Victor Creed

Victor Creed—better known as Sabretooth—grinned, his jagged yellow teeth glinting in the dim light as he loomed over the nervous arms dealer who had just laid out the job. The warehouse was musty, the scent of oil and gunpowder thick in the air, crates of high-grade weaponry stacked haphazardly around them. The dealer, a wiry man with a scar running down his cheek, swallowed hard under the mutant’s predatory gaze.

"Whatever I desire, huh?" Sabretooth rumbled, his voice a deep, gravelly growl laced with dark amusement. He flexed his claws, the razor-sharp tips scraping against each other with a sound like knives being sharpened. "You got any idea what that might entail, little man?"

The dealer forced a smile, though his fingers twitched near the pistol holstered at his side—a useless gesture, and they both knew it. "Money, women, more weapons... name it, and it’s yours. Just get the shipment to the docks by sunrise."

Sabretooth let out a low, rumbling chuckle, the sound more animal than human. "Oh, I’ll get your toys where they need to go," he said, leaning in close enough that the dealer could smell the raw, feral scent of him—blood and musk and something wild. "But if I get denied my wish, I’m takin’ my payment in flesh instead."

The man paled but nodded quickly. "Understood."

With that, Sabretooth turned and stalked toward the convoy, a line of armored trucks waiting outside. The hired muscle—mercenaries decked out in tactical gear—eyed him warily. One, a broad-shouldered brute with a cybernetic eye, sneered. "We don’t need some freak babysittin’ us. We can handle this."

Sabretooth didn’t slow. In a blur of motion, he had the man by the throat, lifting him off the ground with ease. "You’re right," he purred, watching the mercenary’s face turn purple. "You don’t need me babysittin’... but you do need to breathe, don’t ya?" He dropped the gasping man, who crumpled to his knees, clutching his throat. "Anyone else got somethin’ stupid to say?"

Silence.

"Good." Sabretooth smirked and climbed into the lead truck, his claws tapping impatiently against the dashboard as the engines roared to life.

The convoy rolled out into the night, cutting through the city’s underbelly toward the docks. Sabretooth’s senses were on high alert—the stink of sweat from the nervous driver, the distant hum of police radios, the faintest scent of... ozone? His nostrils flared. "We got company."

Victor Creed—feral, unrestrained, and utterly pissed—woke up in a sterile, reinforced cell deep beneath the X-Mansion, his massive body strapped to a medical table with adamantium restraints. The scent of antiseptic burned his nostrils, and the hum of psychic dampeners made his skull itch. He thrashed against the bonds, muscles bulging, veins popping along his neck as he let out a guttural roar that shook the walls.

"LET ME OUTTA HERE, YOU MUTIE FREAKS!"

The door slid open, and Charles Xavier wheeled in, his expression calm but his eyes sharp with scrutiny. Behind him stood Cyclops, arms crossed, visor ready, and Jean Grey, her green-gold eyes glowing faintly with telepathic energy.

"Victor," Xavier said, his voice steady. "You were lost in your own mind. We had to bring you in before you hurt anyone else—or yourself."

Sabretooth snarled, his lips peeling back from his fangs. "Save the lecture, Chuck. I don’t need your pity. I don’t need help." He yanked at the restraints again, the metal groaning but holding firm. "What I need is to rip someone’s spine out through their—"

"We know what you think you need," Jean interrupted, stepping forward. Her voice was firm, unshaken. "But you’re not getting it here."

Sabretooth’s yellow eyes locked onto her, his grin turning wicked. "Ohhh, Red. You think you’re tough, don’tcha? Bet you’ve never had a real predator in your head before." He leaned forward as far as the restraints allowed, his voice dropping to a growl. "Let me loose. Just for a minute. I’ll show ya what fear really feels like."

Jean didn’t flinch. Instead, she smirked. "Sorry, Creed. I’ve dealt with worse than you."

That stung. His grin faltered for half a second before twisting into something uglier. "We’ll see how long that lasts."

The Canadian wilderness was a vast, untamed expanse—snow-laden pines stretching for miles, frozen rivers cutting through jagged rock, and the ever-present silence of a land that belonged to the strong. And in this domain, there was no stronger predator than Victor Creed.

He moved through the trees like a ghost, his massive frame barely disturbing the snow beneath his feet. His breath curled in the frigid air, his golden eyes scanning the darkness with predatory precision. The wind carried scents to him—pine, blood, fear. His lips peeled back in a grin, jagged teeth glinting in the moonlight.

"Come on out, little rabbit," he rumbled, his voice a low growl that rolled through the forest like distant thunder. "I can smell ya."

A twig snapped. A whimper.

Sabretooth’s nostrils flared. Human. Male. Young. Hunters, maybe? Stupid kids who thought they could test themselves against the wild?

Didn’t matter. They were prey now.

He crouched low, muscles coiling, and then—pounced.

A scream tore through the night as he slammed into the figure, sending them crashing into the snow. His claws pinned them down, his weight crushing any hope of escape. The kid—barely twenty, face smeared with dirt and terror—stared up at him, eyes wide with the kind of primal fear that made Sabretooth’s blood sing.

"P-please—"

"Please what?" Creed leaned in, his hot breath washing over the kid’s face. "Beggin’ ain’t gonna save ya. Nothin’ will."

The kid trembled, tears freezing on his cheeks. "W-we didn’t—we didn’t know this was your territory—"

Sabretooth laughed, a deep, rumbling sound that sent birds scattering from the trees. "Ain’t my territory, boy. It’s me. The woods, the snow, the blood—it’s all mine." He flexed his claws, just enough to draw a thin line of red across the kid’s throat. "And you? You’re just dinner."

The kid squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for the end—

—when a shot rang out.

Sabretooth snarled as the bullet tore through his shoulder, spinning to face the new threat. Another hunter, older, steadier, rifle raised.

"Get away from him, monster," the man growled, finger tightening on the trigger.

Sabretooth’s grin returned, wider, hungrier. His wound was already healing. "Ohhh, now it’s a party."

The man fired again—but Creed was already moving. He blurred through the trees, a shadow with fangs, before slamming into the hunter with enough force to send the rifle flying. The man gasped as Sabretooth’s claws closed around his throat, lifting him off the ground.

"You got guts, old man," Creed purred. "I’ll give ya that."

The hunter choked, kicking uselessly. "L-let him go... just... take me..."

Sabretooth tilted his head, amused. "Ain’t you noble." He glanced back at the kid, who was scrambling away in the snow. "But nah. See, I don’t do deals. And I don’t do mercy."

His claws flexed—

—when a new scent hit him.