“Cut!”Inside the cold studio, Director David’s exhausted, hoarse shout shattered the suffocating silence.Michael slowly lifted his head like a puppet whose strings had just been cut. The bloodthirsty madness in his eyes, mixed with a heavy silence, faded little by little, replaced by clarity.He released the prop scalpel in his hand. The “blood” smeared on it was warm and sticky, almost convincing enough to make him believe he had really “dismembered” someone in front of the camera.Everyone around him, from the lighting tech to the camera assistant, instinctively stepped back half a pace. Only when the scene ended did they finally breathe again, as if waking from a living nightmare.They looked at Michael with awe… but more than that, with a bone-deep fear.“Michael… you’re amazing…” the assistant director stammered, trying to step forward to offer him water, but his legs seemed glued to the floor.Michael ignored the uneasy whispers around him. He was just a struggling, bottom-tie

“No! It’s too risky! Absolutely not!” Ashley slammed her palm on the table, chest rising and falling with anger.Across from her, Michael remained perfectly calm, as if they were discussing something trivial, something that had nothing to do with human lives.“Captain Spark, we don’t have time to argue about ‘procedural justice.’”His voice was cold, icy.“Based on the profile, the killer’s next target is Cynthia Smith, the main dancer of the City Ballet. She grew up poor, fought her way up with talent and discipline, has a spotless record and a perfect public image. She’s the city’s very own ‘white swan,’ a symbol of purity and perseverance. There is nothing that would satisfy that so-called ‘purifier’ more than destroying her.”The tension in the conference room turned suffocating.Less than twenty-four hours remained before the heavy storm forecasted to hit the city.And Michael’s plan was bold, borderline insane, to use Cynthia as bait. Follow the path he predicted the killer woul

“Withdraw the police force? He’s insane!”Lorenzo slammed his fist onto the console, his roar nearly lifting the roof of the vehicle.“This is a trap! A blatant trap! Ashley, you can’t listen to that actor!”Chaos swept through the cramped command vehicle once more. Every officer’s face showed shock and confusion.Pulling back now meant handing the hostages’ lives directly to the murderer.Ashley’s lips had lost all color. Her body trembled slightly. The demand had pushed far beyond what she could psychologically bear.At that moment, Michael’s voice came through her private channel, still calm, still steady.He kept the same low, hoarse, theatrical tone, as if he were continuing a private dialogue with his opponent across a stage.“A good script has rising tension, not mindless pressure.” His voice was slow and composed, gently easing the killer’s heightened emotions.“You want a clean stage. Fine.”“But you should at least tell me what happens in Act Two.”Lorenzo shook with rage wh

There was no hesitation in Michael’s eyes. “Yes,” he answered silently in his mind.The moment he confirmed, an overwhelming surge of information flooded into his brain.It wasn’t images, and it wasn’t sound. It was pure knowledge and logic.Freud’s psychoanalysis. Jung’s collective unconscious. Neuro-linguistic programming. Erickson’s hypnotic therapy…Countless obscure psychological theories were broken down into their most basic elements and forcefully imprinted deep into his memory.The structure of psychological suggestion. Practical methods of mental induction. Systems for reading the human heart through micro-expressions and subconscious behavior.This knowledge was no longer something written in books.It had become instinct.Michael closed his eyes and leaned back against the seat. His brain tingled painfully, as if pricked by countless needles from the overload of information. Fine beads of sweat formed along his temples.The immersion had begun.Michael’s method of entering

Lorenzo opened his mouth, but no words came out.Because the insane world Michael described, though impossible for them to truly understand, fit disturbingly well with every action the murderer had taken so far.Michael stopped speaking.He simply stood there, quietly waiting for Ashley’s final decision.He had already given the script.Now it depended on whether the director dared to call, “Action.”Ashley’s gaze swept across every hesitant face in the room before finally settling on Michael’s unfathomable eyes.She knew he was right. They were facing a madman who could not be measured by normal logic. And to confront a madman, perhaps they truly needed another “madman.”“Alright.”The word was forced out between Ashley’s teeth, heavy and resolute. She looked straight at Michael, her eyes holding nothing but determination.“I want a flawless containment plan.”A faint, gentle curve appeared at the corner of Michael’s lips.He walked toward the massive schematic of the subway system.