Jason Parker took the initiative to handle the conversations, while Dylan Foster watched for a while and found her approach quite interesting—she was like a friendly neighborhood committee lady, skillfully chatting about daily life to put people at ease, then just as skillfully questioning them about what they experienced and saw in the Grand Canyon.

If someone mentioned something out of the ordinary, like a female streamer with a broken leg recalling, “It seemed like a giant python was chasing us, it looked really bizarre, earth-colored, just like that... that tree root, it scared me to death!”

Sister Parker would calmly lie and correct her: “That was an earthquake. What you saw was probably a vine that used to be wrapped around a big tree. When the tree fell, the vine got flung out. Where would a giant python come from in the scenic area?”

“No, it definitely wasn’t a vine. I remember it was really fast, and...”

Sister Parker stared into her eyes and repeated calmly, “It was a vine.”

Dylan Foster watched as the streamer’s expression grew more hesitant and her tone less certain. After going back and forth like this two or three times, the streamer naturally accepted Sister Parker’s explanation. When asked again, it was as if she’d forgotten everything—she no longer mentioned “tree roots” or “pythons.”

Somewhat surprised, Dylan Foster asked, “Is Sister Parker a ‘special ability user’?”

“That’s right,” said Old Turner. “Our logistics department is mostly regular people. Only three of us have ‘special abilities.’ The leader picked us at random, but you really have an eye for talent.”

“I should buy a lottery ticket tomorrow,” Dylan Foster joked. “What’s your special ability?”

“I’m nothing special, not very useful,” Emily Turner said, feigning modesty with a proud tone, then added, “My hands and feet are different from normal people’s. If I don’t keep them in check, my fingers and toes just keep growing. I go through a ton of shoes every year!”

Dylan Foster: “……”

Is that a ‘special ability’ or an illness?

What are you so proud of?

The guide, Little Thompson, couldn’t hold back and let out a snort of laughter. Realizing it might be impolite, he quickly coughed and said, “The sixth rescued person wasn’t injured, so we put them in the family waiting room, just ahead.”

Following his gesture, Dylan Foster looked up—by coincidence, the hallway light flickered and suddenly went out.

He paused, gently pinching his fingers—the invisible ring on his index finger emitted a warning chill.

“Why are the lights out again?” Little Thompson walked on, oblivious, chatting as he went. “This person... um... is a bit odd. You’ll see for yourself in a moment.”

The hospital had already been isolated by the Bureau of Anomalous Control, so there was only one person in the family waiting room.

That person sat on a plastic chair, back to the half-open door, completely absorbed in watching commercials on the wall-mounted TV.

His back was straight yet relaxed, his posture like someone specially trained in deportment. Even just his silhouette was inexplicably pleasing to the eye.

But the most striking thing was his long hair. It reached past his waist, thick and full. In such a humid place, it was neither limp nor frizzy. Tied casually at the nape of his neck with a string, it was as thick as a child’s arm—so perfect it looked like a wig.

“These are the documents he handed in.” Little Thompson pulled an ID card from a file folder. “No phone—he said he lost it.”

Old Turner’s gaze lingered on the man’s hair for a moment. He affectionately patted the “barcode” on his own head and muttered, “Now even young guys are wearing wigs. Must be the air pollution.”

As he spoke, he moved to open the door.

But Dylan Foster suddenly raised a hand to stop him. “Step back, get away from the door.”

Old Turner froze, and at that moment, Little Thompson cried out in alarm—the “ID card” in Dylan Foster’s hand turned into a dead leaf, then caught fire and burned to ash in an instant.

“A fake ID?” Emily Turner exclaimed. “Who is this person?”

Director Foster’s usually unserious face turned grave as he slowly slipped his hand into his coat pocket.

“Not a person.” He kicked open the half-closed door, and a flash of cold light shot from his hand, aimed straight at the long-haired man’s back.

“It’s an evil spirit.”

Chapter 5

Not only the non-combatant Emily Turner, but even the field agent Little Thompson from the sub-bureau were left dumbfounded. Both craned their necks and gaped like two shocked toads.

What Dylan Foster had thrown was the coin he’d been playing with on the plane. The handful of coins shot out like meteors, but the long-haired man simply tilted his head, dodging one that sliced through his hair, sending a few severed strands flying. Then, he calmly raised his hand, and the coins aimed at the back of his head seemed to hit a magnet, forcibly changing direction, looping around, and landing in his palm.

His eyes never left the TV. Sitting there steadily, he flicked his fingers lightly—those fingers were pale as jade, almost stone-like, and when they struck the coins, they made a crisp, metallic sound.

A few coins spun away with his force, embedding themselves with a “thunk thunk” into the wall and ceiling, sending plaster dust fluttering down.

Outside, Little Thompson scrambled to pick up his jaw from the floor and wailed, “Didn’t you say you guys were from the Aftermath Department?”