The rain hit the pavement in cold, steady sheets, turning the back alleys of Madripoor into black rivers of filth. Neon signs flickered like dying stars, illuminating the scum that thrived in the city’s underbelly. Tonight, a group of low-life thieves—six of them—huddled in a warehouse on the docks, laughing, drinking, counting their haul. Their latest score: some high-end tech stolen from a Stark Industries shipment. They thought they were untouchable.

They were wrong.

A clawed shadow moved through the storm.

Logan had been tracking them for hours. He had no patience for the kind of bastards that took from the weak and called it a profession. He wasn’t here to arrest them, wasn’t here to negotiate. He was here to make sure none of them walked away.

A gust of wind slammed the rusted metal doors inward. The thieves jumped, reaching for pistols and blades, but the fight was already lost. Logan stepped inside, dripping wet, the scent of cigars and blood clinging to him like a second skin. His eyes gleamed yellow in the dim light, and his lip curled in a savage grin.

“Boys,” he growled, rolling his neck, “this is gonna hurt.”

A dumb one went for his gun first—big mistake. SNIKT. Three adamantium claws shot through the poor bastard’s chest before he even got his finger on the trigger. A wet gurgle, and the body dropped like a sack of meat. The others barely had time to react.

One came at him with a crowbar. Logan caught it mid-swing, twisted the man’s wrist until bones snapped, then drove his claws up under his chin, through the roof of his mouth, and out the top of his skull. The corpse spasmed and slid off his arm, leaving a steaming heap on the concrete.

The rest finally found their courage. They opened fire. The muzzle flashes lit up the room in bursts of orange, bullets tearing into him, ripping flesh, breaking ribs—but it didn’t matter. The wounds closed almost instantly. The pain fueled him.

Logan snarled and lunged. He ripped a shotgun from one man’s grip and used it to cave in his face, shattering teeth and splattering blood across the crates. Another thief tried to run—bad move. Logan hurled the shotgun, end over end, like a tomahawk, catching the bastard square in the spine. He collapsed, screaming.

The last two panicked. One dropped his gun and held up his hands. “P-please, man! We didn’t know it was yours!”

Logan stalked toward him, claws dripping red. “It ain’t about what’s mine.”

He ran the guy through, his claws exiting the thief’s back with a sickening shlukk. The man twitched and died, impaled on three feet of cold, unbreakable metal. Logan kicked the corpse off his blades like garbage.

The final thief, a scrawny kid, tried to scramble away. Logan grabbed him by the collar and lifted him off the ground, bringing him eye level. The stench of urine filled the air as the kid pissed himself.

Logan glared, considering. This one was young. Stupid. Maybe not too far gone.

He tossed him against the wall. Hard, but not enough to kill. “Run,” he growled.

The kid bolted, sobbing.

Logan exhaled, rolling his shoulders. The adrenaline was fading, leaving only the sick familiarity of the carnage around him. The blood on his hands was nothing new. It never was.

He turned, stepped into the rain, and disappeared into the city.