—or rather, huddled up in a corner. He was shorter and stockier than anyone else in the room, but not in the sunny, wrestler-like bulk of Pedro; rather, it possessed a more primal, rugged heaviness—like a tree stump dug out of the mountains. He wore a white vest and faded jeans, with muddy work boots on his feet. His bare forearms were covered in thick, black hair, the muscles undulating beneath the skin like coiled steel cables. His face was half-hidden in shadow; Lynn could only see a silhouette—a broad forehead, prominent brow bones, and an old scar running from the corner of his left eye to his temple.

He held an unlit cigar in his hand, biting the cap with his front teeth, occasionally turning it around and making a soft squeaking sound.

That's Logan.

Lynn decided not to greet him. Some people's aura clearly says "Don't talk to me," but Logan's aura said it three times and in bold underlined.

Taylor was the last to come in. He had changed his clothes—a black long-sleeved sweatshirt and dark trousers—and looked more refreshed than he had in the morning. He paused in the doorway for a second, his gaze sweeping across the room, pausing noticeably when his eyes met Logan's in the corner, before quickly walking over to stand next to Lynn.

“Everyone’s here.” Ororo looked around.

Xavier's wheelchair entered the situation room from the elevator entrance and stopped in the center of the control panel. He lightly swiped his fingers across the touchpad, and the holographic projector above his head hummed and started up.

A 3D model of an island appeared out of thin air above the control panel.

Blue light outlines the Midway Atoll—a crescent-shaped sandbar, surrounding coral reefs, and a shallow lagoon in the center. The locations of buildings are marked with red squares, the runway is represented by a thin gray line, and the barbed wire fence is indicated by dashed lines. The entire model rotates slowly, with details so precise that the shape of individual building roofs can be seen.

“This is a 3D model reconstructed based on satellite photos and architectural drawings on the USB drive,” Xavier said. “Hank spent two hours integrating all the data.” (End of Chapter)