Chapter 8
The first head rolled, and the alarm wasn't far behind.
Somewhere high in the rafters, a shrill reeeeeee split the air — base-wide alert. Red lights washed sterile corridors in hellfire hues. Steel doors slammed. Boots thundered. But Logan wasn't thinking about any of that. His eyes stayed locked on the boy. On the holes in his arms. On the stench of death that clung to him.
The scientist scrambled backward. "Contain him!" he screamed, voice breaking.
Contain him?
They never could.
Logan moved like a wolf in a slaughterhouse. His upgraded reflexes fired like lightning in his veins — every heartbeat, every footstep, every finger twitch of the handlers around him played out in his senses before they acted. He didn't dodge bullets. He moved before the trigger squeezed.
The second handler pulled his sidearm. Logan was already on him. Claws ripped the pistol apart before it could level. One clean sweep cut through collarbone, lung, and spine. The man fell in two ragged halves, blood soaking the tiles.
The scientist shrieked. Logan barely noticed. He turned, ears ringing with the drum of boots down the hall. Reinforcements. A squad of Department H operatives, rifles at the ready.
"Fire! Fire!"
The hallway erupted in gunfire. Bullets screamed toward him — too slow. His enhanced instincts painted their paths like threads of light. Logan ducked between them, rolled forward, sprang up with a feral snarl. Claws met flesh, carving through armor like it was paper.
One operative's jaw split open, teeth scattering like dice. Another tried to bash him with a rifle butt — Logan caught it, tore it from his hands, and rammed it butt-first into the man's throat, crushing cartilage. Blood fountained as he collapsed.
He was everywhere. A predator in a pen of livestock. His claws rended. His senses guided. His healing patched over the stray hits that grazed him, sealing torn flesh before pain could slow him.
By the time the squad fell silent, the hallway was painted red. Pieces of men lay scattered like discarded tools. The stench of iron filled Logan's nose, hot and overwhelming, but he breathed it in deep. Rage kept him sharp.
From the intercom above, a voice screamed:
"Top brass are evacuating! Priority-one protocol!"
He heard the rotors. Helicopters. The scent of jet fuel carried through the air vents. The leaders were running. Rats fleeing the fire. Logan tilted his head back, let out a low, humorless laugh.
"Run far, bub. Run fast. I'll find ya one day."
He pressed on, deeper into the complex. Every corner was another ambush. Grenades. Flamethrowers. Stun batons. Department H threw everything at him, and it didn't matter.
He cut through a flamethrower unit, sparks flying as his claws pierced the tanks. Fire washed the corridor — whoomph — and screams echoed as men burned alive. The stink of roasted flesh clung heavy to the air.
One soldier thought himself clever, hiding behind a riot shield. Logan's claws slammed into it — CLANG — and for a moment, metal met metal. But his claws, hardened from the older twin's influence, didn't chip. Didn't bend. They split the shield in two, slicing the man behind it straight down the middle.
He didn't just kill. He tore. He dismembered. He painted the Department's sterile halls with their own men's blood until the walls dripped with it.
By the time silence fell again, the floor was a charnel house. Limbs, organs, and faces mangled beyond recognition. Logan stood in the middle of it, chest heaving, claws dripping. His heart thundered, but his body healed, knitting together cuts, burns, and bruises faster than they could set in.
The rage cooled slow. Only when he retraced his steps back to the cargo bay did his chest unclench.
The boy was still there. Still strapped down. Still dead.
Logan's claws slid back with a reluctant snikt. He walked over, unstrapped the body with hands steadier than they had any right to be, and lifted the kid in his arms. Light. Too light. Nothing but bones and wasted muscle.
"Deserved better, kid," Logan muttered. His voice cracked like dry earth.
He carried him outside, past the flames rising from what was left of the base. Past corpses and ruin. Into the wilderness. He found a quiet patch of dirt under a tree, dug a shallow grave with his hands, and laid the boy down gentle, like family.
With a flat rock, he carved a crude tombstone. Just one word scratched into it:
Kiddo.
When it was done, Logan sat with his back against the marker. Smoke and blood still clung to him, but the rage had gone, leaving only silence.
For six months, he stayed there. No missions. No orders. No chains. Just him, the grave, and the wilderness.
For the first time in years, Logan had nowhere to go. And for the first time, he didn't care.