Back near the fountain, Logan's body shifted slightly as his wounds closed themselves with quiet efficiency. His skin rippled, knitting muscle and sealing flesh as if the gaping injuries had only been scratches.
Shaw blinked, impressed. He was still pinned beneath Logan's weight. "So, your power... it's not just those bone-like claws. Interesting."
Logan gave a wolfish grin, but his eyes were hard and cold. "You're damn right," he muttered.
With one hand still pressing Shaw's chest to the ground, Logan brought the other over Shaw's mouth and nose. A sudden shift in pressure. He leaned down, "You think you're the strongest mutant, huh?" he said in a low, gritty tone. "Then you shouldn't need air, right?"
Shaw's smirk faded. His eyes flared wide as he realized Logan was suffocating him. With a growl, Shaw's body glowed with energy. The kinetic force he'd been storing surged through him and blasted outward like a shockwave.
BOOM!
Logan flew back like a missile, slamming into a rusted pipe embedded in the wall. The pipe burst through his chest, pinning him. He gasped. But the pain didn't come.
'No pain... good power to have,' Logan thought, a brief moment of calm in the chaos. He grunted, grabbed the pipe with one hand, and wrenched it out of his chest. The wound sealed in seconds, muscle knitting itself like a living tapestry.
His shirt was ruined, but his body looked untouched.
Shaw dusted off his coat. "Pleasure meeting you," he said calmly. "But you've got to go."
Before Logan could respond, Shaw extended a hand. A burst of controlled kinetic energy blasted Logan once again.
The explosion of force was like a cannon shot, slamming Logan through the wall and into the debris-littered courtyard.
Inside, Azazel and Riptide groaned as they stood up, slowly regaining consciousness.
Shaw got back and turned to the terrified teen mutants. "That man fought well," he said with charisma lacing his words. "But power without purpose is wasted. I'm offering you all purpose. A place in the world we're going to create."
He extended a hand. "Join me. No more hiding. No more fear. Kings and queens, ruling the next evolution."
Angel hesitated… then took a step forward.
"Angel, no!" Darwin called, eyes wide with disbelief. "You don't have to do this."
But Angel just looked away. Her wings fluttered slightly, betraying her anxiety.
"Smart girl," Shaw said with a smile. "Who else?"
Suddenly, an explosion of debris cut through the silence.
The courtyard wall shattered, and Logan emerged from the rubble. His jacket hung in tatters. Blood still matted his skin, but every wound was closing in real-time.
His knuckles popped as he flexed his hands, claws sliding out once again with a distinct SNIKT.
"Fuck you, bastard!" Logan roared.
He leapt at Shaw, fury in his eyes—but Shaw turned to the Red devil.
"Azazel."
In a flash of red smoke, Shaw, Azazel, and Riptide vanished along with Angel.
Logan landed where Shaw had just stood, claws slicing through empty air. He crouched there, panting. The rage burned in him, but there was no one left to fight.
He then sighed, understanding the reality of his situation, 'I ain't the main character in some damn fanfic who wins every fight," he thought. "I don't have any overpowered cheats or god-tier hacks to help me take down cosmic-level threats. I gotta do this the hard way—slow and steady. Build my strength, earn every inch.'
He looked up, jaw clenched. 'But I sure as hell still wanna punch that bastard in the face.'
He then stood slowly and rolled his shoulders.The teen mutants stared at him, wide-eyed—partly in awe, partly in fear.
Logan glanced over his shoulder at them, "Welcome to the real world, kids. People like him don't wait for heroes. They make monsters instead."
He turned toward them, "Get strong, or get smart. Because next time... I might not be around to mop up the mess."
------------
The morning sun cut through the haze of smoke that still lingered in the air. The remnants of Division X's base lay scattered in twisted metal and broken concrete. Soldiers and agents scrambled across the grounds, assessing the wreckage, cataloguing the dead, and trying to make sense of the chaos that had unfolded the night before.
The base was a ruin—twisted metal, shattered walls, the scorched scent of war still lingering in the morning air. Government agents and military personnel moved about the wreckage, sweeping debris, cataloging damage, and pulling out what few supplies could still be salvaged.
A black government car pulled up to the charred grounds. The engine hadn't even stopped when Charles Xavier stepped out, his expression heavy with urgency. Beside him, Erik followed while adjusting his coat, with Moira close behind.
Charles didn't waste a second.
"Where are they?" he said, more to himself than anyone, his legs already carrying him through the broken compound.
He spotted them. A small group of exhausted teens sitting near the rubble—Raven, Alex, Sean, Hank, and Darwin. Their faces were pale, dust-streaked, bruised, but alive.
"Raven!" he called out, running to her.
The girl turned just in time to catch him in a tight hug. Her usually confident posture was slouched, her eyes tired.
"Thank God you're safe," Charles muttered into her shoulder.
Raven offered a weak smile. "You're late."
Charles looked around quickly. "Where's Angel? And Logan?"
Raven pulled away and looked at the ground. "Angel... she went with Shaw."
Charles froze. "What?"
She began to explain what happened.
Charles inhaled sharply. "And Logan?"
Before she could say more, Erik's voice broke through behind him. "He's here."
All eyes turned as a tall figure strode toward them from the ruins. Logan, dressed in fresh clothes—black jeans, dark boots, and a worn leather jacket—walked with slow, deliberate steps. Smoke curled from the cigar tucked between his lips, and his arms were crossed like he had just finished a morning jog.
"Morning," he muttered.
Charles blinked.
Logan said while stretching lazily. "Didn't get much sleep last night. That rock I passed out on wasn't exactly Tempur-Pedic." He cracked his neck. "Next time, how 'bout a soft bed and a cup of coffee, Xavier?"
The teens chuckled despite themselves.
Charles gave him a tired smile but quickly shook his head. "You've done enough. I'm sorry, Logan, but this is where our paths part. You all should go home."
"No," Alex said quickly, standing up. "We want to stay. We want to fight. Shaw's not done. He's going to kill more people unless someone stops him."
"I second that," Darwin added.
Sean nodded. "We all do."
Charles looked stunned. "You're just children."
"They were," Erik stepped beside him, his voice firm. "But not anymore. Shaw changed that. You want to fight a war, Charles? Then we need an army."
Charles exhaled slowly, heart heavy. "Then we'll train. All of us. Together."
"And where exactly are we going to do that?" Hank asked. "Division X is toast."
Alex shrugged. "It's not like any of us have a place to go."
Charles looked at the group, then offered a small, hopeful smile. "Actually, I might know somewhere."
-------------
Scene Transition
A pair of heavy iron gates slowly opened. A long driveway lined with trees welcomed the convoy of cars.
There it stood—an elegant mansion with towering windows and an air of quiet grandeur. The Xavier Estate.
Logan, Charles, Erik, Moira, Raven, Hank, Alex, Darwin, and Sean stood at the entrance, bags in hand, eyes wide.
"You're loaded, Charles," Erik said, half teasing.
Charles smiled. "Welcome to my family home. It's not much, but it's... ours."
Everyone looked around, impressed. The estate was peaceful, far removed from the chaos they had left behind.
Logan took a drag from his cigar, glanced up at the towering structure, and muttered, "Not bad. Could use a training pit, maybe an armory. Jacuzzi wouldn't hurt either."
The group chuckled.
He didn't win yesterday. Shaw had slipped away, and he knew this wasn't some fairy tale where the hero always gets the win. But Darwin was alive. That counted for something. One life saved. It was a start.
Raven stepped forward, gesturing toward the entrance. "Come on. Let me give you the grand tour."
The team moved inside together, their steps echoing through the halls of what would soon become more than just a house. It would be their future.
-------------
**Unknown location**
Inside a sterile, concrete-walled room hidden beneath a classified government facility, silence hung thick in the air. The only sound was the soft hum of fluorescent lights flickering overhead.
Emma Frost sat elegantly in the middle of a high-security holding cell. Even in captivity, she radiated poise. Her long white coat draped gracefully around her slender form, and her icy blue eyes shimmered with a quiet, calculating intelligence.
She looked bored.
Two men stood just beyond the one-way mirror that separated the observation room from her cell. One was Colonel William Stryker, his sharp jaw clenched with barely concealed distrust. The other, Director McCone, a higher-ranking official in the intelligence branch, looked more conflicted as he observed the woman seated within.
"She's the CEO of Frost Industries," McCone muttered, tapping a knuckle against the glass. "One of the most powerful economic assets in the country. We can't just lock her up indefinitely."
Stryker didn't blink. "She was working with Sebastian Shaw."
"We don't have proof of direct involvement."
Emma was caught by Erik and Charles during a covert meeting with a Russian officer, acting on behalf of Sebastian Shaw.
However, without solid evidence, their hands were tied—Charles's word alone wasn't enough. Not when Frost Industries was a rising corporate powerhouse with growing political influence. Accusations without proof would only backfire.
"She's a mutant," Stryker said flatly. "That's enough."
McCone's brow furrowed. "We're already in dangerous territory, Colonel. We can't afford another scandal. Frost Industries has shareholders, global reach, press. We can't just make her disappear."
Stryker turned his head, voice low and tense. "We're at war."
"With who?" McCone snapped, finally showing some edge. "The mutants? Or the ones trying to help us?"
"You think they'll help?" Stryker barked. "They'll turn on us the second it suits them. And that woman in there—she's not just dangerous. She's arrogant, manipulative, and capable of tearing into a man's mind like it's paper."
Unseen by them, Emma Frost arched a perfectly shaped eyebrow as she sat cross-legged inside her cell. Her lips curled into a faint smirk.
'I can hear every word, gentlemen. Subtlety clearly isn't your strength.'
Her fingers twitched slightly, brushing along the cool metal bench. Her thoughts were sharp, focused.
'Government dogs barking about wars they don't understand. So tedious.'
She stood up slowly and walked toward the wall.
On the other side of the glass, McCone frowned. "She's moving."
Stryker narrowed his eyes. "What's she—"
Before he could finish, Emma raised one hand and her hand suddenly shifting into diamond form.
With her diamond hand, she traced a circle on the glass wall. Once the shape was complete, she pressed her fingers against it. The circular section of glass loosened, then fell out and shattered with a shimmering crack.
Through the hole, her diamond hand resting against the edge, Emma leaned in slightly, her voice cold and perfectly controlled.
"Gentlemen," she said, "could you kindly take your conspiracy-laden debate somewhere else? It's giving me a migraine."
McCone stumbled back several steps, wide-eyed.
Stryker didn't flinch. His jaw tightened, and he stepped forward, voice calm but heavy with tension. "You think that stunt impresses me, Frost?"
"No," Emma replied with a tilt of her head. "But it should concern you. I've been sitting quietly in this box listening to your paranoia long enough. Let's be clear—if I wanted out, I'd be out."
Her hand retracted. The diamond form shimmered for a moment longer before fading, returning to smooth skin.
"But I haven't left. Yet. Because unlike Shaw, I can see the value in a working relationship."
McCone tried to compose himself. "If you're proposing something—"
Emma cut in, "I'm proposing that if you want to survive what's coming, you'll need allies with more brains than bullets. And Colonel Stryker here—" she gave him a pointed glance, "—has neither the patience nor the perspective to lead that conversation."
Stryker's nostrils flared, but McCone held up a hand to silence him.
Emma smiled faintly and turned back into her cell, sitting down again with regal grace. Legs crossed. Back straight. As if she were at a conference table and not a prison.
Behind the glass, the silence stretched.
Finally, Stryker spoke, low and dangerous. "We shouldn't trust her."
McCone nodded slightly, but his eyes remained locked on Emma Frost. "We may not have the luxury of choice."