CHAPTER 137 – THE HUNTER IN THE WALLS
The vents of Murderworld were cramped, but Logan moved like smoke through them. Every muscle relaxed, every step calculated. His breath was shallow, nearly nonexistent. The trick wasn't just silence—it was absence.
His borrowed stealth presence ability dulled the telltale signs. No heat signature, no scent trail, nothing for Arcade's toys to register. For the cameras, Logan relied on the old-fashioned way—moving through blind spots, crouching in shadows, waiting for mechanical eyes to swivel away before shifting forward.
The X-Men's struggle below vibrated faint through the metal. He caught snippets of shouts—Scott barking orders, Colossus groaning under strain, Storm's furious cry. Logan's lip curled in pride. "Good. They're fightin' their way out. Now it's my turn."
His nose twitched. A bouquet of scents flooded him—sweat, oil, ozone. Beneath it all, one sharp and acrid, tinged with fear masked by cologne and expensive wine. Arcade.
Logan followed it like a bloodhound. He stopped at a vent above the control room and peered through the grate.
Arcade sat in a throne-like chair before a wall of screens. Fingers danced on levers, eyes wild, teeth gnashing. He slammed his fist down hard enough to make his champagne glass rattle.
"Impossible! They were supposed to die! The math was perfect! The physics immaculate! My traps are ART!" His voice cracked, half child, half mad genius.
Logan's claws slid out with a whisper. He stayed still, watching.
Arcade's tirade continued. "Cyclops should've burned out by now, Colossus crushed, Nightcrawler flambéed, Storm drained like a battery—AND YET they rise! Always they rise! Stupid, stubborn mutants, refusing to play properly!"
Logan's grin spread slow, feral. "Guess you never factored me into your math, bub."
He dropped.
The grate crashed open and Logan landed catlike on the console, claws flashing. Arcade squealed, scrambling back as Logan swung. Sparks flew as metal carved through steel.
Arcade tripped, slammed against the wall. Logan stalked forward, cigar clenched between his teeth, smoke curling through the red glow.
"You got one helluva twisted idea of fun," Logan growled. "Lemme show ya mine."
He slashed—not to kill, but to terrify. The armrest split in two. Arcade yelped, fumbling for a hidden button, only for Logan's boot to pin his wrist to the floor.
Logan leaned down, eyes blazing yellow under the shadows. "You're cornered. No toys. No machines. Just you an' me. Not so funny now, huh?"
Arcade swallowed, then—smiled. Too wide. Too smug.
"You X-Men," he whispered. "You always think when you corner me, it's the end. But in Murderworld… the game never ends."
His free hand slammed a panel on the wall. With a whirr-click, a hatch in the ceiling snapped open. A launch platform shoved upward beneath his feet.
"No—" Logan slashed, just missing him. Arcade shot skyward through the hatch, vanishing into the night. His laughter echoed, high and mad.
"Hah! Round one to you, Wolverine! But remember—games are best two out of three!"
Logan snarled, claws retracting with a metallic sigh. "Coward."
He turned to the side consoles, sniffing. The scents of fear and perfume hit him. Colleen. Amanda. Betsy.
A quick slash. Sparks. Metal doors clattered open, and the women stumbled out, bound and gagged. Logan cut their restraints, slow and careful, making sure no stray blade drew blood.
Amanda hugged him first, face streaked with tears. "Mein Gott… Logan, you found us."
"Course I did." His tone softened, rough but steady. "Ain't no way I was lettin' Arcade keep any of you."
Colleen rubbed her wrists, giving him a wry smile. "I see subtlety isn't your thing."
Logan smirked, lighting another cigar with casual defiance. "Subtle enough to get the job done."
He looked back at the monitors, where the rest of the X-Men now stood together, triumphant amid broken traps and shattered illusions.
"Time to finish this," Logan muttered, jerking his head toward the door. "C'mon. Let's get the family back together."
The captives followed, relief in their steps. And Logan, the last smoke of his cigar curling into the cold steel air, walked ahead—predator satisfied, but never done.
The X-Men were whole again. For now.