69novels Chapter 688 marks the beginning of a strange change!
Chapter 688 marks the beginning of a strange change!
Carmela stood by the door, looking at him: "Which one would you like to see first?"
"Don't move yet," Lynn said.
He stood there, as if listening. The room was actually very quiet, save for the occasional start of the refrigerator compressor in the living room and the faint thud of a car driving over a puddle in the distance. Lynn's gaze slid slowly across the bed, the table, the windowsill, the floor, and finally the wardrobe.
"How long has it been since he came back?" Lynn asked.
“Strictly speaking, it’s been about a week and a half,” Carmela replied. “I’m not sure if he came back in the middle of the night, because twice when I was on the night shift, I found an extra cup in the kitchen sink when I came back in the morning, as if someone had been inside. But the room was basically unchanged.”
Lynn walked to the desk and looked at the desktop first.
Sticky notes were scribbled with scattered numbers, times, and short words; one read "Fri 11:30 / dock," and another "Rico call back." Half a subway ticket lay on the corner of the table, next to an uncapped black marker. The repair manual was open to a diagram of the engine cooling system, its edges scribbled with pencil arrows. A supermarket receipt, dated two months ago, was tucked inside a comic book; it contained energy drinks, band-aids, and canned spicy beans.
"Have you seen these papers?" Lynn asked.
“I’ve seen it, but I don’t quite understand it.” Carmela took two steps closer. “I guess that ‘dock’ means a dock, but New York is full of warehouses and temporary loading and unloading points. Rico is the name I mentioned to you.”
Lynn didn't answer, but gently separated the sticky notes with his thinly gloved hands, arranging them in order on the table. His movements were slow, as if afraid of disturbing some lingering habitual pattern of life in the room. Then he looked at a glass in the upper right corner of the table. There were dried, light purple marks on the bottom of the glass, so faint that they were almost invisible without close inspection.
"Does he use this cup often?"
“Yes.” Carmela nodded. “He used to use it to hold water before going to bed.”
Have you washed it?
"No. Ever since you told me not to touch anything, I've tried my best not to touch anything."
Lynn lowered his head and sniffed the rim of the glass, not touching it, but just bringing it slightly closer. The smell was very faint, but there was still a trace of metal and bleach mixed together.
He turned to the bedside and crouched down to look at the storage box under the bed. Carmela was about to ask if he should help when Lynn had already reached out and pulled the box out. The box wasn't heavy, but the lid was tightly closed. When he opened it, what was revealed first was a pile of old junk—a high school uniform jacket, a deflated basketball, a disassembled game controller, several notebooks covered in doodles, and a metal box.
When the metal box was opened, it didn't contain money or any contraband, but rather a pile of broken, jumbled parts: an old watch face, a lighter case, a keychain, a broken metal chain, a button from a long-broken Walkman, and a few crumpled photos.
Lynn picked up one of the photos. It showed a smaller version of Matteo, squatting by the roadside feeding a calico cat, with a band-aid on his face.
“He has a collecting habit,” Lynn said.
Carmela paused for a moment, then asked, "What?"
“They like to keep things that are broken but have sentimental value.” Lynn put the photo back, then picked up an old gear and glanced at it. “These kinds of people are usually not good at completely cutting ties with the past. They say they don’t care, but they can’t bear to throw anything away.”
Carmela stared at the clutter in the box for a few seconds before whispering, "He was like that when he was a kid. He always thought he could fix things that other people lost. He even kept that Walkman that was so broken it only made static for three years."
Lynn stood up and looked at the head of the bed.
Several photos printed from a convenience store were pasted on the wall beside the bed. One showed Matteo and some friends giving the middle finger by a basketball court; another showed him wearing a comical Santa hat and leaning close to the camera; and yet another showed a pigeon with an injured leg lying in a cardboard box. A corner of the back of one of the photos was visible, and it seemed to have some writing on it. Lynn carefully turned the pigeon photo over; on the back, in hastily but earnest handwriting, it read: "Don't die, buddy. If you die, I'll have stolen your bread for nothing."
When Carmela saw this, her expression subtly changed, as if she wanted to laugh but was also sad.
“The pigeon eventually flew away,” she said softly. “To feed it, he actually stole half a baguette from the bakery and was chased by the owner with a broom for two blocks.”
“He’s not particularly smart,” Lynn said.
“Yes,” Carmela replied quickly, “but he used to be very soft-hearted.”
Lynn didn't respond. He walked to the wardrobe and opened the door fully. The clothes hanging inside were all ordinary: a work jacket, an old baseball jersey, and an oil-stained hoodie. The innermost black jacket had a badly worn hem and small tears on the cuffs, not the wear and tear of normal wear, but more like it had been repeatedly rubbed by a hard object. Lynn reached into the jacket's inner pocket and pulled out two crumpled receipts, a subway token, and a napkin with numbers written on it.
"Is this one you've been wearing a lot lately?" Lynn asked.
“It should be.” Carmela looked at it. “He was wearing this when he argued with me last week.”
Lynn unfolded the napkin, which contained only a phone number and the abbreviation "Sim". He placed the napkin into the evidence bag he had brought, the movement as natural as breathing.
"Is this a clue?" Carmela asked in a low voice.
“Yes,” Lynn said.
He then checked the pocket and felt a fine powder residue on the inside. Not much, like some kind of debris left from the fabric rubbing against it. Lynn held the coat under the light for a while, then closed the closet door and looked towards the windowsill.
Besides a dying succulent on the windowsill, there was a small tin box. When opened, it contained several pieces of dried-out white chalk, two coins, and a spare key to the roof.
"The rooftop?" Lynn asked.
Carmela nodded: "The roof of this building is usually unlocked. Matteo has always loved going up high places since he was a child. When he was little, he would climb the fire ladder, and when he got older, he would go up to the roof. He said he could see the lights further away from there."
Lynn looked at the key, as if conjuring up a picture in his mind based on that sentence—a young man who couldn't go home in the middle of the night and didn't want to knock on the door, quietly went upstairs, sat on the edge of the roof, listened to the distant sirens and the sound of the subway passing by, and waited for the uncontrollable changes in his body to slowly subside.
He didn't describe the scene; he simply put the key back where it was.
Carmela leaned against the door, watching Lynn silently walk around the room, and finally couldn't help but ask, "Did you figure something out?"
Lynn didn't answer immediately. He walked to his desk, his gaze falling on a small, flattened paper bag on the corner. The bag had the logo of a deli on the corner, and inside was half a hardened dog biscuit.
"Does he own a dog?" "No." Carmela paused, "At least I've never seen him own one."
“That means feeding stray dogs, or other animals.” Lynn put down the paper bag, turned around and leaned against the edge of the table, finally speaking, “Carmela, your brother isn’t the kind of person who has completely lost his humanity.”
Carmela's breath hitched: "What do you mean?"
“It means that, judging from the room itself, he still keeps a lot of things that are stuck in ‘normal life’.” Lynn raised her chin, gesturing for her to look at the clutter and photos. “People who are truly ready to move on usually cut ties with the past first. They throw away old things, clear away emotional traces, and leave themselves no way out. But he didn’t. He still keeps his old broken toys, his burnt Walkman, your old photos, the notes for feeding the pigeons, and even remembers to call back a certain number, but left the repair manual on the table without putting it away.”
“It’s possible that it’s just too late.” Carmela’s voice was strained.
“Possibly,” Lynn nodded, “but that’s not all. There were no obvious signs of violence in the room, no drafts of an attack plan, and no symbolic decorations that would make someone ‘completely belong to an organization.’ There was a broken ring, but it was just a metal piece and some scattered contact marks. It didn’t look like a fanatical follower; it looked more like someone who was temporarily absorbed and half-pulled in.”
Carmela stared at him, as if she couldn't believe it too quickly: "So... there's still a possibility that he might come back?"
“Judging from the profile, yes,” Lynn said steadily. “He probably didn’t intentionally want to become a bad person, and he may not even fully understand who he’s working for. He’s hiding things, he’s on guard, and he’s trying to cut ties with his family, but not completely. This usually means that a person hasn’t completely changed, but has just gone astray.”
Carmela's eyes reddened instantly, but she tried her best to hold back, her voice trembling slightly: "Are you sure you're not just saying this to comfort me?"
“I’m not good at comforting people,” Lynn said.
The calmness of her words elicited a brief laugh from Carmela, but her eyes welled up with tears. She lowered her head, wiped her eyes, and took a deep breath: "Then... then why do you think he most likely got involved? Was it because he lost control of his abilities and was taken advantage of?"
“Most likely.” Lynn walked to the window and looked at the darkening sky outside. “The time when unregistered mutants are most likely to be targeted is not when their abilities are strongest, but when they are most panicked. Their bodies begin to mutate, they are afraid of being captured, afraid of being studied, afraid of losing their jobs, afraid of implicating their families. At this time, as long as someone tells them, ‘We can help you control it, we understand you, you are not a monster,’ they are very likely to follow along.”
“But those people weren’t helping him at all.” Carmela’s fingers clenched tighter and tighter.
“Many recruitment efforts never start with the truth.” Lynn turned to look at her. “First, give them something that seems to alleviate the symptoms, then give them a sense of belonging, and finally get them to do things. By the time they realize something is wrong, they’ve usually already stepped in.”
Carmela bit her lip, as if suppressing some emotion that was about to surge up: "Why couldn't Matteo... just tell me first? Even just saying 'I'm having problems' would have made me—"
"Because he's afraid you'll look at him like he's a patient." Lynn's interruption wasn't harsh, but it was precise.
Carmela was stunned.
Lynn continued, "I'm also afraid you'll worry about him, and even more afraid that you'll be worried but unable to do anything about it. Many young men, when they're at their lowest point, would rather run to strangers than let their families see them in such a broken state first."
Several seconds of silence followed in the room. Someone downstairs shouted, "Pass the ball!" The basketball hit the metal railing with a loud thud. Outside, the sky grew darker, and lights began to illuminate several windows in the building across the street.
Carmela leaned against the doorframe and slowly exhaled: "You talk like you've known him for a long time."
“I know a lot of people who are similar,” Lynn said.
Carmela looked at him, seemingly wanting to ask something, but ultimately didn't. She simply walked in, picked up the crumpled gray hoodie from the bed, shook it, and prepared to put it back on the chair. Just then, something fell out of the hoodie pocket and landed on the floor with a thud.
Both of them lowered their heads at the same time.
It was a sticky note folded twice. Lynn bent down to pick it up and unfolded it. There was only one sentence on it, written in hurried handwriting—"Don't let C know, she'll ruin things."
C.
Carmela's face turned pale instantly: "C... you mean me?"
“Very likely.” Lynn handed her the note. “This wasn’t written by him; the handwriting is different from the sticky notes on the table.”
Carmela stared at the words, her fingertips trembling slightly: "So they know I'm looking for him."
“Or at least know that you’ll get in the way.” Lynn’s voice deepened. “That’s more troublesome than simply hiding at home.”
"What should I do?"
Just as Lynn was about to speak, a very faint metallic clang came from outside the door.
It wasn't footsteps in the hallway, nor a neighbor opening their door, but the familiar, brief sound of a key hitting the lock of your own apartment.
Carmela froze, her eyes snapping up towards the hallway. Lynn reacted even faster, almost simultaneously shifting away from the center of the room and placing himself in a less conspicuous spot near the door. Another soft click came from the living room—a quiet sound, but unmistakable—someone was opening the outer door.
Carmela's breathing became erratic: "No way..."
The key was turned half a turn, and the door was pushed open. The familiar creaking of the old apartment door hinges was followed by the sound of someone's shoes scraping against the doormat as they entered. Then, a young man's voice, clearly tired and impatient, drifted in from the living room.
"Carmela? You're home?"
Carmela turned and rushed out as if struck by lightning. Lynn stood there, and through the half-open door, he first saw a dusty sneaker step into the living room, then the hem of a black coat, and then a face that resembled the one in the photo but was much thinner.
Matteo is back.
He was thinner than in the photos, with dark circles under his eyes, and his curly hair was a mess, as if he hadn't slept well for days. Short stubble grew on his chin, and there was a freshly scabbed crack at the corner of his mouth. His right hand was covered with a simple bandage, and his black jacket was only half-zipped up, revealing a dark T-shirt underneath. He looked like he had just emerged from some dark alleyway, carrying the dust, wariness, and lingering chill of the street.
He was carrying a plastic bag in one hand when he heard Carmela's footsteps. He looked up and was clearly stunned: "...What are you doing at home?"
Carmela stood in the middle of the living room, seemingly unsure whether to pounce on him or yell at him first; her voice trembled slightly: "You still know how to come back?" (End of Chapter)