El Paso County, Texas. Early morning.
Logan, exhausted after finishing his last fare, had fallen asleep in the rented stretch limousine—only to be jolted awake by the clamor outside.
"Damn it!"
Cursing under his breath, he forced himself up and shoved the car door open.
This wasn't his first time dealing with something like this. It was probably those punks who'd crossed over from Mexico, eyeing his luxury car, looking to strip the wheels and sell them for cash.
But he couldn't let them get away with it. He needed this rented car to keep earning money—and right now, money was everything.
The Professor's medication wasn't cheap, and Logan had been saving up to buy a yacht, hoping to take Charles somewhere safe, far out at sea.
After living for so long, after watching friends and lovers die, he was tired of his own life.
The only thing keeping him going now was giving Charles—the man who'd once saved him, his last living friend—a decent final chapter.
If these thugs took the wheels, he'd not only owe the rental company compensation, but he'd lose this steady job.
"Hey, those lug nuts are chrome-plated. You're wrecking them. Get the hell out of here…"
Leaning against the door, Logan tried to talk the gangsters down without resorting to violence. Unsurprisingly, it didn't work.
When the punks saw the car's owner step out, they didn't run. Instead, one of them raised a gun and fired at Logan without hesitation before going right back to stealing the wheels.
To them, killing was as easy as breathing.
Logan's healing factor wasn't what it used to be, thanks to the adamantium poisoning his blood—but a wound like this wouldn't kill him.
Pushing himself up, he slowly unsheathed his claws and lunged into the fight.
But age and exhaustion worked against him. Soon, the six gangsters had him pinned, kicking and beating him as he curled up, shielding his head, waiting for an opening to strike back.
"George… can he really help us?"
Inside the parked semi-truck, Gabriela watched the scene with growing unease.
After rerouting to El Paso County and searching for four hours, they'd finally tracked down the Wolverine—but seeing him like this made her doubt.
George smiled and nodded.
"Absolutely. And he'll be a huge help."
The Wolverine might look rough now, but once he cut loose, a few more thugs wouldn't stand a chance.
And if they could find a way to neutralize the adamantium's toxicity? Logan's body would return to its prime.
After all, Apocalypse—who also possessed a healing factor—had lived for millennia without aging a day.
"Wait here. I'll talk to him."
George pushed the truck door open and leaped down. With a flick of his power, two daggers shot forward, slashing across the gangsters' throats.
For scum like this—men who killed innocents without a second thought—he felt no mercy. His strikes aimed to kill.
Swish. Swish. Swish.
The sound of severed windpipes filled the air. The thugs who'd been kicking Logan collapsed, clutching their throats in disbelief.
Sensing the sudden shift, Logan lowered his arms, confused.
Then, a hand reached out to him.
"You alright, Wolverine?"
"Friend, you've got the wrong guy. I'm not the Wolverine. But… thanks for the assist."
Logan ignored the offered hand, pushing himself up slowly.
George didn't take offense, retracting his hand calmly.
"My name's George. I'm a mutant. We've got thirty-five mutant kids with us. We need your help—and the Professor's."
"Mutants?" Logan shook his head. "Mutants are gone. There's no such thing anymore. No Wolverine. No Professor."
Grimacing, he knelt to gather the scattered lug nuts, trying to reattach the wheels.
George waved a hand, and the nuts levitated, flying into his palm.
"Naturally occurring mutants are rare now, sure. But artificially created ones? There are plenty. Like me—I was synthesized from the genes of Professor X and Magneto."
Logan's eyes sharpened. His claws slid out again—though one got stuck halfway.
George paused, then gestured toward the truck.
A moment later, Gabriela stepped forward, leading Laura and the other thirty-four mutant children.
"Show him," George said.
Laura extended her adamantium claws. Rictor raised an earthen wall from the ground. The others followed—controlling wind, fire, plants, electricity, even exhaling freezing mist.
Their powers were still underdeveloped, but undeniable.
"Mr. Logan," Gabriela said, "George isn't lying. We just escaped from the Genetic Modification Research Institute in Mexico City. They—"
She laid out everything: their ordeal, the experiments, the facility's horrors.
When she finished, Logan took a deep breath, staring at George and the children.
"…I can't help you. I don't have the ability to."
His own life didn't matter. But with the Professor's condition, he couldn't afford to get tangled in something this dangerous. One misstep could get Charles killed.
Even if it pained him, he had to refuse.
Gabriela's face fell. But George, expecting this, wasn't deterred.
He knew why Logan refused—and he knew the man was kind at heart. He just needed the right push.
"At the lab, I came across files on the Westchester Incident. You're working this hard to pay for the Professor's treatment, aren't you?"
George met Logan's gaze.
"Helping us is helping him—helping yourself. If our plan works, the Professor gets access to the world's best care. He might even recover."
Logan was silent for a long moment. Then:
"And what if your famous playboy Tony Stark doesn't feel like returning the favor? What if he sells us out instead?"
His voice was rough.
"Not everyone repays kindness. Some people—when they see an advantage—will stab you in the back harder."
He knew that better than most.
During World War II, he'd saved an officer's life. Decades later, on his deathbed, that same man had tried to kill him—just to steal his healing factor and cheat death.