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

The world collapsed before his eyes.

The light vanished, the sound vanished, everything vanished. His consciousness was dragged into endless darkness, surrounded by a suffocating void.
Then, he heard a voice.

That's the little rascal's voice.

"Lynn Lynn"

He opened his eyes.

He found himself standing in a desolate wilderness, surrounded by withered trees and a gray sky. Little Rascal stood not far away, wearing the gray hoodie she wore at Xavier's School, a sad expression on her face.

“You’re too late,” she said. “You couldn’t save me.”

“No,” Lynn murmured, “this isn’t real, it’s an illusion.”

"Really?" The little rascal's voice distorted, her face beginning to melt, like a wax figure being scorched by flames. "Are you sure?"

Lynn closed his eyes, using all his willpower to fight the nightmare.

This isn't real. This is the power of the Dream Weaver. He's invading my mind, trying to crush me with my fear. I cannot yield. I cannot—

A gunshot rang out.

Then came another sound.

Lynn's consciousness snapped back to reality. He found himself kneeling on the parking lot ramp, covered in cold sweat and breathing rapidly.

A few meters away, the Dream Weaver lay on the ground with two bloody holes in his chest, and blood was spreading beneath him.

Sarah stood behind him, the gun still smoking.

"Are you alright?" she asked, her voice trembling slightly.

Lynn struggled to her feet and walked toward the fallen Dreamweaver.

The Dream Weaver was still alive, but clearly nearing the end. His breathing was rapid and weak, blood oozing from the corner of his mouth, and his eyes were beginning to glaze over.

“Where is the explosive?” Lynn crouched down and asked.

The Dream Weaver looked at him, a strange smile appearing on his lips.

“It’s too late,” he said, his voice barely audible, “everything…is already…arranged.”

Then, his eyes closed and his breathing stopped.

The Dream Weaver is dead.

Lynn stood up, looked at the corpse, and a complex emotion welled up in his heart.

They caught Fisher's killer, but in doing so, they lost a crucial source of intelligence. The Dream Weaver knew the location of the explosives, the exact time of the attack, and possibly the identities of the other participants.

Now, all of this information has vanished with his death.

“We need to notify Morrison,” Sarah said, having regained her composure. “Also, we need to search the Dreamweaver’s car and his residence as soon as possible to see if we can find any more clues.”

Lynn nodded, but his gaze remained fixed on the Dream Weaver's face.

That faint smile before his death made him uneasy.

“It’s too late,” he said. “Everything is already arranged.”

What does this mean? Has the attack already begun? Or is something happening that they don't know about?
Police sirens sounded in the distance, rapidly approaching. Someone heard gunshots and called the police.

Lynn took a deep breath and temporarily suppressed her doubts.

“Let’s go,” he said. “We still have a lot of work to do.”

Police cars and ambulances arrived at the scene within minutes.

The entrance to the parking lot was blocked off, cordoned off, and curious passersby were kept outside. Several uniformed police officers were maintaining order, a forensic team was handling the Dream Weaver's body, and technicians were collecting shell casings and other physical evidence.

Lynn stood to the side, being questioned by a police officer. His head was still throbbing, a lingering effect of the Dream Weaver's mental attack, but at least he could still think and act normally.

"So you were chasing a suspect who resisted arrest, and you shot and killed him?" the officer asked, his tone tinged with suspicion.

“Yes,” Lynn said, “it’s part of a federal investigation into a terrorist plot. My superior, Deputy Director Morrison, can confirm that.”

"A terrorist attack?" The officer raised an eyebrow. "What kind of terrorist attack?"

“I can’t give you details,” Lynn said, “but I can tell you that this man is a dangerous criminal; he’s been involved in at least one murder and one bombing. If you have any questions, you can contact the FBI’s New York field office.”

The officer seemed dissatisfied with the answer, but he knew he couldn't argue with a federal agent. He closed his notebook and nodded reluctantly.

“Okay, I’ll check. But you can’t leave the city until then.”

“We’re not planning to leave,” Lynn said. “In fact, we still have a lot of work to do.”

He walked toward the dark blue Ford sedan parked to the side. Technicians had already begun inspecting it, their gloved hands carefully examining every corner of the interior.

"Did you find anything?" he asked.

“Something interesting,” one of the technicians said, pulling a black backpack from under the passenger seat. “This bag contains a few cell phones, some cash, and…” He opened an inner pocket of the backpack and took out a folded piece of paper. “A map.”

Lynn took the paper and unfolded it to read it.

It was a map of New Jersey with several locations marked in red marker. One of the locations was circled in large circles, next to which were written letters and numbers: WH-7, 23:00.

“WH-7,” Lynn murmured, “Warehouse No. 7?”

“It looks like it,” Sarah walked over, looking at the map. “That location is in the industrial area of ​​Newark, the place GPS records show the Dreamweaver frequents.”

Lynn studied the map carefully. The location marked was in an industrial area on the outskirts of Newark, surrounded by warehouses, factories, and logistics centers. It was a perfect hiding place—secluded, sparsely populated, and with enough space to store a large number of items.

For example, 500 pounds of C4 explosives.

“23 PM,” he said. “Tonight at 00 PM. What does that mean? A transfer time? Or an operation time?”

“Perhaps both,” Sarah said. “If they’re moving the explosives from the warehouse to the Grand Central Building tonight, they might choose to do it late at night when there are fewer people on the streets and the risk of being discovered is lowest.” Lynn glanced at his watch. It was 3:15 p.m. Less than eight hours until 11 p.m.

“We don’t have much time,” he said. “We need to find that warehouse before they move the explosives.”

He took out his phone and dialed Morrison's number.

“Deputy Chief, it’s me,” he said. “We killed the Dreamweaver, but we found a map in his car marking the location of a possible explosives storage facility. I need backup.”

"What location?" Morrison's voice came through the receiver, tense and focused.

Lynn recited the coordinates marked on the map. "An industrial area on the outskirts of Newark, New Jersey, near the port. There are many abandoned warehouses there, ideal locations for hiding dangerous goods."

“I’ll send a tactical team over,” Morrison said. “You all wait until they arrive before you move in. Don’t go in alone; it’s too dangerous.”

“Understood,” Lynn said, “but Deputy Chief, there’s also a time marked on the map—11 p.m. tonight. What if they move the explosives before then?”

“I know,” Morrison interrupted him, “the tactical team will arrive in two hours. Until then, you can go and scout the area, but don’t take any action. Understand? Just scout.”

"I heard you clearly."

He hung up the phone and turned to Sarah. "Let's go."

They left the chaotic scene in the parking lot and returned to their car. Lynn started the engine and drove into Manhattan's busy afternoon traffic, heading towards the Holland Tunnel.

The tunnel was dimly lit and monotonous, with cars moving slowly through the narrow passage. Lynn's fingers tapped impatiently on the steering wheel, his eyes fixed on the seemingly endless stream of traffic ahead.

“How many guards do you think there will be in that warehouse?” Sarah asked.

“I don’t know,” Lynn said. “If the explosives are really there, they’ll definitely have someone guarding them. But we’ll only know how many people and what equipment they have when we get there.”

"What if they have mutants?"

“That would be even more troublesome,” Lynn admitted, “but we have no choice. If that batch of explosives is moved to the Grand Central Building, the lives of thousands will be threatened. We must stop them.”

They passed through the tunnel and entered New Jersey. The road widened, flanked by industrial landscapes—towering chimneys, rusty oil tanks, and neatly arranged shipping containers. Smoke from factory emissions filled the sky, casting a hazy gray hue over the entire area.

Following the GPS directions, Lynn headed towards the location marked on the map. The road became increasingly remote, and the surrounding buildings transformed from bustling factories into abandoned warehouses and vacant workshops. Weeds grew from the cracked concrete, and broken windows stared at passing vehicles like empty eye sockets.

“This place looks like it’s been forgotten,” Sarah said, looking out at the desolate landscape.

“The perfect hiding place,” Lynn said. “No one will notice what’s happening here.”

He parked his car next to an abandoned gas station, about half a mile from the target location. From there, they could approach the warehouse on foot while minimizing the risk of being spotted.

“Let’s scout ahead,” he said, turning off the engine. “Remember, just reconnaissance. We won’t take any action until the tactical team arrives.”

Sarah nodded, checked her gun, and then got out of the car with Lynn.

The afternoon sun slanted across the abandoned industrial area, casting an orange-red glow over everything. The air was thick with the smells of rust, engine oil, and decaying plants, and the occasional cawing of crows echoed through the empty factory grounds.

They moved along a weed-covered path, using abandoned buildings and shipping containers as cover. Lynn's eyes constantly scanned their surroundings, looking for any potential threats or surveillance equipment.

“Over there,” he said softly, pointing ahead.

About two hundred meters away, there was a warehouse that looked newer than the surrounding buildings. Although its exterior walls were also somewhat weathered, the doors and windows were intact, and two black vans were parked in front of it. More importantly, two men stood at the entrance of the warehouse, dressed in dark clothing, the bulging outlines at their waists suggesting they were carrying weapons.

“There are guards,” Sarah said. “At least two.”

“There might be more inside,” Lynn said. “We need to find a better vantage point.”

They circled around to the side of the warehouse, using a pile of abandoned shipping containers as cover. From this angle, they could see the warehouse's back door and a small window.

The back door was closed, but a faint light shone through the window, indicating that someone was inside. Lynn observed carefully for a while and saw shadows moving in front of the light—there were at least two or three people inside.

“Two at the front, at least three inside,” he whispered. “Adding in the possible others, we could be facing six or eight enemies.”

“The two of us,” Sarah said, “are not looking too good.”

“The tactical team will arrive in two hours,” Lynn said. “We just need to monitor the area and make sure they don’t move the explosives before then.”

No sooner had he finished speaking than the warehouse door suddenly opened.

A man in a gray jacket came out, holding a walkie-talkie. He spoke a few words into the walkie-talkie, then turned and walked towards the two vans.

“They’re about to move,” Sarah said, her voice tense.

Lynn watched as the man opened the back door of one of the trucks and inspected its contents. Even from this distance, he could see several large metal crates piled inside—enough to hold five hundred pounds of C4 explosives.

“They’re preparing to move,” Lynn said. “The move has been brought forward.”

“What do we do?” Sarah asked. “Wait for the tactical team?”

Lynn gritted her teeth, quickly weighing the various options.

If they act now, with only two people facing potentially six to eight armed enemies, their chances of winning are slim. But if they wait, the explosives might be moved before the tactical team arrives, disappearing into some corner of the city, waiting to be detonated.

“We can’t wait,” he said. “We must act now.”

“Lynn, Morrison said—”

“I know what he’s talking about,” Lynn interrupted her, “but the situation has changed. If we let them take those explosives away, we might never find them again. Then it won’t be just a few people dying, it will be thousands.”

He drew his gun from his waist and checked the magazine.

“You don’t have to come with me,” he said. “You can stay here and guide the tactical team once they arrive.”

Sarah looked at him, her eyes showing hesitation, but even more so, determination.

“You think I’d let you go to your death alone?” she said, drawing her own gun. “I’m your partner, remember?”

Lynn's lips curled into a slight smile. "Alright. Then we need a plan."

He quickly scanned his surroundings, mentally forming a plan of action. (End of Chapter)