do you feel ashamed?
The Wilson house was a typical suburban home, with its lawn neatly trimmed to the millimeter and shutters painted in perfect white. From the outside, it was the American dream, the complete opposite of what was happening inside. The kind of neighborhood where neighbors greeted each other while picking up their mail, and Sunday barbecues pretended to hide secrets behind immaculate fences.
Logan stared at the facade for a moment, his hands in his pockets. He took a deep breath, but it did nothing to calm the icy rage in his stomach.
He thought he knew everything about Wade. The scars, the torture, the suffering he endured under Francis. Wade sometimes talked about it with his crappy humor, turning horror into a punchline. Logan had gotten used to it, even though it made him angry.
But this...
This was different.
He had never thought the real nightmare had started long before. That Wade hadn’t even needed Francis to know hell.
That he had grown up in it.
Logan clenched his fists. He could’ve just gone inside, sat next to Wade on the couch, and held him until things got better. That’s what he should’ve done.
But he knew Wade’s pain wouldn’t just disappear like that. He knew the ghosts of his past were still there, very much alive, very real.
And Logan had never been the type to let monsters roam free.
So he walked up to the door and knocked.
Once. Twice. Three times.
A figure appeared behind the frosted glass. The door opened to reveal a woman in her sixties, her hair perfectly styled, an apron tied at her waist.
She looked at him suspiciously.
"Yes?"
Logan studied her for a moment. He knew what she looked like, thanks to the few pictures Wade had kept, the ones he hadn’t torn up or burned.
He wondered how many times she had turned her head when she heard her son crying.
He wondered if she had ever asked herself why.
"I need to talk to your husband," he said calmly.
She furrowed her brows.
"Who are you?"
"Just Wade’s husband."
He saw her face freeze.
"Wade? But… he hasn’t—"
She didn’t get to finish. Logan shoved the door open with his shoulder and entered without waiting for an invitation.
"Hey!" she screamed, stepping back. "Get out of my house, you—"
"Where is he?" Logan cut her off.
She opened her mouth, then closed it.
"I’ll call the police."
Logan raised an eyebrow.
"Go ahead. Tell them Wade Wilson’s father is hiding because he knows what he did to him. And that his uncle is going to join him soon. I’m sure they’ll love hearing the whole story."
Silence fell like a lead weight.
In the living room, a man slowly got up from an armchair. Tall, broad-shouldered, but his face marked by years and alcohol. He had the same eyes as Wade, except they were devoid of any humor. Just a cold void.
"Who the hell are you?" he rasped.
"Logan."
A cruel smile twisted Logan’s lips.
"And you’re the bastard who raised Wade."
The man flinched. He glanced at his wife, then turned his attention back to Logan.
"I don’t know what he told you, but the kid was uncontrollable. Always getting into trouble. Always going overboard. Always complaining."
Logan felt his claws twitching beneath his skin.
"He was nine fucking years old," he said in a low, threatening voice.
Wade’s father shrugged, a smirk on his face.
"Yeah. And he exaggerated to get attention. That’s all he ever wanted. Oh and I heard that you’re his husband? i always know he was a stupid fag "
Rage exploded through Logan’s veins. In an instant, he was on him. He grabbed him by the collar and lifted him off the ground like he weighed nothing.
"Say that again," he murmured.
The man gasped, flailing his arms.
"What, you gonna hit me? Go ahead, knock yourself out. It won’t change the story."
"You’re right," Logan whispered. "But it’ll feel damn good."
He sent his fist straight into the man’s jaw. A crack rang out. The man collapsed to the ground, spitting blood.
His wife screamed and recoiled against the wall, trembling.
"You knew," Logan growled as he turned to her.
She shook her head, terrified.
"No…"
"You knew," he repeated, louder. "You knew what your son was living under your roof. And you did nothing."
She burst into tears, but Logan had no pity to offer her. Why the hell was she playing the victim?
He looked down at the groaning man at his feet.
"Tell me where your brother is."
The man spat blood.
"Go fuck yourself. You’ll never know."
Logan smiled. Then he let his claws come out.
They slowly dug into Wade’s father’s thigh, just enough for him to feel every inch penetrate his flesh. He screamed.
"I don’t have all day, so hurry up and give me the information I need," Logan growled.
The man gasped, his face contorted in pain.
"He’s… he’s in Trenton… goddamn… in a mobile home…"
Logan straightened up, retracting his claws with a sharp motion.
"Thanks. See, that wasn’t so hard."
He threw one last look at the Wilsons.
"You’ve lost the amazing person Wade is. Forever. That’s your punishment."
He left them there, broken, and walked out without looking back. As he walked away, he muttered he’d be back for them later. For now, he had something far more important to do.
---
The mobile home was shabby, with dirty windows and a dented antenna on the roof. Logan didn’t wait. He extended his claws and broke down the door with one hit.
Inside, a man jumped and spilled a beer on his jeans.
He reeked of cigarettes and cheap whiskey.
"Shit," he grumbled. "What the—"
He looked up and froze when he saw Logan.
"Who…"
"Uncle Wilson, I guess?"
The man furrowed his brows, trying to understand.
Then he saw the claws.
And he understood.
"Wait, we can—"
Logan broke his nose with a punch.
The man screamed and collapsed against the table.
"No, we can’t. You didn’t give him a choice," Logan growled.
He grabbed him by the hair and slammed his head against the wood. Once. Twice. Three times.
Blood splattered on the table. The man groaned, spitting a tooth.
"Please," he whispered.
"Please?" Logan repeated, raising an eyebrow, mocking the man.
He pulled out a chair, forced him to sit in it, and took a deep breath.
"Wade told me you liked to tie up kids."
The man gasped.
"I—"
"Don’t move."
Logan grabbed a roll of tape lying around and wrapped his wrists to the armrests of the chair. He did it slowly, almost gently.
"You should’ve died a long time ago," Logan murmured.
The man trembled.
"I… I’m sorry…"
Logan smiled.
"No, you’re just terrified. Because when you were making him suffer, you weren’t sorry."
He extended his claws.
And he went to work.
He started with his fingers. Each phalange cut cleanly, one by one, until the man screamed so loud he lost his voice.
Then he moved down.
The knees.
The ankles.
Each bone broken with a sharp crack, each joint torn out with surgical precision.
Blood poured on the floor in thick puddles. The man gasped, his face turning gray.
"You have no idea what I want to do," Logan whispered as he crouched down.
He grabbed the man’s chin, forcing him to look him in the eyes.
"But Wade would probably be mad."
The man sobbed, unable to speak.
"So I’m going to be nicer than expected, but you’re still going to suffer," Logan continued.
He stood up and pulled a cigar from his pocket.
"And I’m going to make sure you die slowly, and painfully."
He lit the cigar and blew out the smoke.
Then he dropped the match on the whiskey-soaked floor.
The fire caught instantly.
The man screamed again, trying to move, but his mutilated body wouldn’t allow him to do anything.
Logan stepped out of the mobile home and closed the door behind him.
He walked away calmly, never looking at the flames.