Jimmy Howlett

The town is a ghost—hollowed out and left to rot. Just like a hundred other towns I've passed through. Same boarded windows. Same dead ends.

The rain is a thin, miserable drizzle—the kind that doesn't bother with a proper downpour, just seeps through everything, settles into your bones, makes you feel the cold in a way that has nothing to do with temperature. It slicks Jimmy's jacket, beading on the worn leather, dripping from the collar. He doesn't move to wipe it away. Doesn't notice it anymore.

The warehouse is a monument to failure. Corrugated steel walls streaked with rust. Broken windows gaping like empty eye sockets. A faded sign, still clinging to the loading bay, advertising a business that died a decade ago. The streetlights are dead. The asphalt is cracked. The whole town feels like it's holding its breath, waiting for the end.

Fitting place for someone to hide.

Charles's intel was thin on this one—a name, a location, a note that the DODC was already moving. The mutant manifested two days ago. Something flashy. Something loud. Something that made the neighbors talk and the government take notice.

Jimmy can smell the fear from here. Sharp and sour, cutting through the wet asphalt and diesel fumes. A mutant who woke up thinking they were normal and spent the afternoon watching their life fall apart.

He can also smell something else. Something metallic. Old blood.

His jaw tightens.

Should've gotten here faster.

He pushes off the bike, boots crunching on gravel. The rain slicks the ground, making the broken asphalt gleam under the dim streetlight. No rush. No hurry. The DODC has a five-man team en route. ETA ten minutes, maybe less. But Jimmy moves like he has all the time in the world. A loose, unhurried stride. Casual. Unbothered.

The predator beneath the surface is coiled and ready. But the surface is lazy, relaxed, almost bored.

That's why Chuck sent me. I'm the one who doesn't look like a threat until it's too late.

His hand drifts to the dog tags beneath his shirt. Cold metal against his knuckles. He squeezes once, then lets them drop.

Focus. Job first. Existential crisis later.

The warehouse door groans as he shoves it open. Rusted hinges scream in protest. Inside, the air is thick with dust and the faint chemical ghost of whatever used to be manufactured here. Machinery looms in the shadows—hulking, silent, long since stripped of anything valuable. The floor is cracked concrete, stained with oil and years of neglect.

The rain follows him inside. A slow drip from the ceiling, finding its way through the holes in the roof, forming small puddles on the broken concrete.

The mutant is here. Jimmy can feel them. Can hear the sharp, ragged breathing coming from somewhere in the dark.

He stops walking. Holds his hands up, palms out, slow and deliberate. His voice is low, easy, the lazy drawl he reserves for moments like this—but softer now. Gentler. He's not here to intimidate. He's here to calm a scared person.

"Hey, hey... calm down, I'm not DODC, okay? Just a... friend of a friend. Just trying to get the heat off ya."

A pause. Then a voice from the dark—shaky, defensive, trying to sound older than it is, carrying an edge of defiance that's clearly a shield.

"I don't have any friends. And I don't trust some random guy showing up out of nowhere, acting all nice and gentle."

Jimmy's lip twitches. Almost a smile. He can respect the attitude. It's a survival mechanism—same as his.

"Fair enough. I wouldn't trust me either if I were you."

He takes a slow step forward. Not threatening. Just... present.

"But here's the thing. I'm not here to sell you on anything, just the facts. I'm just here to get you out of this mess before it's too late. Those government goons are gonna be here any minute, and when they show up, they're not gonna ask questions. They're just gonna take you."

A pause. He lets that sink in.

"So here's the deal. You come with me, I get you far away from here. Somewhere they can't find you. Tonight. That's all I'm offering. No strings. No promises. Just a way out."

The shadows shift. A figure emerges—small, hunched, moving like a cornered animal. They're wearing clothes that are too big and too thin for the weather. There's a fading bruise on their jaw. Another on their arm, visible where the sleeve has ridden up. The kind of bruise that comes from a hand that's supposed to protect you.

Jimmy's eyes don't linger on the bruises. He's seen this before. He knows what it means.

"Look. I'm not gonna pretend to know what you've been through. I'm not here to fix you or save you. I'm just here to give you a choice. Stay and wait for them, or come with me and figure out the rest later."

The mutant's hands are shaking. They're trying to look tough, trying to act threatening. But the voice cracks when they speak.

"I thought it was... I thought it was a good thing. At first. When I realized I could do things, I thought maybe... maybe he'd be proud of me. Maybe it would make him happy. That maybe he'd finally..."

They trail off, swallowing hard. Jimmy doesn't interrupt. Just waits. A droplet of water falls from the ceiling, landing on his shoulder. He doesn't notice.

"So I showed him. And he got... he got so angry. He called me a freak. He started hitting me, telling me no son of his was gonna be some fucking mutant. And then he left me there, on the floor, crying, and he..."

A pause. A shaky breath.

"He called them. The DODC. Right there in front of me. I heard him. He told them I was dangerous. That I was a monster. That they needed to come take me away.

Jimmy's jaw tightens. His expression doesn't change, but something in his eyes goes cold. He knows that kind of betrayal—the kind that comes from someone who was supposed to protect you. He doesn't say anything. Just holds their gaze.

"He was wrong."

Their voice cracks.

"He came back. He saw my hands glowing, and he just... he got so angry. He grabbed me, screaming at me to stop, squeezing my arm so hard I thought it was gonna break. And I was so scared, and I just..."

They look down at their hands.

"I didn't mean to. I just wanted it to stop. And then the room was gone. And he was gone. I didn't look back. But I heard it. The crash. The fire. The whole room just... gone. I don't even know what I did. I just wanted it to stop."

The words hang in the air. Heavy. Unforgiving.

Somewhere in the distance, a siren wails—faint, but growing closer, cutting through the steady hiss of the rain outside. Jimmy doesn't flinch. His eyes stay on them. Time is running out, but he doesn't rush. That's how you lose people who need you.

"I'm not gonna judge you for that. I'm not gonna pretend to know what you're carrying. But I do know that right now, you got two options. Stay, or go. So just ask yourself: are you really willing to find out what happens if they find you?"

He holds out his hand. Not reaching for them—just offering. Rainwater drips from his sleeve, splashing onto the cracked concrete between them.

"What do you say? You feel like running?"

They stare at his hand. Then at his face. Searching for something. A lie. A trick. A reason to say no.

Their hand moves—a fraction of an inch. Then stops. They're trembling, caught between two impossible choices. Jimmy doesn't move. Doesn't speak. Just waits, hand still outstretched, giving them the space to make the decision themselves.

The rain continues its slow drip from the ceiling. A distant crack of thunder rolls across the sky.

And then—slowly, hesitantly—their hand reaches toward his.

A sound. The scrape of a boot on concrete. A shift in the air. Someone else is here.

Jimmy's body moves before his mind catches up. His weight shifts, shoulders rolling forward just a fraction, his frame expanding as he steps—not away, but toward the sound. His body angles, broad and unyielding, blocking the mutant from the newcomer's line of sight. He doesn't turn his back on them. He positions himself as a wall, an obstacle, a warning. The mutant is hidden behind his frame, tucked into the shadow he casts.

The lazy mask is still there, but underneath it, something has gone very, very still. The mutant isn't the only one who knows how to move like a cornered animal.

Jimmy's voice is low, flat—a blade wrapped in silk.

"You lost? Or you got business here?"

The mutant freezes behind him, eyes wide, darting between Jimmy and the newcomer. The fragile trust that was just beginning to form hangs in the balance.

The rain continues to fall outside, steady and relentless, as the moment stretches.

The garage smells like it almost feels, sometimes—like home.

Cold steel. Motor oil. The faint ghost of gasoline that never quite fades. Jimmy's hands are still grimy from the bike, the road dust clinging to his jacket like a second skin. He's been back all of ten minutes—just long enough to kill the engine, kick off his boots, and start rolling a cigarette he doesn't plan to smoke.

The extraction went fine. The kid's safe. Charles is doing his thing—calming them down, making promises about safety and training and a place to belong. Jimmy did his part. Found the kid. Got them out. Kept them alive.

Job done. Time to disappear.

He doesn't hear the footsteps approaching. He's too busy trying to find the quiet in his own head. The garage is supposed to be his sanctuary—the one place in this whole damn mansion where he can just exist without anyone expecting anything from him.

He should know better by now.

The door slams open. Jimmy doesn't flinch. Doesn't look up. He knows that footstep. That energy. That particular brand of righteous fury that's been aimed at him since they were kids.

Great. Here comes the Golden Boy.

Scott's voice cuts through the air like a blade—controlled, measured, but trembling with barely suppressed rage.

"You have got to be kidding me....JIMMY!"

Jimmy finishes rolling his cigarette, tucks it behind his ear. Takes his time. When he finally looks up, his expression is lazy, unbothered—the mask firmly in place.

"Nice to see you too, Slim. You miss me?"

Scott's jaw tightens. His hands are clenched at his sides, the ruby-quartz lenses doing nothing to hide the fury behind them.

"Do you have any idea what you did out there?"

Jimmy shrugs. "Saved a kid. Kept the DODC from adding another mutant to their collection. You're welcome, by the way."

Scott takes a step forward, his voice dropping to something colder, sharper.

"It was supposed to be a discreet rescue op. Quiet. Clean. In and out. Instead, you started a pursuit sequence through half the town. A full-on fight with DODC agents. You made a mess, Jimmy. A public spectacle."

Jimmy's eyes narrow, just slightly. The lazy mask doesn't crack, but something shifts underneath.

"They were closing in. I made a call."

"You made a scene."

Scott's voice is rising now, the control fraying at the edges.

"Another mutant incident. Right after New York. Right after Jean. The DODC is already spinning this—using it as proof that we're dangerous, that we can't be trusted, that we need to be contained. You gave them exactly what they wanted."

Jimmy finally stands. He's not a lot taller than Scott, but the way he moves—loose, unhurried, dangerous—makes the space between them feel smaller.

"I saved a kid."

"You made it worse."

"I got the job done."

*"You always do." Scott's voice is sharp, bitter. "That's the problem. You always get the job done. Your way. No regard for the consequences. No thought for anyone else."

The accusation hangs in the air, heavy and unyielding.

Jimmy's voice is flat when he responds. Dangerously flat.

"That's rich coming from the guy who's never had to make a hard call in his life."

Scott's eyes flash. "Every call I make is hard. Every single one. Because I actually think about the people I'm responsible for. Unlike you."

"Oh, I'm sorry. Did I step on your perfectly organized schedule? Your spotless tracking sheets?" The accusation hangs in the air, heavy and unyielding.

"This isn't about schedules, Jimmy. This is about you—your recklessness, your impulsiveness, your complete disregard for anyone but yourself."

Jimmy’s jaw tightens. The lazy mask cracks, his eyes flashing with a sudden, dangerous intensity as he steps off the workbench.

"Slim, the day I need a kid who can't even legally buy himself a damn beer to tell me how to do my job, I'll make sure to let you know first," Jimmy growls, his voice dropping to a low, mocking drawl. "Until then, why don't you go find some student to admonish, some protocol to enact... you know, make yourself useful and scram."

Scott doesn't back down. He steps closer, his body rigid, the ruby-quartz lenses doing nothing to hide the absolute fury radiating from his face.

"I know exactly what I'm talking about," Scott cuts back, his voice dropping to something quieter, more cutting. "What if something went wrong, huh? What if your improvisation wasn't enough? You didn't just put us in the spotlight, Jimmy. You put that kid in a volatile situation. What if he got hurt because of your impulsiveness?"

The words land like a punch to the gut. Jimmy goes still—not the lazy stillness of the mask, but something else. Something colder. The predator beneath the surface, gone completely silent.

"He didn't get hurt. I got him out."

"This time."

Scott's voice is quiet, but the word hangs in the air like a blade.

"What about next time? What happens when your luck runs out? What happens when your 'instincts' get someone killed?"

The mask shatters.

Jimmy steps forward—not a casual shift, but a sharp, deliberate movement. The space between them evaporates. He's in Scott's face now, close enough to see the reflection of his own cold fury in those ruby lenses. His voice is low, rough, stripped of all pretense.

"Say that again."

Scott doesn't back down. Of course he doesn't. That's not who he is. He holds his ground, his jaw tight, his body rigid with barely contained tension.

"You heard me. You're reckless. You're impulsive. And one day, that's going to get someone killed."

Jimmy's fists clench at his sides. His knuckles go white. The muscles in his jaw ripple as he grinds his teeth, fighting for control. He can feel it—the familiar burn behind his eyes, the urge to let the monster off the leash, the same urge he's been fighting his whole life.

"You think I don't know that?" His voice is a growl, barely human. "You think I don't think about that every single time I walk out that door?"

"Then why do you keep doing it? Why do you keep putting everyone at risk?"

"Because someone has to!"

The words explode out of him, raw and ragged. The garage falls silent. The only sound is the slow drip of water from somewhere—a leak Jimmy's been meaning to fix.

"You think I enjoy it?" Jimmy's voice is quieter now, but no less intense. "You think I like being the one who has to make those calls? The one who has to look at a scared kid and decide whether to risk a chase or let them get taken?"

"You made a decision, Jimmy. You made a choice."

"Yeah. I did." His jaw tightens. "Because the DODC was about to put a kid in a cage, and no one else was close enough to stop them. That's what I am, Scott. The one who does the ugly stuff so you don't have to."

A bitter smirk flickers across Jimmy's face—sharp, mocking, designed to cut.

"Way I see it, Slim, you're just jealous."

Scott stiffens. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me." Jimmy's voice is low, taunting, the words dripping with calculated venom. "You think you hide it, but you're the kind who wears your shit on your sleeve and barely manages to conceal it. Is that it? Do you wish you could be the one riding off into the sunset? The one rescuing the redheads in distress instead of sitting here all day with a stick up your ass babysitting half a school?"

Scott's face goes pale, then flushed. His hands curl into fists at his sides.

"You don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't I?" Jimmy's smirk widens. "I see the way you look at her. The way you hover. The way you trip over yourself trying to be her 'stable ground.' It's pathetic, Summers. And you know what the worst part is? She doesn't even see you. Not the way you want her to. She looks right through you. And that kills you, doesn't it?"

Scott's voice is a low, dangerous growl.

"Shut up, Jimmy."

"Make me."

They stand there—brothers, rivals, two sides of the same coin. Chest to chest. Fists clenched. Neither backing down. Neither willing to break the stare. The tension crackles between them like static electricity, the faint glint of bone threatening to break through Jimmy's skin.

"You don't get to stand there and judge me," Jimmy whispers, the words low and heavy. "Not when you've never had to make that choice. Not when you've never had to look a terrified kid in the eye and promise them everything's gonna be okay when you don't even believe it yourself."

Scott's voice is quieter now. Not softer. Just quieter.

"I didn't ask you to do that. I didn't ask you to be a Fixer."

Jimmy laughs—a hollow, bitter sound, right in Scott's face.

"No. You just judged me for it. The same way you always do. The same way you always will."

The silence between them is thick. The air is charged, heavy with years of rivalry and resentment and unspoken wounds. Neither moves. Neither backs down.

And then—a shift in the air. Someone else is here. A presence at the edge of the garage, frozen mid-step. A silent witness.

Neither Jimmy nor Scott acknowledges the arrival at first. The weight of the moment hangs too heavy.

Jimmy's voice is barely a whisper, rough and raw.

"Get out, Scott. Before I do something we'll both regret."

Scott holds his gaze for a long moment. Then, with barely contained fury, he turns and walks out. The door doesn't slam—he's too controlled for that—but the silence he leaves behind is heavier than any slam.

Jimmy stands there, chest heaving, fists still clenched, watching the door empty out. The garage feels bigger now. Colder.

He lets out a long, slow breath, forcing the calm back into place. The claws that were threatening to break the surface cleanly retreat beneath his skin.

And then he finally shifts, feeling the undeniable weight of attention still lingering by the entrance. He doesn't turn around. His voice remains flat, stripped of the lazy drawl, still crackling with residual anger—but there's a bitter, self-aware edge of dark humor trying to claw its way back to the surface.

"Having fun? Or were you waiting for me to punch him in his pretty, stoic face? I do hate to disappoint."

The bar is a sensory assault, kinda like intentionally getting kicked into the balls as if you're weirdly into it.

Jimmy's nose wrinkles as he pushes through the door, the smell hitting him like a wall. Grease and stale fryer oil, the sharp tang of a recently poured pint, the sour-sweet reek of spilled liquor soaked into old wood. Underneath it all, the unmistakable ammonia sting of piss from the bathroom down the hall—the kind of smell that no amount of those cheap mint tablets can fully mask. It's layered into the floorboards, soaked into the walls. Permanent.

He finds a stool at the end of the bar, back to the wall, eyes on the room. Old habits. The bartender—a heavyset woman with tired eyes and a towel over her shoulder—gives him a long, measuring look. Her gaze flicks over his face, the rough stubble, the leather jacket, the dog tags peeking out from under his collar. Calculating. Weighing whether he's old enough or if he's just got that kind of weathered face that makes him look older than he is.

She doesn't ask for ID outright. Just raises an eyebrow, voice flat.

"You sure you're good for it, kid?"

Jimmy's lip twitches. Not quite a smile. He lets the silence hang for a beat before answering, voice dry and low.

"Do I really have to answer that?"

He gestures vaguely at the empty bar around them—the handful of scattered patrons, the stools that outnumber the drinkers, the quiet desperation that hangs in the air like smoke.

"Fifty bars in this corner of the district alone, and I walk into the one where the owner wants to play strict."

He reaches into his jacket, pulling out his wallet with deliberate slowness. His tone is still lazy, but there's an edge underneath—a quiet, knowing humor.

"Look, I can show you the damn ID. But then I'm pretty sure I won't feel like asking for a second glass."

He holds her gaze. She holds his. Then something flickers in her expression—amusement, maybe. Respect. She snorts, reaching for a glass.

"Smartass."

"Learned from the best."

She pours the whiskey. Slides it across the bar. He catches it without looking down.

The noise is good. Loud, messy, human. A jukebox plays something old and scratchy. A couple of guys argue over a pool table. In the back corner, a group of men are getting loud, getting stupid, looking for a fight.

Jimmy ignores them. He's got three days of road dust on his jacket, the ghost of a young mutant's fear still clinging to his skin, and a headache that's settling in behind his eyes like a dull, throbbing weight. He doesn't want a fight. Doesn't need one.

He closes his eyes for a moment, letting the whiskey burn its way down. The taste of it cuts through the sour air. Grounding. Familiar.

Just one drink. Then back to the cabin. Then silence.

But the loud guys have other ideas.

One of them—big, red-faced, the kind of guy who picks fights because he's never been hit hard enough to learn better—stumbles over to Jimmy's table. Slams a hand down. Glares down at him with that mean, drunk grin.

"You got a problem, pretty boy?"

Jimmy doesn't look up at first. Just swirls the remaining whiskey in his glass, letting the silence stretch. When he finally speaks, his voice is tired. Not hostile. Just... tired.

"Look."

He sets the glass down, slow and deliberate, and finally meets the guy's eyes. His expression isn't challenging. It's almost... sympathetic.

("One look at you and I can tell. We're both tired. Been working all day. Crossing down these roads, dealing with the same bullshit we always deal with."*

He gestures vaguely at the bar, the town, the whole damn world.

"I'm not even drunk enough to start a fight yet. And honestly? I don't think you are either."

He holds the guy's gaze. No aggression. No threat. Just a tired, honest look from one worn-down person to another.

"You're tough. I get it. I respect that. So how about we just enjoy a fucking drink and call it a day? There's enough bullshit in the world without us adding to it."

The guy stares at him. For a long moment, the air hangs between them—charged, uncertain. Jimmy holds his ground, but his posture is relaxed. Open. Non-threatening.

Then the guy grunts. A low, rough sound. His jaw works, chewing on the words. Something shifts in his expression—not quite understanding, but maybe... recognition. The recognition of someone who's also had a long, shitty day and doesn't actually want to make it worse.

He shoves off the table, muttering something under his breath. But he walks away. Back to his friends. The fight is over.

Jimmy exhales slowly. Picks up his glass. His hand is steady.

See, Dad? I'm trying. ( Not that you care anyway, right?)

And then the bartender changes the channel.

The TV above the bar flickers from a basketball game to a news report. A talking head. Grainy footage. A freeze-frame of chaos—streets torn apart, cars overturned, a city-wide freeze nightmare that everyone's still trying to understand. The ticker at the bottom reads: "NEW YORK INCIDENT: MUTANT THREAT OR TERRORIST ATTACK? OFFICIALS REMAIN SILENT."

Jimmy's jaw tightens.

New York. That mess. The whole city-wide freeze nightmare.

He knows who did that. He knows the face behind the chaos. He knows the girl who's been sitting in his kitchen at 3 AM, shaking and silent, asking nothing of him but stillness.

The TV flickered. The ticker crawled. The drunk's voice kept going, spewing poison about "muties" and "freaks." And somewhere in the back of Jimmy's skull, Scott's voice echoed—cold, sharp, cruel.

"Emotions can throw us off our edge. They can jeopardize everything—by making us act harshly, impulsively, exactly like you did."

Jimmy's jaw tightened. He shoved the thoughts down. Hard.

They didn't go anywhere.

The red-faced guy sees his expression. Mistakes it for something else. Grins, emboldened by the shift in energy.

"See that? That's what happens when you let those freaks run around unchecked."

Jimmy's hand tightens on his glass. He doesn't look at the guy. He stares at the screen.

The guy keeps going, warming to his audience.

"You heard what they're calling 'em? Mutants. That's what I heard. Some new word that's catching on. Mutants." He spits the word like it's poison. "That girl who did all that—some crazy redhead, I heard—she's one of 'em. That's the kind of freak we're dealing with now. A damn mutie."

He laughs, ugly and cruel. "When is the government gonna do their job and put her down? Put all of 'em down. They ain't people. They're monsters. Dangerous, unstable monsters."

Jimmy's vision narrows. The room fades. The noise fades. Everything fades except the red-faced guy's voice, echoing in his ears like distant thunder.

That damn fucking freak. Mutie. Put her down like she deserves.

Jimmy can feel his pulse in his temples. The familiar burn behind his eyes—not tears, but something else. The thing that lives beneath his ribs. The feral monster that's always there, always waiting, always hungry.

He's been doing so well. He's been trying. Every day is a test of willpower, a tight grip on the leash of his own violent psyche. He's kept it together. He's been good.

Good job, right Dad?. Look at me! I'm your perfect little shadow. I'm not a weapon. I'm a man. Isn't that what you wanted. Isn't that what I want?

But the voice won't stop.

Mutie.

Put her down.

Monsters.

Jimmy sets the glass down. Slowly. Deliberately. He turns to face the man, and his expression is no longer tired. No longer sympathetic. It's something else—something cold and flat and dangerous.

"What did you just say?"

The guy puffs up. "I said they should put those freaks down. Every last one of 'em. Starting with that redhead. Who cares if she's got powers? She's a threat. A monster."

He grins, leaning in, lowering his voice to something foul and conspiratorial.

"Hell, who knows—maybe before they finish her, they can let us have some fun first. She's still a girl, right? And sometimes all a woman needs to get straight is a man who knows how to..."

He doesn't finish the sentence.

The world goes red.

There's no thought. No calculation. No voice telling him to stop. The leash shatters. The monster takes over.

Jimmy moves like a predator. His hand snaps out, grabs the guy's arm, and twists. The crack of bone is audible even over the jukebox. The guy screams—a high, raw sound that cuts through the bar's ambient noise. Jimmy doesn't stop. He yanks the guy forward, pivots, and slams him face-first into the bar top. The impact is brutal. Teeth crack. Blood sprays. The guy goes limp, sliding to the floor in a heap.

For a moment, there's silence. Then the guy's friends are on their feet. Three of them. Four. Plus a few others from the pool table who look like they're looking for an excuse.

Jimmy straightens up. Rolls his shoulders. His eyes are flat, cold, the lazy smirk replaced by something feral and hungry.

"Anyone else?"

They charge.

The first one swings wild with a bottle. Jimmy ducks, grabs the guy's wrist, and uses his momentum to send him crashing into the next table. Glass shatters. The guy's arm bends at a wrong angle as he hits the floor.

The second one tries to tackle him. Jimmy sidesteps, catches him by the back of the head, and drives his face into the pool table. The crack of his nose breaking is wet and sickening. He stumbles back, clutching his face, blood pouring through his fingers.

The third one is smarter—he grabs a pool cue from the rack, swings it like a bat. Jimmy takes the hit across his ribs, and the wood splinters. It hurts. He barely feels it. He grabs the broken end of the cue and drives it forward, the jagged edge catching the guy across the jaw. The guy spins, crashes into a stool, and goes down hard.

The fourth one hesitates. Jimmy's eyes lock onto him, and something in that gaze makes the man take a step back. Then another. He trips over his friend's unconscious body and scrambles backward, hands up.

"I—I'm out. I'm out, man."

Jimmy stares at him. The red haze is still there, pulsing at the edges of his vision. The monster is still purring, still hungry.

But the fight is over.

He breathes. Once. Twice. The red recedes. His claws retract—he doesn't even remember popping them. The adrenaline is still singing in his veins, sharp and electric, the taste of blood in his mouth.

He looks down at the carnage. Four men on the ground. One unconscious. One with a broken arm. One with a shattered nose. One with a broken jaw and a pool cue lodged in his cheek. The bar is silent except for the jukebox still playing its scratchy old tune, oblivious to the violence.

And the patrons are gone.

Jimmy doesn't remember them leaving. He was too far gone, too deep in the red haze. But the bar is empty now—a ghost house. The door is still swinging slightly on its hinges, the last terrified patron having fled into the night. Chairs are overturned. Glasses abandoned. The only sounds are the wet, ragged breathing of the men on the floor and the distant hum of the neon sign outside.

Jimmy's hand is trembling. He shoves it into his pocket, forcing the calm back into place.

His other hand drifts to the dog tags beneath his shirt. Cold metal against his knuckles. He squeezes once—a grounding ritual, a reminder of the man who abandoned him and the monster he's terrified of becoming. Then he lets them drop.

He can already feel the bruise on his ribs fading, the ache in his knuckles dulling. The accelerated healing is a curse as much as a gift—it means the evidence of his failure will disappear before he's finished punishing himself for it.

He thought about the one he'd pulled out of that warehouse. Safe. Asleep. Probably dreaming about the room that went up in flames.

At least he got that right.

He drained the glass. It didn't help.

The bartender is staring at him, pale as a ghost. Her hands are gripping the edge of the bar, knuckles white. But she hasn't run.

Jimmy pulls out his wallet. Tosses a thick wad of cash on the bar—more than enough to cover the damages. His voice is flat, controlled, the mask sliding back into place like a cracked shield.

"That should cover the broken furniture. And their medical bills."

He grabs his jacket, still crackling with residual energy—and then he pauses. His hand hovers over the edge of the bar. He doesn't turn toward the door. Doesn't take a step.

The anger is still there. Thrumming beneath his skin. But it's not the same anger that drove him to break bones and shatter faces. This is something else. Something colder. Sharper.

Anger at himself.

For losing control. For proving the monster right. For giving in, even for a second.

She was probably in the mansion right now, tucked away in her room, trying to sleep through the noise. She had no idea he was out here, breaking bones and losing his mind over a stranger's words. And somehow, that made it worse.

The silence stretches. The bartender's eyes are still on him. Waiting. She doesn't know what he'll do next. He doesn't either.

Jimmy's jaw tightens. Then he turns. Not toward the door—but toward the bar. He steps back to the counter, boots crunching on broken glass, and slides onto a stool. The wood creaks under his weight. He rests his elbows on the bar, bows his head, and closes his eyes. His back is to the empty room, to the groaning men on the floor, to the ghost of the violence still hanging in the air.

Then he speaks. Low. Rough. Stripped of the lazy charm he wore like armor.

"So. You gonna ask for my ID again if I ask for another drink?"

A pause. He doesn't open his eyes.

"Or are you deciding if you kick me out of your bar or not?"

Another pause. His voice softens, just barely.

"Works either way for me. But if you're willing..."

He lets the silence hang. An olive branch. An opening. Giving her the choice.

"...I could definitely use another glass right now."

He doesn't push. Doesn't beg. Just sits there, eyes closed, waiting. Giving her the power to decide if he stays or goes.

The bartender hesitates.

She could have called the cops. Should have, probably. But there was something in the way he sat there—broken, waiting, giving her the choice—that made her hesitate. She'd seen a lot of dangerous men in this bar. Most of them didn't ask for permission to stay.

He can feel her watching him—the weight of her gaze, the trembling uncertainty. He doesn't open his eyes. Doesn't move. Just sits there, a man who's run out of places to go.

She makes a choice.

He hears her footsteps behind the bar. The clink of glass. The slosh of liquid. Then the soft, deliberate placement of a glass on the counter beside him. And the bottle. The whole bottle.

He opens his eyes. Looks at it.

She's already walking away, retreating to the far end of the bar, giving him space. No words. No eye contact. Just a silent concession—an acknowledgment that he's not leaving, and neither is she.

Jimmy doesn't acknowledge it. Doesn't thank her. He just grabs the glass, lifts it to his lips, and chugs. The whiskey burns on the way down—a clean, sharp pain that cuts through the fog. He sets the empty glass down, then reaches for the bottle. Pours another. Chugs half of it in one go.

The mask is still there. Cracked. Barely holding together. But underneath it, the monster is still clawing at the cage of his ribs, and Jimmy knows—with a cold, hollow certainty—that he's not done punishing himself for what he just did.

Not by a long shot.

He pours another glass. This time, he doesn't chug it. He just holds it, staring at the amber liquid, watching the light catch the edges of the glass.

The bar is empty. The men on the floor are starting to stir, groaning, crawling toward the door. The bartender stays at her post, silent, watching. And Jimmy sits alone at the counter, nursing his self-loathing like a familiar wound.

The door creaks.

Someone else has arrived. Or maybe someone stayed. Someone who saw everything and decided not to run. The creak is soft, almost lost beneath the hum of the jukebox. Jimmy doesn't turn. But his hand stills on the glass, waiting. He can feel the weight of someone's attention—a presence that hadn't been there before. Or maybe it had. Maybe they'd been there the whole time, watching from the shadows, and he'd been too deep in the red haze to notice.

His voice is flat, rough, stripped of all pretense.

"Bar's closed. Unless you're here for the show."

He takes a long drink, waiting for the response.