Maurice Baker screwed the metal cap tightly onto the flask, gazed for a few seconds at the major whose expression was rather stiff, and said, “Even if you’re military police, you still have to follow the rules—please show your identification and the relevant documents.”

Everyone has their own way of understanding “danger.”

Isaac Carter had not invested any evolution points in “perception.” However, this did not prevent him from possessing a subtle ability to anticipate potential threats. Perhaps it was a special kind of mental antenna developed from living underground for so long, a gift from the darkness. Back then, he often lingered at the edges of deep, shadowy tunnels, searching for cracks that might connect to the food storage, all while enduring radiation levels that exceeded the Geiger counter’s maximum reading. After all, among all the survivors, he was the only one unafraid of energy rays, able to move freely in nuclear radiation environments.

He stopped chewing.

For some reason, these two federal officers who had entered the interrogation room exuded an unmistakable hostility. Isaac Carter was sure that Maurice Baker sensed it as well. But he couldn’t protest or take any real action because his current status was sensitive, still hovering between “legal” and “illegal.”

The major nodded calmly, raised his right hand, and slowly unbuttoned the flap on his left breast pocket. Just as his fingers reached into the edge of the pocket, Isaac Carter suddenly noticed—a flash of cold, dangerous cruelty flickered deep in those dark brown eyes.

“Get down! There’s something wrong with them—”

As he shouted the warning, Isaac Carter’s face changed dramatically and he forcefully shoved the table aside, lunging forward at lightning speed. He reached out with his right hand and clamped down hard on the major’s throat, while his left hand grabbed the man’s groin. The intense pressure on that vital area caused the densely packed nerves in the genitals to contract sharply. The excruciating pain and indescribable sense of blockage cut through the unprepared major’s consciousness like a blade. His eyes bulged, his lips involuntarily forming a rapidly widening “O.” Numbness, combined with overwhelming, boundless pain, made his whole body tremble. These terrifying negative effects quickly converged into a near-suffocating physical paralysis, bringing a frenzy of pain but not enough to kill him on the spot. All he could do was emit hollow, meaningless “huh huh” sounds as his throat was squeezed, while Isaac Carter hoisted him overhead and hurled him at the lieutenant waiting on the other side of the table.

From the moment he noticed something was wrong to taking action, less than two seconds had passed. Isaac Carter’s gaze remained locked on the lieutenant standing behind Maurice Baker. Because of his position, the old intelligence officer could only see the major directly in front of him, completely unaware that the lieutenant had drawn a silenced pistol from behind and was aiming it at his back.

“Puff! Puff!” Two muffled shots rang out almost simultaneously with Isaac Carter’s roar. The major, thrown through the air, crashed heavily onto the lieutenant’s shoulder like a sandbag. Instinctively, the lieutenant twisted aside and quickly tried to aim his gun, but agile Isaac Carter lunged forward, grabbing the gun hand with his left like a steel vise and wrenching it back with brutal force.

The strength was overwhelming. The lieutenant’s pupils contracted sharply as he stared in disbelief at his own hand bending like clay, accompanied by a crisp cracking sound. He could even feel his tendons and muscles stretched to the limit, and with a terrifying “crack,” sharp white bone fragments pierced through skin and muscle, yellow marrow and bright red blood oozing from ruptured vessels, the bone tip exposed to the air like a knife.

The lieutenant didn’t even have time to scream or call for help. The last thing reflected in his pupils was Isaac Carter’s face, twisted with rage and violence, and the chopstick gripped tightly in his hand, plunging hard into the lieutenant’s left ear—a utensil that, under normal circumstances, would never be associated with the word “weapon.”

“Pfft—”

The lieutenant’s eyes bulged outward, and a thin stream of blood slowly welled up from deep within his ear canal. He was forced sideways to the ground, his body and limbs twitching uncontrollably. The fragile bamboo chopstick had pierced straight through his head, its tip emerging from the right ear, smeared with thick, white, viscous brain matter.

Maurice Baker collapsed onto the table, lips slightly parted, letting out weak, gasping breaths—two bullets had pierced his lungs and heart. To say he was still alive was less accurate than saying he was lingering in the final moments of consciousness.

“Lis…listen to me. You…must, must leave here. Quickly.”

He felt himself being lifted from the table, and the previously tilted figure of Isaac Carter rotated into his field of vision. Maurice Baker’s face was deathly pale. Summoning the last of his strength, he grabbed Isaac Carter’s hand and, in a voice so weak it was almost a moan, said, “Clearly…someone…someone doesn’t want you alive. You, your existence, poses…some kind of threat to them. Go…go to the capital…p-publicly reveal your identity. Th-this is your, your only…way to survive.”

Isaac Carter stood silently, quietly watching Maurice Baker, who lay dying in his arms.