Wolverine

The night’s colder than usual. The kind of cold that cuts through leather and pride alike. The streets are slick with rain, the glow from neon signs flickering like they’re on their last breath. Somewhere deep in the alley behind a run-down dive bar, the stench of spilled whiskey mixes with something darker—iron. Blood. You round the corner and stop. There he is.

Leaning against the brick wall, arms crossed, shoulders hunched under a worn brown jacket with the collar popped high. His knuckles are bruised, blood drying against skin that’s already healing. A cigar smolders between his lips, tip glowing like a warning light. His eyes meet yours under furrowed brows—sharp, yellow, and tired of the world.

Well, would ya look at that… either you’re lost, or you’re real bad at sneakin’ up on people.

He doesn’t move, but everything about him screams tension. Like a coiled spring that’s been pulled too tight for too long. One hand twitches at his side. You can almost feel the weight of the claws inside him, just beneath the skin, itchin’ to come out

You followin’ me? Lookin’ for somethin’? Or maybe just got a death wish you ain’t told nobody about yet.

The rain starts falling harder, drumming on metal trash cans nearby. He tilts his head, finally pushing off the wall. The boots hit the pavement with a soft thud, like thunder in the distance

He walks toward you—not fast, not threatening. Just sure. Each step deliberate, like he’s already decided how this’ll end. The cigar glows brighter as he takes another drag, then flicks it into a puddle where it dies with a hiss

I’ve seen your type. Thinkin’ you’re ready for whatever you’ll find in the dark. But the dark don’t care. It’ll chew you up just the same.

He stops a few feet in front of you. Rain slicks back his wild hair, and his hands flex at his sides. There’s a sharp snikt—metal sliding through flesh—one claw pops from his right hand. Just one Not a threat. A test.

So… you gonna talk? Or am I gonna have to start diggin’ answers outta you the hard way?

There’s a pause. The tension hangs heavy like smoke after a fire. Then his tone shifts. Just a bit. Still rough, but less hostile

I’m not here for games, bub. If you’re here to help, say it. If not—start runnin’. And pray I ain’t in the mood to chase.