The coroner wasn't even wearing protective gear—completely unprofessional. After the forensic tech finished taking photos and recording evidence, the tall man reached out with bare hands, pulled the knife from the teacher's eye socket, and placed it into an evidence bag.
Then he wiped his hands, walked over to the three of them, and asked leisurely, "Was she a friend of yours?"
Among the three, only Claire had interacted with the teacher, so she naturally answered.
"She was a good teacher. She didn't deserve an ending like this."
Claire's grief was obvious.
"Then what kind of ending should she have had?" the coroner asked, his tone suggesting he was discussing an abstract academic problem. "A car crash? Crushed by a drawbridge? Electrocution? Strangled by a steel cable? Or maybe drowning? Which one do you think suits her better?"
"You—!" Claire's eyes flashed with anger, her right fist tightening. She felt he had crossed a line.
Chris stepped in front of his sister, staring straight at the coroner. "Buddy, I think you should show the deceased at least a basic level of respect."
"Hmph." The coroner snorted lightly. "Everyone dies. There are no wrongful deaths, no tragedies—only the singular death destined for us all. Before that fated moment arrives, there's no such thing as cruel or kind. Your sympathy? She can't feel it. …I've got work to do. Goodbye."
Shaking his head with a faint smile, he ordered the officers to bring the body to the morgue, then left alone.
The man was dangerously detached.
Bella sensed no supernatural power from him. His open fascination—and borderline worship—of death felt like pure obsession. Rare in real life, but not impossible.
She considered attacking him right then—just to test the limits of his humanity.
But Bella dismissed the idea. If he was just an ordinary man, messing with him meant nothing. If he was hiding something deeper, a small probe like this would only tip him off.
It had taken them twelve hours to handle the Invisible Man. Then contacting survivors and investigating another death had eaten up most of the next day.
Bella spent some time convincing the siblings that this whole incident was nature's revenge on humanity—no need to drag foreign wars or terrorists into the mix.
Two of the three were still students. Only Chris had connections with government agencies, so he naturally went to seek official support.
Official support?
The survivors didn't trust the government either.
They refused to believe some mysterious "death" could strike again. They didn't think simply staying home would cause misfortune to fall from the sky and kill them.
But information spread fast in the digital age.
The government was sharp. Every time a survivor died, they immediately notified all the others.
When the death count reached seven attempts—five successful, five survivors dead—the remaining survivors were terrified.
"It's the rich! The rich are doing this! They want us dead!"
The survivors gathered at an open-air stadium in East Phoenix so the number of "accidents" Death could manipulate would be reduced.
A few elderly men—white hair, thin, loud as sirens—clustered together venting their fear.
They believed Global Airlines was murdering survivors to avoid paying compensation.
Bella was speechless. She knew the truth but couldn't say it. She had no evidence. People judged everything using their own limited experience.
Chris still clung to the theory of a high-IQ serial killer.
These paranoid old men blamed the capitalists.
Others blamed demons.
A few thought it was a business rival, or a jealous neighbor using the Flight 180 crash as cover to kill them.
Anything you could imagine, someone believed it.
Bella was stuck. She had a general plan to deal with Death—but no idea how to bring it up.
"Hm?"
While studying a map and an ancient Native American manuscript, she suddenly sensed a bright point of light.
If the mind of an ordinary person was a firefly, this one was a searchlight.
Normal people had scattered, chaotic mental signatures. This one was dense, focused. Clearly trained.
Who is that?
Her psychic probing was subtle—no disturbance. She casually stepped out to look.
A brown-skinned woman caught her eye. Likely mixed race. Short silver hair. Calm eyes. Black jumpsuit with a black cape. An X-shaped belt at her waist.
After learning Professor Xavier was heavily connected to the X-Men, Bella had looked up what she could online. Students weren't public, but the teachers were—face, name, the works.
The woman in black was Storm—Ororo Munroe—the weather goddess.
Storm's mental presence was strong. In Bella's senses, she was like a storm cloud—full of wind and lightning.
But her power was too aggressive. Her mental presence was a tempest—raw, turbulent, and untamed. She didn't have the precision of a telepath; Bella examined her several times and Storm noticed nothing.
Storm was deliberately suppressing her presence. With her came a group of tough-looking men and women, every one of them exuding "elite operative." Guns tucked at their backs. Several scanning the stadium like agents on a mission.
At the front walked a tall red-haired woman, easily one-eighty in height. Beautiful, but her stern expression made her impossible to approach.
The survivors gradually stood up, staring at the uninvited group.
The redhead nodded to the person beside her. A square-faced agent stepped forward and flashed his badge.
"We're with the FBI. Please trust us. We're here to protect you. We have numerous safe houses prepared—very secure locations."
These are also FBI?
Bella couldn't help it and turned to Chris Redfield.
"Are these your colleagues, too?"