American comic book: I, with my abundant martial virtue, love to do good to others.

"He's circling around," the state trooper whispered.

"He knows someone is chasing him," Lynn replied.

"They might also be looking for a place to bury something," the deputy sheriff said.

The sheriff lowered his voice: "Don't fire first. Check if he's holding a protective film."

Lynn didn't respond; her attention was entirely on the woods ahead.

Upon reaching the foot of the watchtower, the wind suddenly picked up. The abandoned watchtower was an old wooden structure, half repaired and half decaying. From here, one could overlook the main building of the mountain villa and the wooded slope to the north. Below the watchtower was a low wooden warehouse with a crooked door. The figure in the thermal imaging remained motionless behind that warehouse.

The state trooper raised his hand to signal a stop.

Everyone held their breath.

The next second, a short snort came from the darkness.

Immediately following was a man's voice, carried on the wind, deep and tinged with impatience.

"If I go any further, I'll burn this thing."

Harold.

The sheriff raised his voice: "Harold, put down what you're holding."

No one answered immediately.

The flashlight beam finally shone, illuminating a small clearing beside the wood warehouse. Harold stood there, his coat pulled up high, holding Graystone's reins. The old horse tossed its head restlessly, pawing the ground with its front hooves. In his other hand, Harold held a small metal lighter, with a tiny, almost invisible transparent film clipped to its bottom. A gust of wind made the edges of the film gleam slightly.

"I knew they'd eventually catch up with me," Harold said.

"Put the lighter down," the sheriff said.

"Lower your guns a bit." Harold glanced at the gun barrels pointed at him, and even smiled. "I'm not a fool like Thomas. If I really wanted to run, I wouldn't be here by now."

Lynn stepped forward slightly: "Then why are you still here?"

Harold looked at him, his eyes deeper than usual in the flashlight beam.

"Because I don't like taking the blame for someone else's last debt," he said.

"Rowan has already spoken," Lynn said.

"He can drive," Harold nodded. "That's just how he is; unless things get really bad, he'll sell out others first."

The sheriff said coldly, "How long have you known him?"

“Long enough,” Harold said, “long enough that I know he doesn’t really believe Elena, or Rachel. They’re both just layers of a shell that’s being pushed outwards.”

"You're a shell too," the deputy sheriff said.

“Of course I am,” Harold chuckled. “But at least I know when to crack the shell.”

Lynn stared at the membrane in his hand: "Did you see Violet this morning?"

“We didn’t meet formally,” Harold said. “I only caught a glimpse of her from afar last night. She doesn’t seem like the type to linger in a place like this; her eyes were too busy.”

“But you’ve been there all day,” Lynn said. “This morning you saw Gwen coming down from the top floor near the racecourse, and this afternoon you were able to get around to the treeline and stop Rachel. Now you’re waiting at the lookout with the calibration film. You don’t seem like someone who was just dragged into this.”

Harold paused for a second before saying, "Because I was originally Violet's last line of defense."

The sheriff and deputy sheriff both paused.

"What do you mean?" Lynn asked.

Harold looked at him: "She doesn't trust Rowan, nor Rachel, and certainly not someone like Thomas who's paid an inside man. But she knows that if the resort really wants someone outside the system who can access the outer forest lines and logistics routes, only a peripheral employee like me is suitable. She moved in three days ago and talked to me once under the guise of looking after the horses. She asked me if the resort had a road that wasn't monitored by the main building and wouldn't be blocked immediately if something happened. I said yes. The second time she came, she gave me some money and a sentence—'If someone comes to you with a hard card before noon tomorrow, take him to the county border; if no one comes, burn the things.'"

The sheriff's face darkened: "Why didn't you say so sooner?"

"Who were you going to tell?" Harold retorted. "The receptionist? Security? Or that gentleman who was hanging around in the lobby drinking with her last night? You've been investigating this for a while now, aren't you riddled with holes?"

Lynn stared at him: "Why did she choose you?"

"Because I look like the least likely person to handle these things," Harold said. "A horse breeder, with grass clippings and mud on his hands, a cigar smoker, bad-tempered, and not very talkative to anyone. Customers won't remember me, and the system doesn't really remember me either."

The deputy sheriff retorted, "But you hid things for her today, so you're already an accomplice."

Harold didn't deny it: "That's why I'm waiting here."

"What are you waiting for?" the sheriff said.

"Let's see who touches me first." Harold dangled the membrane between his fingers. "Rachel didn't come, Rowan didn't come, and you guys came first. That at least means this messy game wasn't completely ruined."

The sheriff was clearly not buying it: "Stop trying to glorify yourself. Put the film down now and take your hand off the lighter."

Harold glanced at the lighter and gently rubbed the metal casing with his thumb. The wind made the lighter cap creak slightly.

"I'll put it down, and then what?" he asked.

"Then you come down with us," the sheriff said.

"After we went down there, Rowan said one thing, Elena said another, Rachel didn't say anything, Thomas was half-truthful, and in the end this thing went into the evidence bag, and in a few months it will be lost somewhere," Harold said casually. "I've seen too many things like this elsewhere when I was young."

Lynn said, "So you want to decide for yourself whether it stays or goes."

"right."

"If you burn it, Violet's death will have been in vain."

Harold looked at him, his gaze unwavering: "She never expected to get away unscathed. She just didn't want either side to get the whole thing."

"Then you shouldn't have burned it." Lynn took a half step forward. "If you hand it over, at least you can seal this line."

Harold shook his head: "You still don't understand. Nailing down one line doesn't mean nailing down the person behind it. If you arrest someone like Rowan today, there will be another name tomorrow. But if this whole thing is fully exposed, it won't just involve them."

The sheriff interrupted coldly: "Whether or not to take the bait is not up to you."

Harold smiled, looking a little tired: "But now it's in my hands."

The wind whipped Grayrock's mane wildly, making it even more agitated, its hooves pawing the ground. The flashlight beam swept across Harold's side, where a small bulge seemed to be forming.

Lynn's eyes darkened slightly: "You have a gun."

Harold didn't deny it: "I sometimes bring them on night patrols in the mountains."

The sheriff raised his gun more steadily: "Then don't even try."

Harold glanced at the lights of the manor below. The main building looked like an overly bright, warm-colored cube in the night, quiet and unreal through the trees and the wind.

"I've worked here for eleven years," he said. "In those eleven years, so many guests have come and gone. Some have ordered the most expensive wines, some have ridden the wildest horses, some have come crying and left laughing, and some have come laughing and been carried away in the middle of the night. The estate has always looked very respectable, so respectable that it seems like everything can be wrapped in wood, fireplaces, and fine sheets."

The sheriff said impatiently, "You've been talking a lot of nonsense tonight."

"Because nobody usually asks me," Harold said.

Lynn didn't urge him. He stared at Harold's fingers, his thumb and forefinger pinching the membrane, his middle finger hooking the lighter. His gesture was steady, not like he was really hesitating, but more like he had already thought of several possible outcomes.

"How much money did Violet give you?" Lynn asked.

Harold chuckled. "Enough to keep me from working here forever."

"But you didn't leave."

"Not yet."

"I still can't bear to part with it," Lynn said.

Harold looked at him, and something else finally flashed in his eyes, like mockery, or like he had been hit where it hurt.

"You have a good eye for people," he said.

“No one can do it,” Lynn said. “You’ve been watching us all day. You know who really wants to solve the case, who really wants to arrest people, and who just wants to get their names off the table. You’re not staying for the money, and you’re not just for Violet. You’re waiting for a way to wrap things up that you can look at yourself without looking so dirty.”

The deputy sheriff muttered under his breath, "You're still trying to talk philosophy with him at a time like this?"

The sheriff remained silent, only staring at Harold.

Harold didn't answer immediately. He lowered his hand holding the membrane slightly, as if it had become a little sore from the wind.

"I saw her one last time," he suddenly said.

Lynn's eyes flickered.

"When?" the sheriff asked.

“Before seven in the morning,” Harold said. “It wasn’t the kind of last time we saw each other while she was alive. It was when Thomas and Rachel were moving her from the equipment floor to the rooftop water area. I was feeding the grass on the hillside below, and I looked up and saw a shadow in the narrow window of the equipment floor. Later, Thomas came down to me and asked me for an old bridle buckle and some waterproof steel wire. That’s when I knew things were out of control.”

"You're still helping him." Gwen wasn't there, but the anger in the sheriff's words was almost exactly what she would feel.

Harold smirked. "Because I was already standing on the edge of the pit. Violet gave me the money, the way, and the final sealing cord; Thomas knew I'd seen it all. Which way could I possibly retreat then?"

"You can call the police," Lynn said.

"I told you, you've been searching every floor since you started arresting people today, every single one of them is like a sieve." Harold's voice wasn't loud, but it was a bit deep. "I don't even trust the phone in the main building."

The sheriff sneered, "Now you believe us?"

Harold looked at Lynn, then at the sheriff, and after a long pause said, "I don't entirely believe it. I just hate people like Rachel more than Rowan; I hate people who put others in a list more than Elena; and I hate people who take money and think they're just doormen more than Thomas."

"And what about you?" Lynn asked.

Harold fell silent for a moment.

"I was the one who thought I could just watch from the sidelines," he said.

Lynn stared at him: "So give me the membrane."

The wind picked up. Grayrock suddenly jerked his head, and the reins snapped from Harold's grasp. He instinctively shifted his body to the side, his hand holding the membrane also tilting to the side.

That is, in this half second.

Lynn moved.

Instead of charging straight at him, he first kicked up a piece of broken wood at his feet. The wood struck Gray Rock's forelegs sideways. Startled, the old horse lurched backward, and Harold instinctively reached for the reins, his hand and attention diverted. Taking advantage of this, Lynn charged forward, aiming straight for Gray Rock's wrist.

"Harold!" the sheriff shouted.

Harold reacted quickly, flicking his wrist to light the lighter with a "snap." The blue-orange flame flickered wildly in the wind, almost licking the edge of the thin film.

Lynn grabbed his hand immediately.

A burning pain immediately shot up to my palm.

Harold cursed under his breath, his other hand already reaching for his side waist. The sheriff's firing angle was unsafe, and the deputy sheriff lunged forward but was shoved aside by Gray Rock. The three of them instantly became a tangled mess on the narrow patch of ground below the lookout tower, mud, grass clippings, cold wind, and the horses' restlessness all mingling together.

"Gun!" the state trooper roared.

Harold had only drawn halfway with his gun at his side when Lynn slammed his elbow into his wrist. The gun slipped from his hand and fell into the damp grass. The lighter, however, was still extinguished; Harold gripped it tightly, as if he'd rather burn his hand than let go.

Lynn gritted his teeth and pressed his free hand directly onto the flame.

A sudden burst of acrid smell filled the air.

The fire is out.

For the first time, Harold's eyes genuinely changed color. He seemed surprised that Lynn would be so forceful, and his movements froze for a moment. Taking advantage of this instant, the sheriff rammed into him from the side, knocking him to the ground. The deputy sheriff and state troopers swarmed in, kneeing him on the shoulder, twisting his arms behind his back, grabbing his lighter, and taking his membrane—all in one swift motion.

"Don't move!" the deputy sheriff roared, his voice cracking.

Harold was pinned to the muddy ground, his face covered in grass and filth, his chest heaving violently. He stopped struggling, his eyes fixed on the transparent membrane that the state troopers had slipped into the evidence bag, his gaze dark and unfocused.

The sheriff stood up, panting heavily. He glanced at the evidence bag before looking down at him: "What do you have to say now?"

Harold closed his eyes, as if a lot of that energy had dissipated.

"Yes," he said.

"explain."

"Don't operate this locally," Harold said hoarsely. "Send it directly to the federal government. Keep a list of anyone who wants to touch it. Don't let any of the state's outsourced IT departments handle it first."

The sheriff looked at him coldly: "You seem to know quite a lot."

"I don't know everything," Harold said, "but enough for you guys to sleep poorly after tonight."

Lynn stood to the side, his palm burning with pain. He looked down and saw his skin was red, with white patches at the edges. The deputy sheriff noticed and couldn't help but yell, "Are you out of your mind? Trying to put out a fire with your bare hand?"

Lynn shook his hand and didn't answer.

Harold glanced at him and said in a low voice, "Someone like you won't live long either."

Lynn replied calmly, "It's better than using other people's lives to pave your own way out."

Harold didn't say anything more.

He was lifted up, handcuffed, and taken away, while Gray Rock was led away by the horse farm staff. The night wind was finally no longer as taut as before, and below the observation deck, only the smell of trampled grass and trees and the sound of everyone's breathing gradually calmed down remained.

The sheriff took the evidence bag, stared at the almost invisible transparent film inside, remained silent for two seconds, and then looked up at Lynn and said, "So, we've got them all caught this time?"

Lynn looked at the lights of the main building down the mountain and said after a long while, "The mastermind is here. As for how many more chains are left, they won't stop tonight."

The sheriff muttered under his breath, "I knew you wouldn't utter a single 'It's over'."

The deputy sheriff chimed in, "Don't talk philosophy yet, let's get the people and the cargo down the mountain alive first. Also, should we transfer that Rowan to the state now?"

"Transfer," the sheriff said. "Elena, Rachel, Thomas, Harold, separate them for trial. Rowan will be held in solitary confinement."

The state trooper asked, "That fake Raphael in the detached house?"

"He'll be detained for being a key witness and for harboring a criminal," the sheriff said. "Keep a close eye on Ben too, make sure he's not killed off by anyone else in the hospital." (End of Chapter)