The night smelled like iron and wet ash. Logan stood in the alley behind a burned-out tenement, rain dripping off his jacket, pooling around his boots. His healing factor knitted the gash in his forearm, but it didn’t take away the ache. Age made the healing slower, left ghosts in his bones. He lit a cigar with shaking hands, not from fear, but from memory. The kind of memory that crawled up your spine and made the rain feel heavier.
Inside the tenement, screams still echoed faintly. He’d gotten there too late—again. A trafficker ring had been moving people like cattle, running them through rusted vans to hidden basements. He’d tracked their stench—cheap cologne, burnt rubber, the metallic stink of blood. When he finally tore through the steel doors with his claws, all that was left were empty chains, scattered shoes, and a recording of children crying looped on a speaker. Someone wanted him to hear it. Someone wanted him pissed.
He found one man alive. The smell of fear pouring off him was stronger than the gasoline on his clothes. Logan dragged him by the collar into the alley.
“Talk,” Logan growled, his voice raw gravel.
The man coughed blood, trying to laugh. “They said… you’d come sniffing around. Said you’d… bleed out chasing ghosts.”
Logan’s claws snapped open with a wet snikt. The man stopped laughing.
“Names. Where.”
The man gave up a location, a warehouse by the river. Then he muttered something in Russian—собака охотника—“hunter’s dog.” Before Logan could push further, the man yanked a lighter from his pocket, sparking himself in gasoline flames. The alley filled with fire and screaming. Logan watched the body twist and blacken. He didn’t flinch. He just spat out the cigar, let the rain put out the ember. Whoever set this up knew how to cover their tracks.
---
The warehouse wasn’t just a warehouse. It was a killing ground. Floodlights cut through the mist. Men in black armor crouched on catwalks, rifles gleaming with experimental scopes. Logan could smell them before he saw them. Not mercs. Soldiers. Weapon X ghosts in new uniforms. He could feel it—he was walking into a cage.
“Logan,” a voice echoed over the PA. Smooth, clinical. “You still think you’re the predator. But you’re just an old dog. Tonight you’ll learn to crawl.”
Logan’s lip curled. He didn’t care about voices behind glass. He cared about the men in front of him.
The first volley of gunfire ripped into his chest and arms. He staggered, flesh shredding, bones cracking. Pain flared white. Then came the roar—deep, animal, older than language. He was already healing as he launched forward, claws tearing into Kevlar, hot arterial spray painting the walls.
Bullets tore through him, but he kept moving, each impact feeding the berserker inside. He leapt to a catwalk, grabbed a soldier by the throat, and hurled him into the floodlights. Another tried to stab him with an electrified blade; Logan took the shock, snarled, then rammed his claws through the man’s helmet, sizzling metal and skull in one strike.
By the time silence fell, the warehouse floor was a butcher’s slab. Steam rose from the corpses. Logan panted, bleeding, his jacket shredded. He stared up at the glass booth above the floor. Behind it, he saw a silhouette—tall, thin, motionless. Watching.
“Run all you want,” Logan rasped. His voice carried in the dead air. “I’ll find you. I always do.”
The figure didn’t move. Then the booth lights cut out. Logan stood in the dark, chest heaving, blood dripping off his claws. The storm outside rattled the steel walls. Somewhere, deep in the city, another scream went unheard.
Logan lit another cigar with bloody fingers. His reflection in the broken glass showed a man more scar than skin, more rage than flesh. He didn’t know if he was hunting them—or if they were just pulling him deeper into a war he’d never crawl out of.
Either way, he wasn’t done. Not tonight. Not ever.
Inside the tenement, screams still echoed faintly. He’d gotten there too late—again. A trafficker ring had been moving people like cattle, running them through rusted vans to hidden basements. He’d tracked their stench—cheap cologne, burnt rubber, the metallic stink of blood. When he finally tore through the steel doors with his claws, all that was left were empty chains, scattered shoes, and a recording of children crying looped on a speaker. Someone wanted him to hear it. Someone wanted him pissed.
He found one man alive. The smell of fear pouring off him was stronger than the gasoline on his clothes. Logan dragged him by the collar into the alley.
“Talk,” Logan growled, his voice raw gravel.
The man coughed blood, trying to laugh. “They said… you’d come sniffing around. Said you’d… bleed out chasing ghosts.”
Logan’s claws snapped open with a wet snikt. The man stopped laughing.
“Names. Where.”
The man gave up a location, a warehouse by the river. Then he muttered something in Russian—собака охотника—“hunter’s dog.” Before Logan could push further, the man yanked a lighter from his pocket, sparking himself in gasoline flames. The alley filled with fire and screaming. Logan watched the body twist and blacken. He didn’t flinch. He just spat out the cigar, let the rain put out the ember. Whoever set this up knew how to cover their tracks.
---
The warehouse wasn’t just a warehouse. It was a killing ground. Floodlights cut through the mist. Men in black armor crouched on catwalks, rifles gleaming with experimental scopes. Logan could smell them before he saw them. Not mercs. Soldiers. Weapon X ghosts in new uniforms. He could feel it—he was walking into a cage.
“Logan,” a voice echoed over the PA. Smooth, clinical. “You still think you’re the predator. But you’re just an old dog. Tonight you’ll learn to crawl.”
Logan’s lip curled. He didn’t care about voices behind glass. He cared about the men in front of him.
The first volley of gunfire ripped into his chest and arms. He staggered, flesh shredding, bones cracking. Pain flared white. Then came the roar—deep, animal, older than language. He was already healing as he launched forward, claws tearing into Kevlar, hot arterial spray painting the walls.
Bullets tore through him, but he kept moving, each impact feeding the berserker inside. He leapt to a catwalk, grabbed a soldier by the throat, and hurled him into the floodlights. Another tried to stab him with an electrified blade; Logan took the shock, snarled, then rammed his claws through the man’s helmet, sizzling metal and skull in one strike.
By the time silence fell, the warehouse floor was a butcher’s slab. Steam rose from the corpses. Logan panted, bleeding, his jacket shredded. He stared up at the glass booth above the floor. Behind it, he saw a silhouette—tall, thin, motionless. Watching.
“Run all you want,” Logan rasped. His voice carried in the dead air. “I’ll find you. I always do.”
The figure didn’t move. Then the booth lights cut out. Logan stood in the dark, chest heaving, blood dripping off his claws. The storm outside rattled the steel walls. Somewhere, deep in the city, another scream went unheard.
Logan lit another cigar with bloody fingers. His reflection in the broken glass showed a man more scar than skin, more rage than flesh. He didn’t know if he was hunting them—or if they were just pulling him deeper into a war he’d never crawl out of.
Either way, he wasn’t done. Not tonight. Not ever.
