Nathan stood outside Warehouse 9 at the far end of Kanglin Street, his senses heightened, his expression unreadable. The faint sound of laughter and the clinking of bottles could be heard inside. He'd found the hideout of the infamous street racing gang.
He stepped through the rusted doors.
The air inside was thick with smoke and the stench of cheap alcohol. Flickering lights cast long shadows over tables where a dozen gang members were drinking, gambling, and tending to wounds. A few looked up, distracted by the sound of footsteps. A stranger wasn't something they saw often.
Everyone fell silent.
A heavily built man with buzzed hair and a thick silver chain around his neck slammed his cards on the table and stood up. His left hand was wrapped in a bloody bandage.
"Hey!" he barked. "Who the hell is this punk with the backpack? Is he one of ours?"
Someone else shook their head. "No clue. Never seen him."
The buzz-cut man glared at Nathan. "You lost, kid? Looking to die?"
He took a threatening step forward.
Nathan didn't flinch. Calm and steady, he replied, "I came to ask about someone."
The room exploded with laughter.
"You hear that? He's here for information!" one guy snorted, slapping the table.
"What's next? Gonna file a police report too?" another mocked.
"You walked into the wrong neighborhood, hero," a third added. "Maybe we should teach you just how 'informative' we can be."
Nathan's eyes narrowed. "I'm looking for a man with steel claws."
"Claws?" The room's mood shifted.
"A man," Nathan continued, "whose claws can cut through flesh and bone like paper."
The laughter stopped. Several of the gang members went pale. A few looked away. And those who were injured clenched their fists, rage flashing in their eyes.
"You son of a—" someone snarled. "You're with him, aren't you?!"
"You brought that bastard's scent into our house?!"
The atmosphere turned lethal.
"That freak killed our brothers," the man with the bandaged hand growled. "And now you waltz in here like we won't tear you apart?"
He reached for the gun at his waist.
But Nathan was faster.
In one fluid motion, he drew his Vibranium shield and hurled it in a perfect arc.
SPLASH!
The shield sliced through the thug's neck like butter, the head separating from the body with brutal precision. A fountain of blood followed as the corpse dropped to the floor.
The shield embedded into the warehouse wall with a solid thunk.
Gasps filled the room.
The gang members stared in horror as the decapitated head rolled toward their feet. And Nathan?
He stood still, blood speckled across his face, his eyes dark and steady, not a flicker of remorse in sight.
Even among killers and thieves, that kind of cold-blooded execution sent chills.
"W-what is he?" one of them whispered.
"I... I thought we were monsters," another murmured, "but this guy... he's the real thing."
Then came the anger.
"He killed Duma!" one gang member shouted, eyes turning red.
"GET HIM!"
Weapons were drawn—machetes, iron rods, handguns.
Two men raised pistols and aimed.
But Nathan was already in motion.
He yanked the shield from the wall and hurled it again.
Whoosh—SLASH!
The first gunman's hand was severed at the wrist, sending the weapon clattering to the floor.
Rebound—SLASH!
The shield ricocheted and struck the second shooter, slicing through his trigger hand with another sickening snap.
Screams tore through the room as blood sprayed across the concrete floor.
Nathan calmly extended his hand and caught the spinning shield mid-air, like a master returning to form.
He glared at the rest. "Anyone else want to try?"
No one moved.
All that remained was silence—and the sound of blood dripping slowly from his shield onto the floor.
"Good," Nathan said coldly. "Now… about the man with the steel claws."
A wiry guy with a mohawk dyed bright red—clearly shaken—trembled as he stepped forward.
"Y-yeah," he stuttered. "We saw him. Few days ago…"
Nathan turned slightly toward him. "Talk."
"W-we were boosting a car on the west end," the man explained. "Big stretch limo. Prime target. But before we could break in…"
He hesitated.
"An old guy came out of nowhere. Said it was his car. Told us to back off."
Nathan raised an eyebrow. "Old man?"
The gang member nodded rapidly. "Gray hair, maybe late sixties. Looked sickly, y'know? Weak."
He shook his head. "But… when Duma pulled a gun and fired, the guy got back up."
Nathan's heart skipped. "He got back up?"
The gang member swallowed hard. "Yeah. And then… he grew claws."
Steel claws.
That sealed it.
Logan. Wolverine.
Even aged and worn down, the man was still a force of nature.
"He sliced Duma's arm clean off," the gang member continued. "We tried fighting him. At first, we thought we had him. He was slow, breathing hard. But then…"
He paused.
"Someone shot his car by accident."
Nathan stiffened.
"And he snapped."
According to the gang, what followed was a massacre. Wolverine tore through them like a storm—four dead, three maimed. The survivors fled, leaving their wounded behind.
Nathan listened in silence, the weight of history crashing into him.
It all made sense now.
The factory… the fading scent of blood… the rage embedded in the walls…
That wasn't just any hideout.
That was where Logan once stayed.
Where he and Professor Xavier and Caliban hid… before everything fell apart.
The last sanctuary of the dying X-Men.
Nathan clenched his fist.
He remembered now—the vague familiarity when he saw the factory's silhouette. It was from the timeline of Logan—the final chapter of Wolverine's life.
A world where mutants had all but vanished. Where no new mutant births had occurred for years. Where the last defenders of mutantkind were old, hunted, and dying.
And if this truly was that timeline…
Then Wolverine was dying.
So was Professor X.
And the mutant race, once a symbol of evolution and hope, had reached its twilight.
Nathan stared at the blood still dripping from his shield. The weight of it wasn't just steel.
It was the weight of a dying era.
---
"So we thought we could take him," the gang member added with a bitter laugh. "He was just an old man. But... the way he fought? I don't think he's ever truly stopped."
Nathan turned toward the door.
He said nothing more.
The others parted silently as he walked past, as though in the presence of something far beyond them.
Not just a killer. Not just a fighter.
But a harbinger of something darker.
He walked back into the night.
The wind howled through the empty streets.
The sun had vanished, leaving nothing but the cold glow of the stars.
And Nathan understood one thing clearly:
The mutant era… was ending.
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