I searched and fought in America.

Rosen was silent for two seconds.

"I have no more reasonable explanation," he said. "That's just what happened."

Michel stared at him, trying to find any trace of lying on that face.

But he couldn't find anything; the face was too calm.

"Do you know what that sounds like?" Mihir's voice was tinged with complexity.

"It sounds like madness," Rosen finished for him. "I know, but the survivors say the same thing. You can ask them."

Mihir did not answer; he had already asked.

A brief silence fell over the interrogation room.

Then Mihir spoke, his voice a little softer than before:

"What did you do at that time?"

"pray."

"Just praying?"

"Just pray."

Mihir stared at his hand: "What was that light?"

Rosen raised his right hand and did the exact same action as before, gently clenching his five fingers.

Nothing happened.

"That's it," he said.

Michel looked at the hand, at the empty palm, and remained silent for a few seconds.

"Why isn't it there now?"

Rosen lowered his hand and said calmly, "God is not a circus performer; I can't be summoned at will."

Michel was stunned.

In the corner, the young police officer who had been engrossed in taking notes looked up, glanced at Rosen, and then quickly looked down again.

Michel didn't continue the topic. He pulled out a few photos from the folder and pushed them in front of Rosen.

Those were photos of several guns: Glock 17s, assault rifles, and submachine guns.

"Are these weapons yours?"

Rosen glanced at it: "Yes."

"Where did you come from? Do you have a gun license?"

"It was a legal purchase. I can provide the identification number if needed."

Mihir nodded; they had already checked his identity when they verified it earlier.

The gun license is genuine, and the gun was legally purchased; in Texas, these are readily available.

He put the photos back into the folder.

Have you had any contact with those cult members before?

"First time meeting you."

How many of them are there?

Rosen thought for a moment: "At least several dozen, but I don't know the exact number."

"Who's leading this?"

Rosen described it as, "I don't know. You could ask the survivors; they should have seen it."

Mihir frowned.

Have you been in contact with them?

"No, he was on the high platform, and I was below. In the end, he blew up the passage and led his followers out through the secret door."

"They withdrew?" Mihir looked up. "You mean, he's still alive?"

"Highly likely."

Michel crossed out a line heavily in the record.

"Is there anything else you'd like to add?"

Rosen thought for a moment: "No."

Michel looked at him, then reached out and turned off the recording and monitoring equipment.

Michel stood up, picked up the folder, and glanced at Rosen.

That look in his eyes was incredibly complex; it contained doubt, confusion, and something else he couldn't quite put his finger on.

He didn't say anything, opened the door and went out.

The recorder closed his laptop and left.

The interrogation room door closed behind me, leaving behind a deathly silence.

Outside the interrogation room, in the corridor.

The recorder jogged a few steps to catch up with Mishir and asked in a low voice:

"Captain, do you believe what he said?"

Michel did not answer; he simply looked down at the interrogation records in his hand, his steps unwavering.

Another officer walked towards us and reported in a low voice:

"Captain, the survivors' testimonies all match up."

Thirteen people, all giving completely identical accounts, with every detail matching perfectly.

Mihir nodded, a complex expression on his face.

Could it be that what the other party said is true?

But it's really hard to believe!

A technical officer also rushed over, leaned close to Mihir's ear, and whispered:

"Captain, the on-site investigation results are in, and there are a few things that don't seem right..."

After hearing this, Mihir's expression changed slightly.

He handed the interrogation record to the officer next to him and strode away with the technical officer.

---

The door was pushed open again.

But not Michel.

Rosen looked up at the person who walked in.

A white man in his forties, with his hair neatly combed and shiny.

He didn't take a folder, didn't bring a recorder, and didn't even look at the camera on the wall.

He plopped down opposite Rosen, crossed his legs, looked Rosen up and down, and let out a sneer.

"Oh, still sitting here? That nice old man Michel is quite polite to you."

Rosen didn't speak, he just looked at him calmly.

The man stood up impatiently, walked to the corner, and reached out his hand—

"Smack."

The red dot on the camera went out.

He walked back, sat down again, crossed his legs, and had a look on his face that said, "You're finished now."

"What? Can't you speak English? Or are you just pretending to be mysterious?"

The other person deliberately dragged out the sound, making it sound particularly sarcastic.

Rosen completely ignored him.

The man waited a few seconds, a flash of annoyance crossing his face.

"You know what I hate most?" He leaned forward, lowering his voice, "It's you guys—"

He paused, deliberately emphasizing the word:

"Yellow-skinned monkey".

He stared at Rosen's face, expecting to see anger or any reaction he was familiar with.

But Rosen only slightly curled the corners of his mouth.

It was a very faint smile, but the person saw it.

He was enraged by that smile; he felt challenged.

"What are you laughing at?"

Rosen looked at him and said calmly:

"I was wondering what the consequences would be if what you just said were recorded and posted online."

The man paused for a moment, then chuckled and pointed to the now-off security camera in the corner:

"Recording? I turned that off. It's just the two of us here."

He paused, patted his police badge, and said, "Your word doesn't count."

Rosen didn't speak, he just kept looking at him.

The man stood up impatiently, walked over to Rosen, and looked down at him.

"Why should those white people bow and scrape to you, a yellow-skinned person?"

His voice was filled with anger and malice, "Did you drug them?"

Rosen looked up and met his eyes:

"I saved them."

"Help?" The man seemed to have heard a joke. "You? A piece of trash like you who can't even stand up straight?"

He reached out and gave Rosen a push on the shoulder.

Rosen was pushed and swayed, but he remained seated and did not move.

The man waited a few seconds, and seeing that he didn't react, his expression became even more disdainful.

"What? You're not going to fight back?"

He bent down, leaned close to Rosen's ear, and whispered:

"Let me tell you, I've seen plenty of people like you."

"You're just playing tricks on those brainless, poor fools. Once I find out your background, you'll be heading to jail."

Rosen remained seated, looking calm and showing no signs of discomfort.

The West University student's attack power was still a bit weak, barely causing any damage.

The man's patience completely vanished.

He reached out and grabbed Rosen by the collar, trying to pull him up, but found he couldn't budge him at all.

"What? You're not convinced? Go ahead and hit me if you dare."

Rosen steadied himself but did not make a move.

He simply looked into the man's eyes, and the smile on his lips became even more pronounced.

He said softly:

"You want me to do it."

The man was taken aback.

Rosen continued, his voice still calm:

"If I lay a hand on you, you can then have a legitimate reason to beat me up and report me for assaulting a police officer, right?"

A hint of embarrassment flashed across the man's face, but he didn't let go of his hand.

Rosen let him hold him by the collar, since the other man couldn't lift him anyway, and suddenly spoke:

"Are you married?"

The man frowned: "None of your business!"

Do you have children?

"What exactly are you trying to say?"

Rosen looked at him, his tone still calm:

"Among the survivors was a mother whose child nearly died at the hands of cult members; the child was only two years old."

He paused:

"When she knelt before me, holding her child, I thought, if I were her, and someone could save my child, how would I feel about them?"

The man's hand loosened slightly.

Rosen continued:

Would you risk your life to stay for people you don't even know?

The man fell silent.

But it only lasted a few seconds.

Then he realized what was happening, and a blush of embarrassment and anger appeared on his face.

"Shut the hell up!" he raised his voice. "What right do you, a yellow-skinned monkey, have to talk to me like that?"

He forcefully shoved Rosen against the back of the chair—

"Bang."

Rosen simply moved the chair, and the white policeman, who hadn't been pushed over, stumbled and almost fell to the ground.

Rosen looked at the white man with amusement. Even in his weakened state, his reaction speed was something no ordinary person could match.

The white police officer was furious and was about to take direct action against Rosengor.

At that very moment—

The door was pushed open.