i. THE WOLVERINE 

SEVEN YEARS LATER...

THE WORLD WAS SMOKE AND FIRE, AN INFERNO SWALLOWING THE SKY AND EARTH ALIKE. The air had turned to molten ash, and the ground trembled with the force of a thousand screams silenced in an instant. Logan lay there in the bunker, his charred skin clinging to his bones, the sickening scent of burned flesh hanging heavy around him. Every nerve in his body was alight with pain, but he could feel it—the slow, excruciating process of his healing factor knitting him back together.

Beside him, the boy he'd saved lay trembling, clutching the edges of the makeshift shield Logan had used to protect them. His face was streaked with soot and sweat, his wide eyes locked on the ruin above. But Logan's eyes—Logan's eyes were unfocused, glassy, staring at nothing as his mind drifted somewhere far away.

"Wake up, wake up, wake up..."

The words echoed in his skull, distant at first, then louder, clearer—like someone was pulling him up from the depths of the smoke-filled void.

"Logan!"

His breath hitched, and his eyelids snapped open. The heat, the smoke, the roar of distant flames—it was gone. In its place was soft light filtering in through sheer curtains, the faint scent of something floral lingering in the air.

Logan's chest heaved as he gasped awake, his body drenched in sweat. The familiar scent of pine and worn flannel surrounded him, but it did nothing to calm the storm roaring inside his head. His hand trembled as it reached up to his face, wiping away the beads of sweat collecting on his brow.

But then—soft movement beside him.

He turned his head sharply, his breath catching in his throat as he saw her. Jennifer.

She was lying on her side, wearing one of his old flannel shirts. Her hair was combed, cascading softly over her shoulder, and her face—her face was calm, serene, her blue eyes watching him with a mixture of warmth and concern.

Relief washed over him like a tidal wave, and his hand came up, rough and scarred, to gently caress her cheek. She leaned into his touch, her skin warm beneath his palm.

"Where were you?" she asked softly, her brows knitting together.

Logan swallowed hard, his throat tight. "Nagasaki," he rasped, his voice trembling.

Her lips parted slightly. "That far back?"

He nodded faintly, his chest still rising and falling unevenly. He sat up on the edge of the bed, raking a shaky hand through his hair as his mind tried to reconcile what was real and what was not. The guilt—the crushing, relentless guilt—sat heavy on his chest.

But Jennifer was here. She was here.

He turned back to her, his voice barely above a whisper. "You're here."

Jennifer sat up beside him, the flannel shirt slipping slightly off her shoulder as she leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to his bare shoulder. Her hand came up to cup his face, her thumb brushing gently along his stubble.

"Why wouldn't I be?" she asked softly, her voice carrying a weight she didn't fully show in her expression.

Logan's jaw tightened as his head dipped slightly. He didn't answer. He couldn't. The words caught in his throat, tangled with regret and sorrow.

"Can you stay?" he asked, his voice cracking on the last word.

Jennifer's smile faltered, her hand lingering on his cheek for a moment longer before she pulled back slightly. "You know I can't."

Logan's eyes shut tightly, his head bowing forward as he let out a shaky breath. "Oh, Jen... I'm so sorry."

"I know," she said softly, her voice steady.

Her lips met his in a soft, lingering kiss, their noses brushing against each other as they pulled back. For a moment, everything felt still—quiet, peaceful.

"I'll never hurt you—or anyone—ever again," Logan whispered, his voice raw with emotion. "I made a vow."

Jennifer's lips curved into a faint, bittersweet smile as she ran her fingers through his hair. "Don't make promises you can't keep, Logan."

His eyes flickered upward, meeting hers with something fragile, something desperate. "Are you making fun of me?"

But her smile faded. Her blue eyes dimmed, becoming glassy, distant—a void that seemed to pull all the light from the room.

"You're hurting me now," she said softly, her voice hollow.

Logan froze, his chest tightening as dread crawled up his spine. His gaze followed hers downward, his stomach twisting as he realized where her eyes were fixed.

His claws.

They were buried deep in her stomach, the flannel shirt she wore blooming with a dark crimson stain. Blood pooled around the silver gleam of his claws, dripping down in heavy streams, soaking into the white sheets beneath her.

"No..." Logan's voice broke, his face contorting in anguish as he yanked his claws back with a sickening shlkt.

Jennifer gasped, her body shuddering as her hands clutched at the wound, trying in vain to stop the bleeding. Blood seeped between her fingers, spilling over her lap, staining the flannel, staining him.

"No, Jen! No, no, no!" Logan's voice cracked as he scrambled to press his hands over the wound, his fingers slick with blood as he tried to hold her together. "I can fix this—I can—I can fix this!"

Jennifer's head lolled slightly to the side, her lips trembling as her face paled. Her voice was barely a whisper now, fragile and fading.

"You can't stop it, Logan."

His hands shook violently as he pressed harder, as if sheer force could stop the life from spilling out of her. Tears streamed down his face, his breathing ragged, his voice breaking as he asked, "Why not? Why can't I stop it?"

Jennifer's blue eyes met his one last time, glassy and unfocused.

"Because I'm already dead."

Her head fell back, her body going still in his arms.

Logan froze, his breath caught in his chest, his bloodstained hands trembling as they hovered uselessly over her lifeless form.

And then he screamed.

A guttural, raw sound tore from his throat—a sound of grief, rage, and soul-deep agony. His entire body trembled with it, his head thrown back as the scream filled the silence of the room.

And then—nothing.

Logan woke with a sharp breath, the chill of the mountain air biting at his exposed skin. His heavy boots hung over the edge of the rock he'd been sleeping on, a thin layer of frost clinging to the worn leather. Snowflakes drifted lazily through the dense fog surrounding him, and the faint crackle of a dying campfire was the only sound breaking the silence.

His hair was long now, tangled and streaked with gray, and his beard had grown thick, wild. He looked every bit the animal he believed himself to be. This—this cold, desolate place—felt fitting. A self-imposed exile, a punishment he couldn't outrun.

His muscles tensed as a faint blue light flickered in the distance, and Logan jolted awake fully, his hand instinctively reaching toward the faint outline of a picture that had nearly blown away in the wind. He lunged forward, snatching it before it could disappear over the cliff's edge.

Jennifer's face stared back at him from the worn photograph, her eyes still so alive, so warm—frozen forever in time. His rough thumb brushed against the faded edges of the photo before he tucked it carefully back into a rusted metal tin alongside her bracelet and a ring he had never gotten the chance to give her. Trinkets of a happiness he once dared to dream of, now nothing more than fragments of a life that had slipped through his fingers.

He slammed the tin shut, his jaw clenched so tightly it ached.

The crackle of an old radio caught his attention—a useless relic he'd bought somewhere along the way, its batteries corroded, its antenna bent and broken. He gave it a sharp hit on the side, static briefly crackling through the frozen silence before fading again. No voices, no music—just empty noise.

With a sigh, Logan shoved the tin and radio into his pack and began making his way down the mountain. His boots crunched against the fresh snow, his breath visible in the freezing air as he trudged through the fog.

As he descended into the small town at the mountain's base, Logan felt it again—that faint prickle at the back of his neck. Eyes. Someone was watching him.

His sharp gaze scanned the narrow streets, the run-down storefronts, and the few locals bundled in heavy coats as they went about their day. But he saw nothing out of place. Just shadows shifting in the edges of his vision, disappearing before he could focus on them.

His brow furrowed, and he pulled his worn coat tighter around his shoulders.

Maybe it was just his head again—his mind replaying scenes he could never erase. Day after day, the dreams came. Visions of Jennifer—her smile, her voice, the way her eyes glowed when the Phoenix took hold. Her final moments replayed over and over in agonizing clarity—the tremble in her voice, the way her body had gone limp in his arms.

And his brother. Victor. The pieces of truth Jennifer had confessed to him before everything fell apart. It all haunted him, echoing in the quiet moments when the wind died down and the world felt too still.

Logan rubbed a hand down his face, the rough calluses scraping against his beard. He didn't sleep much these days. Couldn't. Not when every time he closed his eyes, he saw her face—saw the light leave her eyes, felt the warmth leave her body.

The weight of it all settled heavily on his shoulders, dragging him down like an anchor he could never unhook.

But he kept walking, boots scuffing against the slush and gravel as he pushed forward into the town, head low and hands shoved deep into his coat pockets.

Logan didn't know what he was looking for—supplies, batteries for the radio, or maybe just a moment of quiet where the ghosts didn't whisper so loudly.

He stepped into the small convenience store, the bell above the door jingling faintly as he crossed the threshold. The scent of stale coffee and dust hung in the air, mingling with the faint smell of motor oil from the hardware section in the back. His boots creaked against the worn wooden floor as he made his way to a shelf lined with cheap electronics and dusty packages of batteries.

He grabbed a pack, his rough fingers fumbling slightly as he checked the size. They'd do.

As he made his way to the register, laughter erupted from outside. Through the foggy window, he caught sight of two men near a battered pickup truck, rifles slung over their shoulders and a crossbow tucked in the truck bed. They laughed and clapped each other on the back, their voices muffled but clear in their camaraderie.

For a moment, Logan paused. Something about the scene tugged at him—a flicker of something almost... familiar.

In another life, maybe he'd be one of them. Maybe he'd be a lumberjack, working long days cutting wood, hauling logs through the snow, sweat and sawdust clinging to his skin. And at the end of the day, he'd head home—not to an empty cabin on a lonely mountain, but to something warm, something alive.

He could see it so clearly—Jennifer waiting for him, her smile lighting up their home. She'd probably be a teacher, an elementary school teacher. She always had a soft spot for kids. Girls or boys, it didn't matter—she had this way of making them feel seen, important. Her voice would be gentle, her patience endless.

It was such a simple picture, so painfully ordinary, yet it felt impossibly out of reach.

"Hey, you're not a hunter, are ya?"

The voice snapped Logan out of his thoughts. He turned toward the counter where a young cashier stood, a girl with sharp eyes and a threadbare beanie pulled low over her ears.

Logan shook his head slightly, his voice low and gravelly. "Not anymore."

The girl nodded, her expression unreadable as she rang up the batteries.

He dropped a few crumpled bills onto the counter, stuffed the batteries into his coat pocket, and turned toward the door.

The bell above the entrance jingled again as he stepped outside, the icy wind biting at his face.

The men in the pickup truck were gone now, their laughter nothing but an echo in the distance.

Logan shoved his hands into his coat pockets, his shoulders hunched against the cold, and walked away—toward the mountain, toward the fog, and toward whatever waited for him in the silence.

X

The rain came down in relentless sheets, soaking through Logan's coat as he trudged back up the mountain. His boots sank into the mud, and the icy droplets dripped from the ends of his hair and beard. The radio stuffed in his pocket crackled faintly, but the batteries weren't holding up. If he'd gotten them sooner, he might've heard the weather warning—the 90% chance of rain.

But he didn't mind much. Logan liked the rain. He liked the way it smelled—fresh, earthy, cleansing. He liked how it muted the world, muffling the sounds of distant thunder and the faint crackle of his dying campfire. And more than anything, he liked the way it made him feel invisible, tucked away in a corner of the world where no one could find him.

He usually welcomed these moments. Rainy nights were good for long, peaceful naps under the overhang of his usual rock. But this time, something jolted him awake—a sound. A scream, distant and sharp, cutting through the rhythm of the storm.

His head snapped up, his sharp senses instantly alert. Thunder rumbled overhead as he descended the mountain, his boots slipping slightly on the slick rocks.

Logan's sharp nose caught the scent of something faint but unmistakable—blood.

As he reached flatter ground, he saw the faint glow of light flickering inside a tent, barely visible through the thick curtain of rain. The camp was small, hastily put together—broken sticks and muddy footprints scattered around the area.

And then, in the mud just ahead, he saw it: a massive paw print. A bear's.

Logan's chest tightened. He knew the bear. Not by name, not in any sentimental way, but they shared the mountain. They had an unspoken understanding. Sometimes Logan would leave extra fish from his catch near the stream. Sometimes he'd find rusted bear traps and hurl them into dumpsters miles away. The bear never bothered him, and he never bothered it.

In a way, it was a quiet companionship—two souls sharing the same lonely corner of the world.

But now... something felt wrong.

Logan followed the scent of blood deeper into the woods until he saw it—a massive shape lying still in the mud, fur matted with rain and crimson streaks.

The bear.

An arrow protruded from its broad back, the shaft buried deep near its shoulder blade. Its sides heaved with shallow, uneven breaths, and its massive claws twitched against the slick earth.

Logan's breath caught as he stepped closer. The bear's eyes—dark, glassy, and filled with unmistakable pain—met his.

The bear let out a low growl, its head barely lifting as it tried to move, tried to fight against the agony pinning it down. Its gaze locked onto Logan's, and in that moment, Logan understood.

It was pleading with him.

Logan dropped to one knee in the mud beside the creature, his soaked coat hanging heavy around his shoulders. His rough hand reached out to rest gently on the bear's side, feeling the faint, struggling rise and fall of its chest.

His voice was hoarse, trembling with something heavy and fragile. "Don't make me do this..."

The bear blinked slowly, its breath rasping out in a shudder. Was it rain running down its face or tears? Did it even matter?

Logan's claws extended with a sharp snikt. The silver gleamed faintly in the dim light of the storm as his hand hovered over the bear's chest.

The bear let out one final, deep exhale, its eyes still locked onto Logan's.

Logan gritted his teeth, his shoulders trembling as his claws plunged downward.

The bear let out one last, guttural sound—a deep, pained growl—before falling silent.

Logan stayed there, frozen, his claws still embedded deep in the bear's chest. His breath came in shallow gasps as rain poured down on him, soaking him to the bone. His hands shook as he pulled his claws free, the bear's body still and lifeless beneath him.

For a moment, he just knelt there in the mud beside the creature, his head hanging low, rainwater dripping from his face and mixing with the blood smeared across his knuckles.

He clenched his fists, his claws retracting back into his knuckles with a muted shlk. His chest felt hollow, tight with something he couldn't name—something like grief, something like guilt.

But the scent of blood wasn't just coming from the bear.

Logan lifted his head, his sharp eyes narrowing as he caught the faint trail of a scent on the wind—human.

His lips pulled back slightly, baring his teeth in something between a snarl and a sigh.

Whoever had done this—whoever had put the arrow in the bear's back—they were still out there.

Logan pushed himself to his feet, his boots sinking deep into the mud as he followed the scent into the storm, his silhouette disappearing into the curtain of rain and fog.

X

The bar was dimly lit, the stale smell of beer and cigarette smoke hanging heavy in the air. Logan pushed through the creaky wooden door, his broad shoulders filling the narrow frame as he stepped inside. His boots thudded against the scuffed floor, leaving faint tracks of mud and melting snow in his wake. The hum of conversation buzzed around him, glasses clinked together, and somewhere in the back, an old jukebox crackled with a half-hearted song.

But Logan wasn't here for any of that. His sharp eyes scanned the room, landing on a group of men crowded around a table near the back. Their laughter cut through the noise, loud and obnoxious, the kind of laughter that came with too many drinks and too little conscience.

He spotted the man immediately—the same guy from earlier, the one with the hunting crossbow slung over his shoulder, the same arrows that had pierced the bear's hide sticking out from a battered duffel bag by his chair. The man was in the middle of a story, his voice loud and animated.

"Must've been damn near twelve feet tall! I swear, we didn't hear nothing—just twigs snapping, and then bam! It was on us! Got Riley good, tore right through the tent, sent Eddie flying. Knocked over the Snowcat like it was a toy!"

The men around him erupted in laughter, slapping the table, beer sloshing over the edges of their mugs.

Logan's teeth clenched, his jaw tight as he listened to the man spin his lie. His fingers twitched at his sides, itching to unsheathe his claws and put an end to this performance. But instead, he forced himself to take a breath, his shoulders rising and falling slowly.

He stepped forward, his voice low and steady. "You the one who was attacked by the grizzly?"

The hunter turned, his face flushed from alcohol, his eyes squinting slightly as he took in Logan's rough appearance. He smirked, raising his glass. "I'm the one that survived."

Logan's lips twitched, but there was no humor in his face. Without another word, he walked past the table toward the bar, ignoring the puzzled looks shot his way. He leaned against the counter, tapping a knuckle on the wood to get the bartender's attention.

"I'd like to buy that man a drink."

The bartender hesitated but nodded, pouring another glass of whiskey and sliding it across the counter.

The hunter looked up as Logan turned back around, his smirk faltering slightly. "What's your name, friend?"

Logan didn't answer. He approached slowly, his heavy boots echoing in the space between them. When he reached the table, Logan's hand shot out in a blur of motion, grabbing one of the hunter's poisoned arrows from the duffel bag and slamming it down—straight through the man's hand and into the wooden table beneath it.

The hunter's howl of pain silenced the room. Chairs scraped against the floor as the other men backed away, fear flickering in their eyes as they looked between Logan and their friend, now pinned to the table.

The hunter gritted his teeth, sweat beading on his forehead as he tried to wrench his hand free. Logan leaned in close, his voice low and edged with something sharp and dangerous.

"That's a poison broadhead. Last I checked, those were illegal."

The hunter's face contorted with agony, but he said nothing.

Another man rushed at Logan from the side, but Logan barely glanced his way before slamming an elbow into his gut, sending him sprawling backward into a pile of chairs. The others froze, unsure whether to fight or run.

Logan grabbed the hunter's glass of whiskey off the table, sniffed it briefly, then poured it directly over the man's pinned hand. The alcohol burned as it seeped into the wound, and the hunter let out a guttural scream.

"Tell me where you found it," Logan growled.

The hunter's lips trembled, but he stayed silent, his focus entirely on trying to pull the arrow free.

Logan's free hand reached out, his palm pressing down on the arrow, driving it deeper. The wood creaked under the pressure, and the man howled again, his other hand clawing at Logan's wrist.

"Funny thing," Logan continued, his voice steady despite the chaos around them. "I pulled this arrow out of the back of a grizzly. Whoever fired it didn't have the wind or the balls to track the animal properly and put it out of its misery. Instead, they let it suffer—let it fester—until it tore through five people. Innocent people."

The hunter's face contorted in both pain and fear as Logan's intense stare bore into him. "I—I don't know what you're talking about!" he stammered. "I don't—"

Logan slammed his palm down on the arrow again, cutting him off with another scream.

"You dipped your arrow in poison, and then you left that bear to die slowly. You didn't finish what you started. And because of that, I had to."

A glass shattered against the back of Logan's head, and he staggered forward slightly. The bartender shouted something unintelligible as the remaining hunters scrambled back, their chairs screeching against the floor.

Logan straightened, his head snapping back around, shards of glass falling from his tangled hair as blood trickled down the side of his face. His sharp eyes narrowed, teeth bared in a snarl as his claws extended with a metallic snikt, catching the flickering bar lights and gleaming like polished silver.

But before he could take a step, a hand reached out and grabbed his wrist.

The grip was firm, steady—not panicked, not trembling. Logan froze, his feral gaze shifting downward to the slender fingers wrapped around his arm. His eyes traveled upward, landing on a girl with sharp eyes and vibrant pink-red hair that fell in loose waves around her shoulders. She wore a luxurious fur coat, the collar brushing against her jaw, and knee-high leather boots that looked more at home on a runway than in the grime-streaked floor of this backwater bar.

She didn't flinch under his glare. Instead, her painted lips pulled into a sly smirk.

"Don't," she said commanded.

Everything about her screamed out of place. The coat, the boots, even the glint of gold at her wrist. This girl wasn't from here. She didn't belong in a place like this, and yet, here she was—calm, collected, and holding onto him like she had all the time in the world.

Before Logan could pull free, a familiar voice cut through the tension.

"Hey, Gramps."

Logan's head snapped up, and there he was—Pietro Maximoff, leaning casually against the edge of a barstool, his now brown hair tousled and his hands stuffed in the pockets of his jacket.