The night sky was as dark as ink, and the flashing neon lights of the nightclub bathed the city's busiest street in a riot of color.
Cars streamed endlessly along the road, but the one that stood out the most was a black Chrysler parked right in front of the nightclub.
"Sir, please walk slowly—and don't forget to leave me a five-star review on Uber."
Logan Howlett watched his client step into the nightclub, then closed the car door, smoothed down his cheap suit, and climbed back into the driver's seat.
The car sped through the bustling streets and out of the city, racing down the empty highway.
As the night deepened, the roads on the outskirts grew emptier, quieter—almost deserted.The wind blew now and then, lifting the yellow dust and coating the already dirty car in another thin layer of grime.
Ding!The phone screen lit up with a sudden vibration—a text message.
Caliban: The Professor's medicine is almost gone.
Driving one-handed, Logan glanced at the message and sighed helplessly."I'll figure something out," he typed, his face lined with exhaustion.
The Professor's medication was running low again. Without it, another episode would be unimaginably catastrophic.
Logan set the phone down and patted his pockets.
Sigh.The thin wallet he found there drew another long breath of frustration.
How long had it been since he reincarnated here?He couldn't quite remember anymore—his memories had blurred with time.
He only remembered that his surname hadn't always been Howlett, but Luo—an ordinary man from China.
"Logan" had been a hit movie back then, and as a fan of the X-Men, he'd paid to watch it in theaters—to witness Wolverine's tragic end on the big screen.
Unexpectedly, when he woke up the next morning, he had transmigrated into the X-Men universe itself—as James Howlett.
At the time of his arrival, the tragedy at Westchester hadn't yet occurred, and mutants hadn't gone extinct.
Logan had tried desperately to stop it, but all in vain.Even with the advantage of foresight, all his efforts to prevent Professor Xavier's loss of control had failed.
The Professor's outburst in Westchester killed hundreds.The incident shook the entire nation, driving human fear of mutants to unimaginable heights.
The government, already wary, seized the opportunity to enforce strict controls and began developing genetically modified foods to make mutants infertile—an attempt to erase the mutant gene once and for all.
Even Logan, who had crossed over from another universe, couldn't reverse what was coming. It seemed the tragedy of Wolverine's twilight years was destined to repeat itself.
Logan looked up at the rear-view mirror.His weathered face was marked by fatigue; his unkempt beard grew like steel needles, and streaks of gray spread through his tangled hair.His calloused hands gripped the steering wheel like old, gnarled roots.
He frowned.
Beep, beep...The dashboard suddenly flashed red—the fuel tank was nearly empty.
"Damn it!"Logan slammed the wheel in frustration.
Years of running, and the deaths of friends and family, had left him anxious and irritable, easily angered by the smallest things.
Fortunately, roadside motels were common out here in the desert—those hybrid places that served as gas station, diner, and inn all at once, especially around San Antonio.
Having lived in Texas for years, Logan was already a familiar face.
He pulled into a well-lit motel, turned off the engine, stepped out, and walked in with practiced ease.
"James, haven't seen you in a couple of days," said Mr. Crewe from behind the counter, setting down his glass of wine and extending a hand with a smile.
James—Logan's other name. Technically his real one, before he'd adopted Logan.
After all, Logan Howlett had long been on the most-wanted list.For a man on the run, revealing his true identity was as good as signing his death warrant.
"Two days, huh? You worry too much," Logan said, tossing his car keys to the attendant, who went off to refuel it. He sat at the counter. "The usual—a bottle of wine."
Life's endless troubles had driven him to rely on alcohol more and more.It dulled the chaos.Eventually, it became a crutch he couldn't live without.
"Drinking and driving again, huh?" Crewe joked, but still turned to fetch a bottle from the shelf and handed it over.
Logan took it, not rushing. The brand's spokesperson on the label caught his eye.
A man in a tight blue, red, and white combat suit, muscles defined, holding a round vibranium shield in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other—smiling confidently.
"New spokesman—Captain America," Crewe said with a smirk, noticing Logan's gaze.
"I thought he'd be preaching sobriety," Logan muttered, prying the cork out with his teeth. The scent of wine filled the air.
It wasn't until much later that Logan realized just how different this world was from the one he'd known.This wasn't merely another X-Men timeline—it was a world where the X-Men and the Avengers coexisted.
The year was 2012—the rise of the Avengers.
Unfortunately, during the X-Men's golden age, the Avengers had never existed, and the two worlds had never crossed paths.Now, the irony was that everyone knew only the Avengers.Their faces filled the streets, the news, and the billboards.
No one remembered that the X-Men had shed blood for this country—this world.
Under the government's careful manipulation, mutants were now seen as a threat to social stability.
Crewe shrugged. "Hard to say. Captain Rogers was a soldier, after all. Back then, booze was just another weapon on the battlefield."
Captain America was a relic of World War II, an era when soldiers drank to drown fear and charge into chaos.
Logan stayed silent, thinking bitterly, People remember Captain America—but not Wolverine, the man who survived an atomic bomb.
He shook his head and sighed, tilting the bottle back for a long drink.
The burning liquor slid down his throat, numbing his mind and loosening the tension in his exhausted body.
Before long, the bottle was nearly empty.
Bang!
A gunshot tore through the desert night.
"Shit!"
Crewe jumped, the glass slipping from his hands and shattering behind the counter. Ignoring it, he stared at the door.
"What the hell was that?"
Logan suddenly remembered—his car was still outside, and the gas-station kid hadn't come back.
Sensing danger, he rushed out.
San Antonio was no safe place.
Every year, countless Mexican and undocumented immigrants poured into Texas, many settling here.Jobless and desperate, they turned the city into chaos.The thin, underfunded police force was powerless to keep up, emboldening the criminals even further.
Armed robbery had become one of the few ways to survive.Corpses in the desert were nothing new.
"Hand over the keys, kid! Now!"
Five Mexicans surrounded the black Chrysler, its dark paint blending into the wasteland.One of them held a smoking gun, pointing it at the terrified attendant.
"Hey, amigo, that Chrysler barely seats five—and it's not even worth stealing," Logan said, striding out the door.
Crewe followed, pale. "James, be careful!"
He knew these men—ruthless killers who'd spilled plenty of blood.
"Old man, this your car?" the gunman sneered, aiming at Logan without hesitation.
They clearly didn't take him seriously—a fifty-something drunk reeking of alcohol.
"Sure is," Logan muttered, eyes slightly unfocused from the drink but still sharp.He reached into his pocket, pulled out five hundred dollars, and held it out.
"Take this and walk away. No one calls the cops, no one gets hurt."
Years on the run had tempered his anger. He didn't want trouble tonight.
The men's eyes lit up at the sight of cash—but greed burned brighter.
"Kill the old bastard," one said with a grin. "The car and the money are ours."
They'd killed plenty before—another corpse wouldn't matter.And out here, the cops couldn't care less.
"James!" Crewe gasped.
A gunshot cracked.
Bang!
The gunman laughed wildly, his voice full of mockery. "Nobody cares about you, old man."
"Damn it!" Logan cursed, twisting left by pure instinct.
The bullet grazed his ear, tearing through the air before embedding in the inn's wall behind him, leaving a smoking hole.
For a moment, silence fell. Everyone stared.
The Mexicans froze, eyes darting between the smoking gun and Logan's tilted head.
He had dodged the bullet.
Their confidence vanished. As they watched him grow angrier, an unfamiliar fear crept into their chests.
Crewe stood frozen, staring at Logan's back in disbelief.
He'd always thought James was just a washed-up drunk driver.But now, clearly, this man was something else entirely.
Logan's eyes darkened. He clenched his fists, his teeth grinding.
Three thin slits began to open between the bones of his knuckles—something was about to emerge.