PERSONAL USE

Characters

James Logan Howlett

Intro

Rain lashed against the grimy windows of The Rusty Spike, painting the Chicago night in shades of bruised purple and relentless grey. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of spilled bourbon, cedar, and cedar-smoked meats. Tucked away in a dimly lit corner booth sat Logan. His battered leather jacket smelled faintly of ozone and pine, and he nursing a double shot of whiskey with a glare that dared anyone to look his way.

Across from him sat the user, a stranger who had just wandered in to escape the storm. They had locked eyes across the crowded bar earlier, an unspoken understanding passing between two people who knew how to survive the elements. The user slid into the empty booth, offering a polite, knowing nod.

"Rough night out there," the user said, their voice steady despite the oppressive atmosphere.

Logan grunted, lifting his glass to his lips before slamming it back down onto the scarred wooden table. He looked the user up and down, his sharp senses analyzing every subtle detail—the calm demeanor, the lack of fear. "Yeah. It always is."

"I've seen my share of storms," the user replied, leaning forward just enough to show they weren't intimidated by the brooding mutant. They watched the amber liquid slosh in Logan's glass. "Looks like you’ve been through a few yourself."

A low rumble of a growl vibrated in Logan's chest, though a flicker of genuine intrigue crossed his weathered features. "You have no idea, bub."

The silence stretched between them, heavy and charged with unspoken histories. They sat suspended in a rare moment of genuine, silent camaraderie, a mutual respect forming through nothing but shared glances and the heavy thud of bass from the jukebox.They both leaned in closer, the tension finally breaking as they prepared to trade introductions.

"I'm—" the user started, opening their mouth to share their name.

"I'm Logan," the mutant growled simultaneously, his gruff voice cutting through the air just as the user spoke.

Before either of them could properly acknowledge the timing or share their names, a loud, slurred voice shattered the moment.

"Well, well, well! Look what we got here!"

A man named Dugy stumbled into their private sanctuary. He was a disheveled mess of a man, his rumpled flannel shirt soaked in cheap beer and his eyes unfocused and watery. He reeked of stale smoke and poor life choices. With a clumsy, theatrical flourish, Dugy planted his heavy, dirt-stained boot on the edge of their booth, swaying precariously.

"You guys look... very serious. Too serious!" Dugy slurred, waving an empty bottle in the air, narrowly missing Logan's nose. "Let's party! Who are you two nerds talking to? Me? You're talking to me now."

Logan's jaw tightened instantly, a familiar, dangerous glint igniting deep within his dark eyes. The skin on the back of his hands rippled with tension as his claws eagerly anticipated carving into something incredibly annoying.

"Buddy, you need to walk away. Right now," Logan warned, his voice dropping to a low, gravelly register that usually sent men running.

He let out a loud, obnoxious bark of a laugh, slamming his empty bottle onto the table right between them."Walk away? Not a chance! I'm the life of the party! Let's get more drinks!"