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

"You just wait," he said in a low voice, not sure if he was talking to the reaction or to his own embarrassing self today.

My phone vibrated at that moment.

It wasn't Carmela, but a reminder of the first day's schedule that popped up on the college's intranet temporary terminal: Basic assessment at 7 a.m., competency structure class at 9 a.m., and low-load collaborative observation in the afternoon. There was also a note that Mira had manually added: Don't stay up too late, you'll be even more embarrassed tomorrow.

Matteo stared at the words, paused for a moment, and then couldn't help but laugh.

After he finished laughing, he finally opened the call with Carmela.

The video call connected quickly. On Carmela's end, the background was still the small kitchen on the branch's temporary accommodation floor, the lighting warmer, and her hair looser, clearly indicating she had just finished showering. As soon as she answered, she looked him up and down, like she was conducting a remote medical checkup.

"You finally remembered to call me."

"I'm busy," Matteo said, instinctively trying to deny it.

"What are you busy with? Lost?"

"...Who told you I was lost?"

"So you really are lost." Carmela immediately grasped the key point.

Matteo was speechless for a moment, his face darkening even more. Looking at his expression, Carmela's anxiety, which had been building all day, slowly eased a little. The fact that he could talk back and show a dark expression meant he was still quite energetic.

"How's the academy?" she asked softly.

Matteo paused for two seconds, as if he couldn't find a word that was accurate enough, and finally managed to utter only, "Outrageous."

Carmela paused, then asked, "What kind of outrageousness?"

"It's like... there really are people who can float a whole shoal of pebbles, and they can coordinate with others like—like the most experienced emergency medical teams in your hospital, but they're shooting at training targets." Matteo's eyes lit up again as he said this. "And the training grounds are different from what I imagined. It's not just about who goes up and does their best; everyone knows what they're doing. It's really different."

Carmela listened quietly without interrupting. She hadn't seen her brother talk about something like this in a long time—not boasting, not complaining, not making sarcastic remarks, but speaking at a rapid pace when he was truly moved by something.

"And what about you?" she asked. "What did you do today?"

The light on Matteo's face froze for a moment.

"...I've practiced a bit too."

"How was the result?"

"It's just so-so."

"How average is 'just average'?"

"Exactly." Matteo glanced to the side. "They taught us a lesson with a few rubber balls."

Carmela was taken aback at first, then laughed so hard her shoulders shook.

"What are you laughing at?"

"It's nothing," she said, suppressing a laugh. "I just find the scene quite novel."

"If you laugh again, I'll hang up."

"Okay, okay, I won't laugh." Carmela tried to suppress her laughter, but her eyes clearly crinkled. "So? Do you still want to stay there?"

This question was asked very lightly, but it was the most important one.

Matteo looked up at his sister on the screen, paused for a few seconds, and then said very seriously, "Yes."

Even if we get beaten up today?

"It's because I was getting completely dominated," Matteo said in a low voice. "I only realized today just how bad I really was before. But that's precisely why I'm even more eager to learn."

Carmela looked at him, didn't press further, and simply nodded slowly. She could tell this wasn't just empty boasting. The kind of defiance that arose after being stunned by truly formidable people and systematic training was different from his previous street-fighting spirit. The old Matteo was saying, "I can't lose to you"; now it was more like, "So that's how it can be done, I want to learn that too."

"Then you should learn it," she said.

"Um."

"But don't ruin yourself by training too hard."

"I know."

"Also, don't be so aggressive when you're with people."

Is this sentence necessary?

"Absolutely necessary."

Matteo rolled his eyes, but still obediently agreed. The call lasted for another twenty minutes, consisting of scattered sentences, mostly devoid of any real content. But for the siblings, this lack of content was already a rare treat. Before hanging up, Carmela suddenly said, "Lynn said that you almost tripped when you first saw the training area."

Matteo instantly exploded: "Why does he say everything?!"

Carmela finally broke into a genuine laugh. On the other end of the video call, her eyes crinkled with laughter; the fatigue and worry that had weighed on her all day finally seemed to find a place to dissipate. Matteo, while watching her laugh with a dark expression, couldn't help but twitch the corners of his mouth himself.

After the call ended, the room became quiet again.

Matteo leaned against the headboard, listening to the sounds of training that hadn't completely stopped in the distance outside the window. His resolve felt even stronger and more solid than during the day. He knew he was far behind, not just a little, but a great deal. But that "great deal" didn't crush him; instead, it ignited a fire within him.

He recalled what someone had said on the sidelines earlier that day: "Don't fight with yourself."

I am reminded of what Lynn said on the road: Don't consider your abilities as the only valuable thing you have.

Then he recalled Carmela's words when she hugged him that morning: "Don't use it wrong this time."

He looked down at his hands, slowly clenching them together and then slowly relaxing them.

"Okay," he said in a low voice, "This time it's for real."

At the same time, the night shift lights in the New York branch were still brightly lit.

Lynn stood in front of the whiteboard, the name on it now more prominently displayed than it had been a few hours earlier: Raphael. More and more lines extended from it, like a figure previously hidden in the shadows being gradually pulled out of the organizational communications, node handover, failure recovery, and sample screening records.

The analysis team posted the data that had been generated in the past six hours in order of priority.

Jason walked over with the newly completed cross-reference table: "There are a few candidate directions."

"explain."

"First, Raphael is his real name. He may have a background in medicine, biochemistry, or behavioral assessment, and briefly worked in the formal system before falling into corruption. Second, Raphael is an alias, a title inherited by some screening position within the organization, similar to Wei. Third, he and the person called 'Dr. Li' are parallel figures; one treats medicine, and the other treats people."

"The third one is the most similar," Lynn said.

“I think so too.” Jason turned a page. “There’s another interesting little discovery. Two years ago, the clinic in Queens had an external ethics consultant registered under the name Rachel. The ID was later confirmed to be fake, but the photo showed a very blurry profile.”

Lynn immediately looked up: "Where are the photos?"

Jason handed over the tablet. The footage was a side view of the clinic corridor, low resolution, showing only a man in a dark coat passing by the door. His face wasn't clear, but he was tall, with a straight back, a glove on his left hand, and a flat file folder in his right. Most noticeably, he walked very steadily, like someone who always left himself some leeway.

"This one isn't enough," Lynn said.

“Of course not,” Jason said, “but at least it shows that the name ‘Raphael’ didn’t just exist in communications. He may have actually used it as his outer identity.”

Lynn put down the tablet: "Enhance this image, then compare it with visitor records from all shell clinics, shell funds, ethics advisors, and black market assessment interfaces. And—"

He paused, his gaze falling on a certain timeline on the whiteboard: "Check all consulting contracts that have used names like 'ethical review,' 'risk assessment,' or 'target segmentation.' People who are truly good at 'meeting people' can easily leave traces in these shell identities."

"The financial investigation team has already gone," Jason said. "But you should be prepared, these kinds of people are usually very clean."

"Cleanliness is what makes it worth investigating." Lynn picked up his pen and underlined Raphael's name heavily. "The more someone appears at the most crucial moment and leaves almost no trace, the less likely they are to have truly done nothing."

At the other end of the analysis area, someone suddenly shouted, "We found another one in those old files from Boston!"

Several people turned to look at the screen simultaneously. The young analyst projected his screen onto the large screen, speaking quickly: "Three years ago, there was an undetermined missing person case. The victim was a research assistant specializing in biostatistics. The case wasn't initially included in the anomaly database because only ordinary kidnapping leads were found. But in her last unsent email before her disappearance, she mentioned: 'That guy named Rachel shouldn't have been in contact with the sample participants. He's not an evaluator; he's like he's picking and choosing.'"

The room fell silent for a moment.

Jason muttered a curse under his breath: "Picking and choosing."

Lynn's eyes darkened completely.

"Bring this whole case over," he said. "Take it out of the regular case line and re-integrate it into the cross-database of anomalies and pharmaceutical cases. Then investigate this research assistant's mentor, collaborative projects, and last known contact. If Raphael was really 'picking people' three years ago, he would definitely not just be a middle-level figure in this organizational chain now."

"clear!"

The orders were passed down layer by layer, and the lights in the branch office shone even brighter. Around the name on the whiteboard, even more loose threads had sprouted. Raphael was no longer just a ghost appearing in a few communications, but rather a silhouette that was becoming clearer and more unsettling, standing in the middle of this black network, calmly observing wave after wave of "people."

Lynn put down his pen and took half a step back.

Jason stood next to him: "What are you thinking about?"

"I think Matteo once said something," Lynn stared at the whiteboard, "that they don't call ordinary errand runners 'fitters' internally. Only those who are truly going to push things forward are taken to deeper locations. If Raphael is in charge of 'meeting people,' then he's probably deciding who gets pushed in, who gets thrown away, and who can still be sold."

Jason's expression darkened further: "Then this person isn't just carrying a drug supply chain and a sample line; he might also be carrying missing persons and illegal screening."

“Yes,” Lynn said. “So from now on, it’s not a regular investigation.”

He turned to look at the entire analysis area and the rapidly operating teams: "Issue an internal upgrade order. Raphael is listed as a core target. Go through all archived but not locked missing persons, abnormal subjects, ethics consultant shell contracts, and deep screening records again. I want him not to emerge from a pseudonym, but to be forced out of the entire line."

Jason stared at him for two seconds, then suddenly smiled, but there was no hint of relief in his smile: "I know, Inspector. Looks like no one's going to get any sleep tonight."

"I never intended for anyone to sleep with me," Lynn said.

On the other side, Xavier's School.

As the lights were about to go out at night, the dormitory area had quieted down, with only a few footsteps echoing in the corridors. Matteo lay there for about ten minutes, tossing and turning, unable to fall asleep. Finally, he threw off the covers, put on his coat, and quietly made his way to the south playground.

The academy's sports field at night is different from during the day. Only half of the high-mast lights are on, casting a low glow. In the distance, the dark tree lines encircle the field, and the wind blowing across the lawn carries a slight chill. The main training area has been closed off, so he can only stand in the outermost buffer zone for individual practice. Under his feet is a dark gray, shock-absorbing surface that feels dull and echoless.

Matteo looked down at his right hand, slowly clenching it and then releasing it.

The embarrassment of being bounced on the chin by a rubber ball during the day was still lingering in his chest. He gritted his teeth and, following the instructor's instructions, didn't try to suppress it but instead tried to feel where the reaction first came from. A few seconds later, the familiar burning sensation indeed emerged from under a small patch of skin at the base of his index finger on the back of his hand, fine and dense, like ice shards scraping out along a blood vessel.

"Don't fight with yourself..." he muttered to himself, as if he were scolding someone, or perhaps reminding himself.

This time, he didn't rush to go all out. He just tried to calm his breathing and loosen his shoulders. Transparent crystals gradually emerged, first as a thin, bright film, then slowly coalescing into several irregular crystal surfaces on the back of his hand. Ugly, crooked, and unstable, with trembling edges, but at least they didn't explode wildly like they had during the day.

Matteo stared at the substance, sweat quickly beading on his forehead. He tried to expand it a little further, but the crystal surface immediately cracked with a "crack," causing him to gasp in pain and almost instinctively punch the ground. But halfway up his fist, he abruptly stopped, panting as he slowly suppressed the urge to punch.

A breeze blew from the other end of the playground, and the thin layer of crystal under the lamp reflected a faint light.

He stood there, gathering and dispersing again and again. He failed more often than he succeeded, and twice his attempts collapsed almost as soon as they appeared, shattering like shards of glass. But in the latter half of the night, he finally managed to maintain that crystalline layer for a full five seconds. In those five seconds, he didn't lose control, didn't dart around, and didn't make himself tremble.

Five seconds later, the crystalline layer receded on its own, leaving only a burning, tingling sensation under the skin.

Matteo looked down at his hands, his chest heaving, but a slight smile slowly crept onto his lips.

"Okay," he said in a hoarse voice, "I'll come again tomorrow."

The next morning, the sky over New York was very overcast.

The staff on night duty at the branch office hadn't completely left yet. Two people were lined up next to the coffee machine, and the large screen in the analysis area was still displaying the interface of the last round of cross-search from last night. A few field staff who couldn't stay up were leaning back in their chairs, closing their eyes to catch up on ten minutes of work. Folders and thermos cups were crammed together, and the desk lamp was shining brightly.

Lynn barely left the whiteboard all night.

He'd switched to his third black marker. On the left side of the whiteboard was Raphael's timeline, and on the right, a directory of clinics, shipping interfaces, shell companies, and "ethics assessment" consultants intersecting across the three states. Jason stood by the table, flipping through a recently delivered document; his eyes were noticeably dark, and he had a cold sandwich dangling from his mouth. (End of Chapter)