Nathan slowed his bike as he approached the entrance to the rundown industrial park. The old, rust-covered gates stood crooked and half-hinged, barely connected to the crumbling brick wall they once guarded. The landscape around him was a desolate sea of yellow dust and broken concrete, a ghost town long forgotten by time and society.
He looked around and muttered to himself, "So this is where Wolverine has been hiding lately?"
It was hard to believe someone as iconic—and dangerous—as Logan would take up residence in such a bleak, forgotten place. But if there was one thing Nathan had learned recently, it was that appearances rarely told the whole story.
He parked the motorcycle near a collapsed loading dock and slung the Vibranium shield over his back. His steps were slow and deliberate as he circled to the back of the warehouse, avoiding the main entrance. Experience had taught him: anyone worth hiding usually watched the front.
He stopped before a high-set window, its glass dusty and cracked but partially open. Taking a deep breath, he crouched low, then sprang upward. With superhuman agility, he launched himself up, gripping the edge of the window and slipping inside like a shadow.
Inside, the air was musty and heavy. There were no sounds—no footsteps, no breathing. Just the faint creak of metal as the wind brushed against a loose sheet of siding. He landed on a stack of debris below, silently surveying his surroundings.
The factory's interior was lined with dusty shelving units, discarded tools, and rusting machinery. The floor was littered with bits of scrap and broken crates. Nathan stepped cautiously, scanning every inch. One hand held the shield, the other gripped a pair of magnetic restraints—just in case.
As he crossed into what appeared to be a makeshift living area, a pungent metallic scent hit his nose—blood. He froze.
He stepped closer.
Dark red stains covered the floor, dry and flaking. Around the room were scattered signs of struggle—broken tables, snapped chair legs, and deep gashes carved into metal walls. Bullet holes riddled the iron beams. Several bullet casings glinted in the low light.
"There was a fight here," he whispered.
A brutal one.
But the place was empty now. Whoever had lived here—likely Wolverine—was long gone.
Nathan scanned the area for clues. Nothing useful remained. No documents, no supplies. Just traces of violence.
"He took everything with him," Nathan muttered, eyes narrowing. "Smart."
He walked toward the rear exit, passing more dried bloodstains and overturned storage bins.
"But where did he go?" he thought. "And who else was here?"
Judging by the number of sleeping cots and discarded food wrappers, this hadn't been a one-man camp. Nathan crouched and examined a set of footprints in the dust—multiple shoe sizes, fresh scuff marks, overlapping treads.
"More than one person. Wolverine's been traveling with company?" he wondered aloud. "That's unusual."
Logan was known to be a loner. Always had been. The idea of him living with others, even temporarily, was… odd.
Without more to go on, Nathan made a decision.
"Time to hit the streets and ask around."
He needed local knowledge. And nobody knew a place better than its petty criminals.
He stashed his shield back in his backpack, clipped the magnetic cuffs to his belt, and walked back to his bike. With a rumble of the engine, he peeled away from the abandoned lot, kicking up clouds of yellow sand as he disappeared into the dusk.
The sun dipped lower on the horizon, painting the sky in streaks of orange and crimson, the light fighting to stay alive for just a few minutes more.
Nathan arrived in a nearby town just as night was falling. Small, dusty, and battered by time, it wasn't the kind of place that attracted tourists—or the law.
He pulled up outside a modest diner and stepped inside. A tired waitress gave him a bored glance as he walked past and took a seat at the bar. The place smelled of grease, coffee, and old vinyl seats.
He ordered a large plate of pasta and steak, then casually began a conversation with the owner, a middle-aged man wiping down the counter with a stained rag.
"So," Nathan began between bites, "anything… strange going on in this area lately?"
The owner laughed. "Strange? This place is made of strange."
He leaned in, clearly happy to gossip. "You've got old man Harris, who hasn't worn pants in three years. And the butcher next door—he talks to pigs before he slaughters them. Real weird stuff."
Nathan gave a forced smile.
"Oh! And you heard about the Tom family? Wife left, husband went to Thailand, came back married to someone named 'Bobby'—and Bobby used to be Barbara, if you catch my drift."
Nathan almost choked on his pasta. "Yeah… thanks. I meant more like unusual people, not personal drama."
The owner shrugged. "Weird's weird, right?"
Nathan pushed forward. "Say… what if something got stolen from me? Who'd I talk to around here?"
The owner stopped wiping and leaned in, voice low. "In this town? You won't get it back. Cops don't care. Hell, half of them are on payroll."
Nathan raised an eyebrow. "Payroll?"
The man nodded grimly. "Local gang. Street racers. Kanglin Street. You don't mess with them."
"They sound charming," Nathan said dryly, polishing off his plate.
"Listen, kid," the owner warned. "These people don't just boost wallets. They burn houses, shoot first, and bury questions later."
Nathan kept his expression neutral. "Just so I know what to avoid. Where do they hang out?"
The owner leaned back, visibly anxious. "Why do you wanna know?"
"Because I want to stay away from them," Nathan replied with a smile.
The man gave a wary nod. "Then stay far from Kanglin Street. Especially after dark. That's where they gather. Warehouse 9."
Nathan finished his drink, paid the bill, and stood to leave.
The owner called after him, "Material things come and go, son. Don't risk your life for 'em."
Nathan gave a wave over his shoulder. "Appreciate the advice."
With another rumble of the engine, Nathan was gone.
Kanglin Street, 9:37 PM.
The streets were lined with graffiti, broken streetlights flickering overhead. Warehouse 9 loomed in the distance, its outline visible in the glow of neon signs and the occasional flash of passing street racers.
Nathan parked a few blocks away and approached on foot.
Inside, the warehouse buzzed with energy. Music blared from massive speakers, bikes revved, and voices shouted over one another in a chaotic symphony.
Then, the moment he stepped into view:
"Hey! Who's that guy with the backpack?"
"New blood? Who brought him in?"
"No one I know."
A large man with a scar across his cheek stepped forward, his voice thick with menace. "You lost, kid? You walk into the wrong place, you don't walk out."
Nathan stopped. Unshaken. Calm.
He reached slowly into his bag—not for a weapon—but for a folded paper, one that bore the faint outline of Logan's face drawn from memory.
He held it up, eyes locked with the thug.
"I'm looking for this guy. Anyone seen him?"
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