Five days later, at a genetic research facility on the outskirts of Mexico City.
Dr. Sander Rice stared at the figure restrained behind reinforced glass and laughed, the sound sharp and triumphant. The clone before him was young, powerful, and unmistakable—X-24, a perfected replica built from Wolverine's genetic template.
"I finally did it," Rice said softly. "A Wolverine who obeys. The future will kneel."
His obsession had begun decades earlier. Rice's father had been one of the surgeons involved in Logan's adamantium procedure—and had been killed during Logan's escape. From that day on, Rice decided the world would never again be held hostage by uncontrollable mutants.
He founded Alkali-Gen, embedded himself in global food and beverage supply chains, and quietly released the M-43 compound. It didn't harm humans, but it suppressed mutant abilities and erased the chance of mutation in future generations. Over twenty years, mutantkind was quietly starved out.
Now, with cloning perfected, he no longer needed failures.
"Donald," Rice said coldly, turning to the man beside him—his right arm replaced entirely with machinery. "Dispose of the remaining test subjects. They've proven unmanageable."
The original plan had been to raise mutant children as weapons. Instead, they developed free will. Some even tried to escape.
Unacceptable.
"Test Subject 757 as well?" Donald asked.
Rice hesitated only a moment. "Yes. We'll replicate stronger templates. Xavier. Magneto. The rest are obsolete."
Donald nodded, drew his pistol, and left.
In his room, Rowan Mercer glanced at the clock mounted above the steel door. His expression tightened.
Something was wrong.
By now, guards should have arrived to escort him to training.
"So it's today," he murmured.
The door slid open.
Two figures entered. The instructor who'd beaten him daily stepped in first, sneering.
"Told you this one was worthless. Waste of my time." He gestured lazily. "Put it down. Burn the body with the others."
The guard behind him raised his rifle.
Just before the trigger was pulled, Rowan spoke calmly.
"Alohomora."
There was a sharp click.
The inhibitor collar around his neck split open and fell away.
For a split second, confusion crossed the guard's face.
Then his throat opened.
The knife Rowan had placed by the doorway launched forward in a silver blur, severing the artery cleanly. The body collapsed without a sound.
The instructor reacted on instinct. His own blade flashed up, deflecting the second knife with a metallic shriek. Sweat broke across his brow.
"How?" he snarled. "You hid this?"
Rowan didn't answer. He flicked his wrist, shredding the surveillance camera above the door.
The knives came again—faster, heavier than ever before. The instructor barely held on, blood streaking down his arms as he staggered backward.
He tried to close the distance. Rowan denied him every step.
Then Rowan gestured.
The rifle flew from the dead guard's hands into Rowan's grip.
"Lesson's over," Rowan said, expression flat.
The instructor's eyes widened.
The gun roared.
When the noise stopped, the room was quiet again.
Rowan retrieved his knives, checked the corridor, and moved.
He advanced through the facility like a phantom, blades tearing out cameras, metal snapping and bending under invisible force. Screams echoed elsewhere—other cells, other executions. They weren't here for him alone.
That was why no reinforcements came.
This chaos was exactly what he'd been waiting for.
If he'd tried to escape alone, the base would have sealed and buried him in gunfire. He wasn't Magneto. He couldn't stop an army.
But now, with every alarm screaming and every guard distracted—
Rowan slipped deeper into the complex, heading for the exit.
The base was burning.
And this time, he was getting out.