Chapter 1
Logan woke with a start, heart pounding as he sat up suddenly. He gasped a few times before slumping back onto his elbows, sweaty hair falling into his eyes. The remnants of a nightmare lingered in his mind after having chased him to wakefulness. There were words on the tip of his tongue, a cry for someone, or perhaps a warning, but he couldn't piece them together. It was all slipping through his fingers like sand, disintegrating into the void of his forgotten memories.
He tried to take a deep breath and winced at the sharp pain that shot through his chest; the effort to inhale deeply seemed impossible. Sleeping on his back had left his ribs acting as a heavy, unrelenting weight on his lungs and each breath Logan took was labored and shallow. There was a throbbing spasm that resonated with each beat of his heart, but as Logan sat up further in bed, the pain dissipated into a gentle ache. He shifted slightly, trying to find a more comfortable position, but the heaviness remained; a reminder of just what lay below his skin.
Adamantium was heavy.
Logan swung his legs out of bed, hanging his head as he groaned. He rolled his shoulders carefully, hoping to ease the stiffness that had settled in overnight, but it was pointless. He’d injured his shoulders and chest yesterday and the new nerve endings that had replaced the damaged ones were still echoing the first thing felt: pain. It would take the day for the echo to fade.
He glanced around the room, the early morning light casting a long shadows on his wall and only seemed to add to his weariness. Did he really want to get up today? Surely he had a sick day in bank he could call in? Logan snorted at the thought and rubbed his forehead tiredly, no one would believe he was sick and would see it for what it was. A poor attempt to skip out on work.
With a weary sigh, Logan gentl6 reached into his mouth and pulled out his mouth guard. The mouth guard was something Logan had come up with a few years ago, one he'd had custom made for him by a farrier he'd met on the outskirts of Terrace, British Columbia.
No other metal workers would make what Logan asked for, most of them found it too horrific. He wanted a mouth guard forged from solid tungsten, not nearly as strong as adamantium or even vibranium, but it would do the job.
All but the farrier had balked at the design, and even the farrier had refused until Logan sat down and explained it to him. The mouth guard had thick, unyielding hooks that curved into the flesh of his gums on both the top and bottom of his mouth. The hooks had to be precisely shaped, making sure they dug deep into his gums, anchoring the guard in place. This kept his jaw clamped shut, making it impossible to open his mouth without tearing his own flesh and potentially ripping out several teeth.
Wearing it was agony, the pain from the hooks was constant and searing, an unrelenting reminder of the mouth guard’s presence. But Logan needed that pain; it was nothing compared to what he endured on those nights when his body fought the unrelenting invasion of the adamantium grafted to his bones. The metal that was fused to his very skeleton was a constant burden. Most saw it as a masterpiece of weaponization, but it came with the price of indescribable suffering. His mutant healing factor was continuously trying to reject the foreign metal. This battle waged endlessly beneath his skin, each attempt at healing met with resistance. The adamantium was unmovable, but that didn’t stop Logan’s body from trying.
When the waves of agony hit, they were all-consuming. Logan’s body would seize as if trying to reject his very bones themselves. The pain felt as if his soul was being ripped apart and he was unable to escape the torment of his own unbreakable bones. On those nights, the mouth guard became his last line of defense against himself. Tying his jaw shut, it was the only thing that stopped his screams from tearing through the silent halls of the mansion.
For Logan, this brutal contraption was more than just a muzzle; it was a necessary cruelty, a self-imposed restraint that kept his suffering locked inside. The mouth guard kept his pain private, his screams muffled, and his torment his own.
Spitting a thick glob of blood into the trash can by his bed, Logan winced as the coppery taste lingered on his tongue. The blood was fresh, dripping from the raw wounds the hooks had carved into his gums. Even as the wounds quickly healed, Logan could still feel the metal in his mouth. Felt the echo of the hooks on the roots of his teeth.
Logan cleaned the mouth guard with a damp cloth, wiping away the stains that clung to the tungsten hooks. He inspected the guard one last time, running his thumb over the cruel, curved hooks. Satisfied that it was clean, he placed it carefully into the drawer of his nightstand, tucking it away like some dark secret.
Logan stood, feeling the familiar protest of his muscles as he rolled his shoulders, the tension knotted deep in his bones. He flexed his hands, feeling the stiffness in his fingers, the slight tremor that betrayed his exhaustion.
“Fuck.”
Logan had known before he even crawled into bed that sleeping on his back would be a bad idea. It always was. But last night, after the mission, he hadn’t had the strength to care. His body was spent, wrung out from hours of combat and the relentless toll that his healing factor took on him with every injury. By the time he’d stumbled out of the shower, every step felt like dragging a dead weight. His muscles had screamed in protest, everything stiff from the endless cycle of tears and regeneration. He’d barely made it to his bed, collapsing onto the mattress. Without the energy to turn over, he’d slept where he fell.
As he’d drifted off, the familiar weight had settled on his chest, the feeling of being slowly crushed by his own body. The adamantium was heavy and unforgiving, pressing down on his lungs as he lay flat on his back, each breath shallow and strained. His muscles overcompensated, working overtime to keep him alive even in sleep, but no amount of healing could alleviate the sheer weight of the metal within him.
Throughout the night, Logan’s body fought a losing battle against itself. His overworked muscles pulled and cramped as they struggled under the pressure, his heart beating hard in his chest, trying to force air into lungs that never seemed to fully expand. Though his healing factor worked tirelessly to mend the strain, knitting together any damage as soon as it occurred, it couldn’t keep up with the constant suffocating pressure. Even in sleep, Logan was fighting.
The healing had already done its work, fixing the minor tears and strains in his muscles, but it couldn’t touch the lingering sensation of having been trapped beneath a crushing force. The phantom feeling of being pinned down lingered.
Logan knew the echo would stay with him all day, a terrible feeling of breathlessness that would remain.
A sharp knock on the door startled Logan out of his thoughts, pulling him back to the present. He must have truly been lost in thought for someone to be able to reach his door without him hearing them. Logan’s senses flared instinctively, body tensing as he turned his attention to the door. He caught the familiar scent that drifted through the air; soft, floral, and unmistakable. A quick sniff confirmed what he already knew: it was Jean.
“Come on, Logan,” Jean called through the door, “We still need to give the Professor our mission briefing.”
“Yeah, be there in a minute,” he replied, voice rough. He waited, listening intently as Jean’s footsteps retreated down the hallway, each step growing fainter until they disappeared completely.
Only then did Logan let out a slow breath, his shoulders slumping as he turned his attention to the bottom drawer of his dresser. He knew he was cutting it close, but if he was quick he could get what he needed and not be late. He crouched down, opening the drawer, fingers finding the familiar spot, and pressed down hard, feeling the click that released the false bottom with a practiced ease.
Logan reached in, pulling out a thin, unmarked lockbox. It was small and unassuming, the kind of thing you could easily overlook unless you were looking for it. The lock needed a four-digit PIN to open it, a number he had never shared with anyone, not even the people closest to him. He dialed in the code with quick, sure movements, his mind already focused on what he needed. Inside, the box was a careful array of vials, bottles, and blister packs—opioids, benzos, muscle relaxers, and other illicit drugs that Logan had collected over time. It was his own private pharmacy, a dangerous mix of desperation and defiance.
His eyes settled on the small blue pills nestled in one corner: fentanyl, one of the stronger medicines in the box. Logan grabbed six of them, his hand steady despite the tremor that ran through his body. He dry-swallowed them, feeling the bitter taste as they slid down his throat. He grabbed two more pills, this time biting down, feeling the chalky bitterness coat his tongue before he forced himself to swallow. The drugs would dull the edges of his pain on bad days like today, blurring the sharp lines of agony into something he could at least pretend to ignore.
Logan knew it wouldn’t last; it never did. The relief was temporary, but he was past caring at this point. He just needed to break the cycle, even for a moment. If he could stop it now before it worsened, then this day may not turn out to be one of the really bad ones.
Once the pills were down, Logan quickly locked the box, making sure it was secure before slipping it back into the drawer and clicking the false bottom back into place. He couldn’t afford any mistakes. The students had an uncanny knack for getting into places they weren’t supposed to be, and the last thing he wanted was for some kid to stumble upon his stash. Not only could it br dangerous for them, but Logan’s problems were his own, and he was determined to keep it that way. He couldn’t let his weaknesses spill over into their lives, couldn’t let them see just how much he struggled.
He grabbed a half-empty can of old coke from the floor by his bed, taking a quick swig to wash away the bitter aftertaste of the pills. The coke was warm and flat, but it did the job of cutting through the chalky taste left on his tongue. Logan closed his eyes, feeling the faint stirring of the drugs working their way into his system. The tightness in his chest began to ease, just a little, and the sharp pain that circulated through his muscles softened to a dull throb. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to get him moving, enough to face the team without flinching.
It would be enough for now.
And maybe, if he was lucky, it would be enough to get him through another day.
Logan slouched in the back of the meeting room, his eyes half-closed as Scott yammered on about yesterday’s mission. The rhythmic cadence of Scott’s voice, precise and controlled, rolled through the room like white noise. Logan had heard it all before; Scott’s measured recounting of tactical maneuvers, enemy positions, and team movements. The way he spoke was almost soothing in its predictability, lulling Logan into a half-asleep state that he would never admit to. It wasn’t that he didn’t care; it was just that these meetings always felt like more of the same; detached and clinical, devoid of the blood and grit that clung to the team afterwards.
Logan leaned his head back, feeling the cold wall against his skull, and let his eyes slide shut. The drugs were wearing off, their brief reprieve fading as the ache in his joints began to seep back in. It wasn’t the worst pain, just a dull, ever-present reminder. The slow grind of cartilage rubbed raw against adamantium coated bones. His healing factor was always struggling to keep up, knitting together microtears and patching up the damage, but it could only do so much, and arthritis sucked.
Turns out, metal bones were hell on a body’s natural cushion. Logan’s joints were under constant assault, the soft tissues were never meant to withstand such strain. The pain wasn’t unbearable, not this early in the day, but it was enough to make Logan more growly than normal.
Still, the deeper agony, the kind that flared up when his healing factor fell behind, turning his entire body into a war zone of pain, had been held at bay for now. The beginning pings of that hurt were quiet, starved off by the pills. He could sit here, be soothed by Scott’s voice droning on, and pretend that everything was okay.
“Were there any injuries?” The Professor’s voice cut through the haze in Logan’s mind. Logan blinked, opening his eyes and turning his gaze toward Scott. He watched the younger man, waiting to see how he’d respond. Would he tell the truth? Acknowledge the chaos, the blood, the close calls? Or would he keep it neat and tidy, just like always?
“No one was injured,” Scott replied smoothly, his expression calm and unbothered. Logan felt his stomach tighten, anger bubbling up at the dismissal, even though he knew it wasn’t meant that way. Scott wasn’t trying to erase what Logan had gone through, not really. To Scott, it was simple: if they walked away without any visible wounds, then they weren’t injured. They were fine. Even if, just minutes before, Logan had to spit out a bullet that had lodged itself in his chest, tearing through muscle like tissue paper.
Logan almost snorted at the absurdity but held back, his mouth pressed into a thin line. It wasn’t the lie that angered him, it was the complete disregard of it. He knew Scott wasn’t trying to hurt him, but that didn’t make it sting any less. For Logan, every hit, every wound, was a painful reminder of what his body was. But to everyone else, those moments didn’t count. They were just part of the job, an inconvenience that his healing factor was supposed to clean up without a fuss.
Charles’s gaze shifted to Logan, a quiet question in his eyes. Logan felt the gentle nudge of the Professor’s mind, a light probing touch that sought to understand, to offer comfort. But Logan wasn’t in the mood for comfort. He wasn’t in the mood for anyone to try to peer inside his head and tell him how to feel. He threw up his mental shields, shoving Charles back with a forceful, silent rejection. The anger he let slip past before the shields closed was deliberate, a clear message: stay the hell out.
Logan didn’t wait for the meeting to officially end. As soon as Scott finished, Logan pushed back from his chair, the legs scraping loudly against the floor as he got up and stormed out of the room. He didn’t bother with a word to anyone, didn’t care about the questioning looks or the silent judgments. He just needed out, needed to be away from the sterile, suffocating atmosphere of the mansion and its endless routines.
Logan made his way to the back doors and shoved them open, the sudden rush of warm air hitting his face like a splash of water. The woods loomed ahead, dark and dense, a sanctuary that Logan retreated to more often than he’d like to admit. Without a second thought, he took off at a run, his boots pounding against the earth as he slipped into the cover of the trees. He moved silently, instinct guiding him through the twisting paths of the underbrush, each step pushing him further away from the mansion, from the team, from everything that had been gnawing at him since the mission.
No injuries. What a fucking joke. Logan’s thoughts ran angry and fast, his rage burning beneath the surface as he tore through the woods. So what if he healed quickly? Did that mean the injuries didn’t count? Was getting shot not considered an injury just because the wound sealed itself up in a matter of seconds? What about the sucking chest wound that had nearly dropped him mid-fight? Or the moment when, even after his flesh had knit back together, the air had stayed trapped inside his chest, crushing his lungs? Logan had been forced to puncture between his own ribs just to let the trapped air escape, a brutal desperate act that had left him gasping and bleeding all over again. Was that not an injury?
Or was it just that Logan’s suffering didn't matter? His pain and blood didn’t even register to the people he fought beside.
Logan slowed as he reached the deeper section of the forest, where the trees grew tall and close, their branches weaving together to block out the sky. The air was cooler here, fresher in a way Logan could not explain. This was his place, a hidden pocket of solitude that no one else bothered to venture into. Logan climbed up into his favorite tree, the one with thick, sprawling on branches strong enough to cradled him. He settled into the crook of the trunk, pressing his side against the rough bark and letting himself sink into the familiar embrace of the woods.
He curled up, tucking his knees close to his chest, and stared out at the quiet expanse of green. Up here, surrounded by the rustling leaves and the distant calls of birds, Logan could finally let his guard down. He could think without the noise of the mansion, without the constant reminders of everything he wasn’t supposed to feel.
Did he really mean that little to everyone? Logan’s thoughts turned inward, twisting painfully as he tried to make sense of it all. He knew he was different, knew that his healing factor made him an outlier, someone who was expected to take the worst hits and keep going without complaint. But he was still human, or at least he liked to think he was. He still felt every bullet, every stab, every moment of agony that his body tried so hard to erase. And he felt it all over again when it went unacknowledged, dismissed like it was nothing more than a footnote in Scott’s debriefing.
What was the point of staying if no one cared? If every painful sacrifice was just brushed aside? Logan had spent his life fighting, but sitting here alone in the branches, he couldn’t help but wonder if it was worth it.
If he was worth it.
Logan pressed his forehead against the tree, closing his eyes as the weight of everything settled over him like a heavy blanket. He didn’t have the answers. He didn’t know what kept him going, what kept him coming back when it felt like no one would notice if he disappeared. But for now, this quiet, hidden corner of the forest was enough. It was the one place where Logan could let himself be vulnerable, where he didn’t have to be the unbreakable Wolverine.
It would be enough.