They made their way toward Wembley Stadium together, winding through London's grey veins as the city yawned awake. Isaac walked with the slow, even gait of someone who knew every crooked cobble and back alley by memory.
He let the city wash over him and felt an odd nostalgia. 'This place taught me how to hide, how to survive, and how to live.'
Sven, true to form, kept his head turned to the pavements when women passed, wolfish grin in place. "Oi, would you look at that one," he muttered, more to himself than anyone, then louder, "England's still got it."
His tone was all bravado, but it hid the same restless grin that never lasted long without trouble. Takeshi drifted along beside them, absent-minded in a way that made the world feel steadier.
London felt thick with mutants like New York; the city's broken edges had become a magnet. Tall buildings stacked thin in the morning mist, concrete canyons crowded by those who could bend the world in private.
