In the cold Yukon landscape, the night stretched endless and unforgiving. A quaint little chalet stood in defiance of the elements, its aged wood creaking beneath the relentless assault of howling winds. Snow blanketed the ground in an endless white, swallowing the footprints that led up to the sagging porch where a thick-furred Siberian husky lay curled, its breath misting in the frigid air. Its ears twitched, alert even in its rest, its tail flicking idly as it nestled against the frost-stiff boards. Then, a sound. Not the usual groaning of the old trees or the distant cry of a scavenger, but something heavier, something deliberate. The husky’s head snapped up, its blue eyes glinting in the dim moonlight as a growl rumbled in its throat.

  Inside the chalet, the contrast was stark. Warm, humid air filled the space, steam curling toward the ceiling from the wide metal bathtub in the center of the rustic bathroom. The air was thick with heat and the sharp scent of cigar smoke, which coiled in lazy tendrils from between Victor Creed’s jagged teeth. Sabretooth stood motionless in the water, his massive, scar-riddled frame submerged up to his waist, muscles rippling under the amber glow of the lanterns that flickered against the aged wooden walls. His golden mane clung wetly to his shoulders, and though his body was still, his predator’s instincts never dulled.

  Birdy stood behind him, her delicate hands kneading the dense knots in his shoulders with practiced precision, her touch careful but firm. She wore a form-fitting black and pink bodysuit, the fabric hugging every curve, the high collar zipped halfway as if she couldn’t quite decide between comfort and readiness. Her platinum blonde hair was twisted up in a neat updo, loose strands clinging to her damp forehead. It was an odd thing, tending to a beast like this, but she was one of the few people on Earth who could. Not because she was unafraid of Victor Creed, but because she understood him in a way few dared to.

  “Woman, this is just what was needed,” Victor rumbled, his deep voice reverberating through the steamy room, his cigar glowing bright as he took a slow, indulgent drag.

  “Yeah, you’re tight as ,” Birdy murmured, her fingers pressing deeper into the muscle, rolling out the tension. “This oughta help.”

  Victor let out something that wasn’t quite a sigh, nor a growl. He didn’t acknowledge her words, didn’t thank her, because that wasn’t his way. He was a man of instincts, of indulgence, of primal need, and right now, he needed this. Needed the hands working the fire out of his muscles, needed the heat melting into his bones, needed something to keep his ever-present rage from boiling over into something ugly.

  “You really need to stretch more,” Birdy commented, tilting her head as she pressed into a particularly stubborn knot.

  Victor’s lips curled, his sharp teeth bared. “Don’t tell me what to do.”

  Without warning, his hand shot up, seizing her wrist in a crushing grip before his other hand clamped around her waist. In one effortless motion, he flung her across the room as if she weighed nothing. Birdy twisted midair, landing in a crouch against the far wall, her gloved hand bracing her impact.

  “Eugh,” she grunted, shaking her arm out, feeling the dull ache of bruises forming beneath her suit. “You oughta stop doing this to people who can give you an aneurysm.”

  Victor laughed, a deep, guttural thing. “Ha! Ya don’t got the balls to kill me, Birdy.” His grin widened, feral and gleeful. “Ya know you can’t finish the job, and even if ya tried, I’d gut ya first.”

  Birdy exhaled sharply, pushing to her feet, brushing herself off as she rolled her shoulders. “You’re a real piece of shit, Victor.”

  “Yeah? That’s why ya don’t do this for free, woman.” He took another long drag from his cigar, blowing the smoke lazily toward the ceiling, utterly unconcerned.

  Then, a sound cut through the moment. Low, guttural barking from the husky outside. Not the lazy, warning barks of a dog disturbed by a rustling branch, but deep, urgent, unrelenting. Something was out there. Something that didn’t belong.

  Victor’s grin faltered for a fraction of a second before he rolled his head toward the noise, nostrils flaring. “Go see what the dog found, Birdy.”

  She arched a brow at him, arms crossed. “If it’s another bear?”

  “Get a gun and kill it, blondie.”

  She scoffed. “Can’t you kill it?”

  Victor stretched lazily, rolling his broad shoulders. “Will ya give me a blowjob?”

  Birdy snorted. “No.”

  “Then get the out there. I ain’t payin’ ya to yap. Less words, more blood.”

  Birdy let out an exaggerated sigh, muttering something under her breath as she strode across the room, grabbing a heavy coat off the rack. She pulled it on, the fabric still warm from the fire, and grabbed an Ithaca 37 shotgun that leaned against the wall. The dog’s barking hadn’t stopped.

  Victor remained in the bath, cigar in hand, watching her go with an amused smirk, waiting to see what fresh hell the Yukon night had brought to their doorstep.

  The night was thick, the Yukon wind whispering through the treetops like a distant, mournful howl. Snow crunched beneath Birdy’s boots as she followed Magnus deeper into the dark. The dog was still barking, a guttural, frenzied sound that made the hair on the back of her neck prickle. The shotgun was firm in her grip, her finger resting on the trigger guard, her breath a fog in the cold air.

  "What is it, buddy? Another bear?" she muttered, eyes narrowing as she scanned the treeline, the vague silhouettes of branches twisting against the sky like skeletal fingers.

  Magnus didn’t stop. He kept barking, his body stiff, his stance rigid with something beyond the usual alertness of a dog in the wild. Birdy felt the shift in the air, the way it grew dense, hidden with something unseen but deeply wrong.

  “, what’s gotten into you?”

  Then, suddenly, the dog bolted.

  “MAGNUS!” she yelled, lunging forward, but the husky was already a blur, vanishing into the thick woods.

  She took off after him, boots sinking into the snow, the weight of the shotgun slowing her. The trees swallowed her whole, their gnarled roots forcing her to move with caution, but she didn’t stop. Somewhere up ahead, Magnus had gone silent.

  That was worse. That was so much worse.

  Then—a whimper.

  A wet, shuddering whimper that turned into a soft, painful sob.

  “Magnus?” Her voice was barely above a whisper now, her pulse thundering in her ears.

  A sharp snap rang out through the woods.

  She froze.

  “MAGNUS!”

  Her legs moved before her brain caught up. She tore through the undergrowth, the crunch of frozen branches under her boots barely registering in the back of her mind. The shotgun was up now, her body tensed, every instinct screaming at her to stop, think, listen, but she didn’t.

  And then she saw it.

  Movement.

  A blur of something shifting between the trees.

  She raised the shotgun, exhaling sharply.

  The blast echoed through the silence, illuminating the dark for the briefest moment, and then—nothing. Just the trees. Just the wind.

  She clenched her jaw, took another breath.

  “I’ll you if you hurt that dog!” she snarled.

  Another shot, tearing into the void.

  Still nothing.

  No sound, no movement. Just the whisper of the wind weaving through the frozen canopy.

  And then—

  Metal.

  A sharp, high-pitched ricochet that made her gut sink like a stone in black water.

  Her grip on the shotgun tightened.

  “What the—”

  And then she felt it, a shift in the air, a sudden presence, something unnatural.

  She turned, her heart plummeted instantly.

  The moon cast silver light over the clearing, and there, emerging from the darkness, was a man.

  Tall. Broad. His silhouette unnervingly still, unnervingly wrong. His skin gleamed, catching the light in a way that flesh shouldn't. His right eye flickered red, burning in the dark like a molten ember.

  Birdy held her breath.

  She raised the shotgun.

  The shell fired straight at him.

  The same sharp, metallic sound. No impact. No wound. Just… a clink.

  Her stomach churned.

  She fired again.

  “Fuck.” Her voice cracked, her breath coming out ragged. “Fuck.”

  Then, he stepped forward.

  The shadows peeled away from him like living things retreating in fear. His features came into view—sharp, familiar, twisted into something cold and inhuman.

  Birdy’s fingers went numb around the shotgun.

  Her throat tightened.

  Because she knew that face.

  Even with the enhancements, even with the glistening metal sheen to his skin, even with the eerie, unholy glow in his eye—she knew him.

  A thing that was supposed to be dead.

  A thing that should not be standing in front of her.

  Her breath hitched in her chest.

  She muttered, panic in her voice.

  Before she could even process, she was already being held up by her neck.

  Inside the cabin Sabretooth flicked the ash off his cigar, watching as the ember tumbled down into the soapy bathwater before hissing out of existence. His muscles were loose, the heat of the water still clinging to his skin, steam curling up in lazy tendrils around him. The Yukon wind rattled against the wooden frame of the house, but inside, it was warm, the scent of whiskey and burning tobacco heavy in the air.

  He exhaled through his nose, thinking, "If this bitch gets mauled by a bear, I swear..."

  Outside, however, the night was filled with something far worse than any bear.

  Birdy struggled, thrashing like a fish caught on a hook, her feet kicking at empty air as Graydon Creed held her aloft with one hand. His grip was unrelenting, fingers like steel bands wrapped around her waist, keeping her dangling like a broken doll. Her body jerked as she clawed at his arm, her breath coming in panicked, choked gasps.

  "Is your boss home, "

  His voice was calm, almost amused, as if he were asking about dinner plans.

  "Fuck you, Graydon."

  A sneer curled over his lips, the red glow of his mechanical eye pulsing slightly, reflecting off the cold white snow beneath them.

  "Whatever you say, mutant."

  With a sudden jerk, he grabbed her right arm—the one still gripping the shotgun—and ripped it from her socket.

  The sound was wet and awful, a sickening combination of tearing muscle, snapping bone, and the obscene squelch of flesh being ripped apart like cheap fabric.

  Birdy’s scream tore through the forest, raw and primal, echoing against the trees, her mind incapable of processing what had just happened.

  Her vision blurred, her body convulsing, hot blood spurting down Graydon’s arm as he held the severed limb in his free hand, shotgun still clenched in its twitching fingers.

  Inside the cabin, Sabretooth’s ears twitched.

  He sniffed.

  His nose wrinkled, irritation flickering across his face. "That dumb bitch actually got herself killed." He muttered, tossing his cigar into the bathwater as he stood up, water cascading off his massive frame.

  Outside, Birdy was dying.

  She could feel it. She could taste it.

  Her body trembled violently, breath hitching in sharp, shallow gulps, her nerves still trying to process the pain. The cold air was searing against her exposed flesh, her blood steaming as it poured into the snow below, staining it a deep crimson.

  Graydon tightened his grip on her throat, lifting her higher, watching as her body went limp for a moment before twitching again.

  "Don't cry, little Birdy," he said, voice almost gentle, mocking. "It'll be over soon."

  She snarled.

  Her left hand curled into a fist—weak, trembling, but still filled with defiance—and she punched him square in the face.

  The impact hurt her more than it hurt him.

  She felt her knuckles break on his cheekbone.

  No—not cheekbone, that was something else, hard like steel.

  Her mind was foggy from blood loss, but she still felt it.

  Metal.

  He didn’t flinch.

  Didn’t even blink.

  Instead, he smiled.

  And then, with the same eerie calm, he grabbed her left arm—and ripped it off as well.

  She screamed.

  A deep, visceral sound, one of sheer agony and horrific realization as her body lurched violently, a fresh spray of hot arterial blood coating Graydon’s chest as he casually tossed the limb aside.

  Her entire body shook uncontrollably, the nerves in her shoulders still firing signals to limbs that no longer existed. She was caught in a terrible purgatory of pain and loss, her vision narrowing into a dark tunnel, her heartbeat pounding like war drums in her ears.

  Now she was held only by her neck, dangling weightless in the air as Graydon carried her toward the cabin.

  His boots crunched through the snow, leaving behind a thick, glistening trail of blood that snaked behind him like a red river, leading straight to Victor Creed’s doorstep.

  Inside, Sabretooth grabbed a towel, rubbing his wet hair with one hand as he stepped onto the porch, naked and annoyed.

  "Birdy?" He muttered, sniffing the air again.

  He paused.

  His golden eyes narrowed. His gut twisted, instincts screaming at him just before his mind caught up.

  Then he saw it.

  The trail of blood.

  The shape in the dark.

  Graydon Creed stepping into his father's view, his mechanical frame glinting beneath the cold white glow, his red eye burning like a demon’s ember, his grip still firm on what was left of Birdy.

  The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

  She was barely conscious, her head lolling, eyes rolling back, her body limp and ruined, blood still dripping onto the snow.

  Sabretooth’s jaw clenched.

  His muscles tensed, the rage boiling up so quickly that for a moment, he thought the air itself had gotten hotter.

  Graydon smiled, sharp and slow, something twisted in his expression—equal parts amusement and venom.

  "Hello, Father." His voice was smooth, cold, mocking.

  Sabretooth didn’t move.

  For once in his goddamn life, Victor Creed didn’t know what the fuck he was looking at.

  Sabretooth stood there, his massive frame still, golden eyes narrowed, calculating, processing what his senses were telling him. His nostrils flared, drawing in the thick, metallic scent of fresh death, his ears tuned to every subtle sound—the wet squelch of pooling blood, the shifting of Graydon’s boots on the snow, the faint, pathetic wheeze that was still somehow slipping past Birdy’s shattered throat.

  She was dying, hanging from Graydon’s grip like a discarded puppet, her head lolling, her chest barely rising. The front of her bodysuit was soaked in crimson, her arms gone, leaving only ragged, exposed flesh where her shoulders had been.

  Her lips parted, a whisper of breath escaping.

  ""

  She couldn’t finish.

  Graydon’s left hand clamped over her face, his fingers curling slowly, possessively.

  Sabretooth watched, his clawed hands balling into fists.

  Graydon's red mechanical eye flickered, scanning the woman in his grip like she was nothing more than meat. His real eye—still dark, still human—held nothing. No anger. No remorse. Just a quiet, mocking emptiness that made Sabretooth’s gut twist.

  Then, without warning, he tilted his head forward and pressed a kiss against Birdy’s trembling lips.

  It was slow. Deliberate.

  A mockery of intimacy, something sick and unfathomable.

  Birdy’s fingers twitched weakly, but her mind was already slipping beyond the veil of understanding. She didn’t know why. She didn’t know what was happening. She barely knew who she was anymore.

  Graydon’s grip tightened.

  Her skull buckled inward, the soft wet pop of her left eye bursting spilling warm fluid down her ruined cheek.

  Sabretooth’s ears twitched.

  He could hear her bones giving way, the sickening sound of cranial plates collapsing under relentless pressure, the final spasmodic shudder of her body as it tried—and failed—to reject the impossible pain.

  Then, nothing.

  Nothing but silence.

  Graydon held what was left of her, the corpse still twitching in its final death throes, his fingers buried inside what had once been a skull. He lingered a second longer, savoring the moment, before unceremoniously releasing his grip.

  Birdy’s headless body crumpled to the snow like a broken doll, blood pooling instantly, steaming in the cold.

  Graydon lifted his left hand, wiping it lazily on the sleeve of his coat before dragging his wrist across his lips, as if scrubbing away the mutant filth from his mouth.

  His expression barely shifted.

  "Mutants taste the same… like ."

  His voice was flat, almost bored. He kicked her body over with his boot, rolling it face-down in the snow, letting the last of the crimson warmth seep into the frozen ground.

  Then, finally, he looked up.

  Sabretooth hadn’t moved.

  His eyes, usually filled with something cruel and wicked, were empty now, still—a strange, dangerous stillness, the kind that came before a storm tore through a valley and erased everything in its path.

  "You killed her, boy." His voice was a low rumble, the kind of sound that came from deep in his chest, almost a growl. His claws flexed. His breathing slowed. His muscles coiled like a wound spring.

  "Why?"

  Graydon’s expression snapped, his entire body jerking forward, veins in his forehead and neck bulging, voice twisting into something venomous and raw.

  "WHY!?"

  He threw his arms out, spattered blood flicking from his fingertips onto the snow, the red drops bright and glistening under the moonlight.

  "Have you EVER asked why you killed anyone in your life, you!?"

  His voice cracked with something that wasn't anger, wasn't hatred—it was deeper, older, more broken than either of those things. Trauma, unrelenting, unforgiving trauma, once a happy boy turned into a spectator of his father's sadism, too many twisted "gifts". In Graydon's mind, this was his own twisted gift to his hateful father.

  Sabretooth launched himself forward, his body a coiled spring of pure predatory instinct, his claws curved like the scythes of a reaper, aimed straight for Graydon’s throat.

  "Well, boy, it seems ya finally outgrew those weak human genes ya have."

  His voice was a deep, guttural snarl, thick with something twisted—pride, mockery, anticipation.

  Graydon sidestepped at the last second, Sabretooth’s razor-sharp talons missing his arm by mere inches, slashing through the air with a sickening hiss.

  "Shut your damn mouth, Sabretooth."

  Graydon’s voice was cold, seething, filled with something that had been festering for decades. He pivoted, his mechanical joints whirring slightly as he drove a right hook straight into Sabretooth’s face, the impact echoing like a gunshot through the empty Yukon night.

  The force of the hit was immense.

  Victor stumbled back, his head snapping to the side, blood spitting from his lips into the snow.

  Graydon smirked, pleased.

  But the look didn’t last long.

  Sabretooth wiped the blood off his chin with the back of his hand, then grinned. A slow, wolfish expression, teeth bared like a man who had just found his favorite prey.

  "It seems ya’re the same shit as yer old man."

  His voice dripped with mockery, his stance adjusting, muscles tightening as his fury truly kicked in. The first hit was nothing—now the real fight was about to begin.

  Graydon came in for another punch—faster, harder—but this time, Sabretooth was ready.

  The instant Graydon’s arm extended, Sabretooth slashed upward with blinding speed, his claws tearing into Graydon’s forearm, splitting synthetic skin and reinforced tissue like peeling back the layers of a machine.

  A sharp gash opened, the flesh beneath it dark, metallic, unnatural.

  Graydon hissed through clenched teeth, stumbling back, clutching his arm. His rage flared, something snapping in him as his entire body tensed.

  " MADE ME LIKE THIS!"

  His left hand jerked upward, and from his wrist, a blade shot forward, the metal gleaming in the moonlight before he drove it straight through Sabretooth’s right hand, pinning it to his own chest.

  Sabretooth snarled, his body jerking, his free hand instinctively moving to rip the weapon free—but Graydon didn’t give him the chance.

  The blade twisted.

  Sabretooth’s muscles locked, nerves searing in raw agony as the jagged edge dug into his tendons, slicing through bone and ligaments with sickening ease.

  For a brief second, the Yukon wind howled around them, the fight paused in an eerie silence—blood steaming in the snow, Graydon and Sabretooth locked in a violent, motionless tableau.

  Then, Victor laughed.

  A low, guttural, bloodied laugh, a sound so cruel, so maddening, that for a moment, even Graydon hesitated.

  Sabretooth’s yellow eyes gleamed with something sick and twisted, his lips curling back.

  "Ha! I wish, ya made yerself like this, runt."

  Then, with monstrous strength, he ripped his own hand free, tearing the blade out with a violent jerk.

  Blood sprayed across the snow in wide arcs, some of it splattering against Graydon’s face.

  Sabretooth’s claws flexed, the healing process already beginning, tendons knitting themselves together, flesh stitching back into place with a gruesome, wet sound.

  Then he moved again.

  Faster. Meaner. Unforgiving.

  His fist shot forward, slamming into Graydon’s chest like a battering ram, the sheer force lifting him off the ground for a split second before he was sent skidding backward, his boots carving deep trenches in the snow.

  Graydon staggered, coughing, his body convulsing from the impact.

  "Fuck you!"

  His arm snapped upward, and before Sabretooth could close the gap again—

  A shotgun slug fired directly from Graydon’s wrist.

  The blast hit Sabretooth square in the face, his head jerking violently backward, flesh tearing, bone cracking as the force sent him crashing onto his back in the snow, arms sprawled, steam rising from the massive wound on his skull.

  For a second, there was no movement.

  Then, slowly, Victor’s body twitched, his fingers curling, his wounds sealing back together, bone reforming, flesh knitting over itself in rapid bursts of cellular regeneration.

  Graydon watched, breathing heavily, his mechanical eye flickering, scanning Sabretooth’s vital signs, registering the grotesque recovery speed.

  His lip curled.

  "You’re rusty, old sack of shit."

  He cocked his wrist, another shell loading into place.

  Victor’s eyes snapped open, his golden irises gleaming like an animal in the dark.

  His lips peeled back, revealing bloody, regrowing fangs.

  Then he smiled.

  A smile of murder. A smile of hunger. A smile that said this was only the beginning.

  Graydon’s mechanical eye glowed, the red light pulsating like a heartbeat, locked onto his father with an intensity that could shatter steel. His breath came in short, heated bursts, his mechanical systems recalibrating, adjusting to the damage Sabretooth had already done.

  His lip curled.

  "You disgust me."

  He raised his arm, the shotgun whirring as it primed another round, the barrel shifting, adjusting for the kill shot.

  Sabretooth moved before he could pull the trigger.

  A blur of raw muscle and instinct, a monstrous force of nature, tearing across the snow in a feral lunge. His claws sank into Graydon’s chestplate, metal shrieking as he ripped through it like it was paper, puncturing the reinforced armor beneath, sinking into flesh and synthetic muscle.

  Graydon hissed, jerking backward, his systems screaming warnings in his skull, the damage reports flashing across his retinal display.

  Sabretooth grinned, breath heavy, hot with amusement and madness.

  "Ya are lyin', boy," he growled, his voice thick with mockery. "Ya love me. Ya love what I am. Love what ya became."

  Graydon snarled, grabbing Sabretooth by the forearm before the claws could dig deeper, before his father could carve him apart like a slaughtered hog.

  With a burst of energy, his feet ignited, the jet thrusters in his legs activating with a deafening roar, propelling them both into the sky.

  Sabretooth growled, his hair whipping in the wind, his massive body dragged violently upward. Graydon’s grip tightened around his arm, twisting, trying to rip the limb from its socket, trying to tear his father apart the way he had ripped Birdy to pieces.

  The metal groaned, servos and pistons whirring under the strain, every mechanical fiber in his body focused on one thing—ripping Victor Creed in half.

  But Sabretooth was faster.

  His free hand shot forward, claws sinking into Graydon’s side, tearing through reinforced plating, punching a gaping wound into his torso.

  Graydon roared, pain flashing through his nervous system, every alarm in his cybernetic body screaming red warnings.

  With a feral snarl, he threw Sabretooth downward, hard.

  Victor crashed into the roof of the cabin, the wooden structure splintering like matchsticks, a cloud of debris and snow exploding outward.

  Graydon’s voice tore through the sky, ragged, filled with something close to desperation and hatred entwined.

  "NO!"

  He plummeted after him, ripping through the ruined ceiling, landing directly atop his father, driving him straight through the bathtub below.

  The tub shattered instantly, water erupting across the cabin floor, steaming against the heat of blood and battle, the last symbol of peace in this hellhole shattered beyond repair.

  Victor lay there for a moment, sprawled in the wreckage, soaking wet, bloodied, his golden eyes gleaming with twisted amusement.

  Then—

  He laughed.

  A deep, gravelly cackle, low and cruel, filled with a sick kind of joy.

  His fangs glinted in the dim light, his breath thick with the scent of blood and whiskey.

  "Oh boy, but ya do… this man ya are… this beast… that’s pure Creed goodness."

  His voice was mocking, dripping with wicked delight, the kind of satisfaction only a monster could have.

  Then, in an explosive burst of movement, he lunged forward, claws out, a blur of motion and bloodlust.

  Graydon caught his wrist mid-swipe, his muscles straining, servos whining under the pressure, stopping his father’s razor-sharp talons mere inches from his left eye—his only human eye.

  "I’m not your son," Graydon hissed through clenched teeth, his jaw tightening, his voice trembling with rage. "I’m free from your grasp. Free from your insanity."

  Sabretooth grinned, his fangs gleaming.

  "BOY!" His voice was a growl, a thunderous roar of defiance, his breath hot and thick against Graydon’s face. "This ain’t freedom."

  His fingers flexed, pressing against Graydon’s mechanical grip.

  "Ya’re indulgin’… indulgin’ in what ya are."

  His voice dropped, eyes narrowing, filled with something dark and knowing.

  "A monster."

  For a brief second, Graydon’s breath caught in his throat.

  Something echoed in his mind. A voice not his own—

  "Only monsters can hunt monsters."

  Graydon’s eyes widened, his body tensing, his grip tightening so hard he felt Victor’s bones strain against the force.

  "SHUT UP!"

  With a savage twist, he grabbed Victor’s fingers, wrenching them backward at an unnatural angle.

  Sabretooth’s hand crumpled, the sound of shattered bone ringing out, his fingers bent into twisted, ruined angles.

  Victor didn’t scream.

  He smirked.

  "This the best ya got, runt?"

  Graydon’s snarl deepened, his cybernetic arm priming, the plasma building at his wrist, the energy humming like a restrained hurricane.

  The plasma detonated from his left wrist, the shot blazing bright as fire, like the heat of a dying sun compressed into a focused blast, like the Alamo's anger slamming directly into Victor’s face.

  The impact was devastating, the flesh burned and the muscle charred,

  The left side of Sabretooth’s face melted away, searing down to the skull, his eye burning out in a flash of crimson and white, his cheekbone charred beyond recognition. Victor staggered, his head snapping to the side, his breath ragged, steam rising from the exposed tissue, his muscles convulsing as his healing factor struggled to keep up.

  Graydon stepped back, chest rising and falling, watching as his father’s face was still smoldering, his golden eye replaced with a blackened, empty socket.

  Sabretooth wiped a charred hand across his jaw, flicking burned flesh from his fingers, rolling his neck like it was nothing but an inconvenience.

  Then he grinned.

  A blackened, bloodied, feral grin.

  "Not bad, boy."

  His voice was hoarse, but still dripping with amusement.

  His body twitched, his muscles tightening again.

  Graydon hovered above the floor, his mechanical frame humming with residual energy, his hands still clenched into tight, trembling fists, every fiber of his being screaming at him to finish this, to tear his father apart the way he had dreamed of doing since he was old enough to understand what hatred really was.

  "You deserve death, for those people who died... in the orphanage, at school. You're a plague, Victor Creed."

  Victor spoke, and the words—those cursed, impossible words—made something in Graydon stagger.

  "Maybe I was wrong with ya, a poor dad."

  His breath hitched, his eye flickering, not just his mechanical one—but his human one, the one he had never let feel anything but rage and fire.

  Graydon’s voice quivered, not with fear, not with anger—but with uncertainty.

  It had been so long since he had heard anything from this monster that wasn’t taunting, cruel, dripping with sadistic pride. He was prepared for hatred. Prepared for mockery.

  But not this.

  Victor approached, his steps slow, measured, the kind of movement only a predator trying not to spook wounded prey would make. His massive frame was shattered in places, burnt beyond recognition, but his voice—his voice was low, raw, carrying a weight that Graydon had never heard before.

  "Maybe I was wrong, too savage, too sadistic… But I just wanted to take care of ya. Make ya strong."

  Graydon tensed, his gut twisting violently.

  No, no, no.

  This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be real.

  Victor Creed didn’t talk like this. Sabretooth didn’t reflect, didn’t feel remorse, didn’t care about anything other than himself.

  Graydon’s human eye burned, his throat clenching, but his mind was at war with itself.

  "And I can see ya grew strong and don’t need help anymore."

  Victor lifted his head, his golden predator eyes dulling just slightly.

  "Makes me proud, son."

  The words hit Graydon like a bullet to the chest.

  His breathing stuttered, his legs felt weak, his mechanical body registering changes in his vitals, flashing warning signs about elevated heart rate, erratic stress responses, increased neurological activity in the emotional cortex.

  But he wasn’t focused on any of that.

  He was staring at Victor, at the man who had shaped every moment of his life, the man who had haunted his childhood, broken his spirit, carved wounds into his soul that could never heal—and yet…

  And yet somehow, this moment had shattered him more than all of it combined.

  "Father?"

  The word slipped out before he could stop it, before he could catch it and strangle it in his throat the way he had done with all other emotions for years.

  A foreign, unfamiliar heat burned behind his eye, the numbness that had settled over his soul for so long suddenly cracked, splintering, crumbling under the weight of words he had never imagined hearing from this man.

  Victor Creed had called himself a lot of things in his life. A monster. A killer. A predator.

  But never a father.

  Graydon had been so sure, so certain, that the only thing his father had ever felt for him was hate.

  He was supposed to be a mistake, a failed mutation, a disgrace to everything Creed was supposed to be.

  And yet, standing here, among the ruins of blood and battle, Victor Creed had said something that Graydon had never once let himself believe was possible.

  "Proud."

  The word rattled around his skull, echoing, bouncing between the memories that had built him into what he was. He didn’t know how to feel it, didn’t know if he wanted to feel it.

  He had built his entire life on this hatred, had defined his every waking moment on making sure that he would never become his father, that he would never be like the thing that had raised him in blood and nightmares.

  The warmth that Graydon had felt—the fleeting, fragile ember of something almost human—died the moment he felt the claws punch into his chest.

  His body jerked violently, nerves screaming, his mind barely registering the pain before the betrayal sank in, deep and twisting.

  Sabretooth’s claws ripped through his side, piercing synthetic muscle, metal reinforcements, and still-living flesh, cutting through his core like butter. The warmth of his own blood spread across his torso, thick, hot, wrong—the first real blood he had spilled in years, real, human blood, not the sterile oil of his augmentations.

  His mind stuttered, locking up for a moment as his father’s voice slithered into his ears, guttural and cruel.

  "Ya’re still the same ol’ patheticsadweak

  The words hit harder than the wound, and for a moment, just a moment, something inside Graydon broke again, cracked wide open, the wound festering from childhood splitting at the seams.

  Rage

  A flood of it.

  More than he had ever felt in his entire miserable fucking life.

  His teeth clenched, his flesh eye burning, his metal one flickering like a wildfire consuming itself, the red glow pulsing erratically.

  A drop of blood rolled down his lip, slow, taunting, and he moved.

  His fist cracked against Sabretooth’s jaw, full force, a blow that would have caved in a normal man’s skull, sending his father hurtling back, his massive body crashing through the wooden wall, splintering it on impact before he landed across the kitchen counter, breaking through it in an explosion of debris.

  Graydon’s breathing was ragged, his body shaking, his fingers twitching as adrenaline and rage merged into something monstrous.

  "I’LL DESTROY YOU, FREAK… MONSTER!"

  He charged forward, closing the distance in a blink, his mechanical frame overclocking itself, every servo, every piston, every piece of tech buried under his ruined skin working overtime.

  He crashed onto Sabretooth like a hurricane of flesh and steel, his fists driving down like sledgehammers, the sound of impact after impact reverberating through the ruined cabin.

  "I’LL KILL YOU!"

  His fists slammed into Sabretooth’s ribs.

  "I’LL KILL MYSTIQUE!"

  A crunch—Victor’s cheekbone fractured under the blow, his face twisting, blood spitting from his mouth.

  "I’LL KILL ALL FUCKING MUTANTS!"

  He grabbed Sabretooth by the shoulders, his grip unrelenting, and with a roar of absolute fury, he ripped his father’s arms straight from their sockets.

  Blood sprayed across his face, hot and thick, the limbs coming free with a sickening wet pop, torn flesh and shattered bone dangling uselessly from Graydon’s dripping hands.

  Sabretooth snarled, his body jerking violently, his healing factor already working overtime, his muscles twitching as fresh tissue struggled to mend itself.

  Graydon was panting, blood on his lips, his chin, his rage and tears mixing into a terrible, blinding storm.

  Then—his gaze snapped to something else.

  Something small. Flickering. Innocuous.

  A phone.

  His fingers twitched, his brain recalibrated, his mind processing what this could mean, and then he grabbed it, his breath still coming out heavy, uneven, unstable.

  He turned, looking at Victor, who was groaning, half-laughing, his body still shaking from the loss of his arms, blood dripping in thick, steaming pools onto the floor.

  Graydon held up the phone, his expression blank, his voice flat.

  "Is this your phone?"

  Victor barely managed a half-smirk, his breathing uneven.

  "Fu—"

  BANG.

  Graydon shoved the barrel of his wrist-blaster against his father’s face and fired.

  The shot obliterated his eye, the blast searing away skin, revealing bone beneath, Victor grunted, his body shuddering, his face now half-charred, the left socket hollow, bleeding, raw.

  Graydon’s fingers tightened on the phone, his knuckles whitening, his breath still coming out hard and broken.

  Victor huffed a bloody chuckle, shaking his head.

  Another shot. This time it tore into the other socket, blinding him completely, the force snapping his head backward, his teeth grinding together as his body spasmed in agony. For a moment, he didn’t speak.

  Then, finally, his lips parted, the words coming through clenched teeth, his voice strained, low, bitter.

  "081977."

  Graydon entered it.

  The phone unlocked instantly.

  His breathing slowed, his vision refocusing. His heart stopped.

  There it was.

  A secure encrypted app. Highly specialized. Yheoretically untraceable.

  It had one name attached to it, from the list of many.

  Graydon’s blood ran cold.

  Victor’s head lolled, his vision ruined, but his lips curled, sensing the shift in the air.

  Graydon didn’t respond.

  His fingers hovered over the screen, opening the conversation thread. There were no messages., not a single one. But that didn’t matter.

  Graydon stared at the empty chat for a moment, his mind a whirlwind, then…

  Then he typed.

  He lifted the phone just slightly, angling it downward, and with his free hand, he grabbed Sabretooth by the hair, yanking his ruined, armless body upward, and took a photo.

  Victor Creed.

  Broken. Bleeding. Defeated.

  The cabin a ruined wreck around him.

  Then, slowly, Graydon typed the words:

  He hit send.

  The message vanished into cyberspace, a digital ghost hunting its prey.

  Then, with a sharp motion, he crushed the phone in his grip, the glass shattering, metal twisting under his augmented strength, before tossing it to the side like garbage.

  His gaze lowered, staring at what remained of his father, watching as the once-mighty beast of a man twitched, blood dripping from his mouth, his once legendary regeneration struggling against the trauma he had endured.

  "Ya can't kill me, Graydon. I'm immortal. Once I recover, I'll skin ya alive an' make ya taste yer own piss and shit from the nightmare I'll make ya endure, boy"

  "That's where you're wrong, father."

  Graydon pulled from his back, latched like a flea, a small hockey puck shaped device. A inhibitor, just like that use by the Leper Queen against the Alamo in Houston or the Sentinels in Chicago against Rogue. He pressed against Sabretooth's chest and immediately, Victor could already feel weaker. He could feel his mortality, the weight of his own death.

  "I hate you, father. But tonight, I'll be happy to kill you"

  "What is this, runt-"

  Before Victor could press any further, Graydon pulled an explosive device and shoved inside his mouth, his face already dripping with blood, he gave Sabretooth his back, glancing one last time at the broken mutant.

  "The greatest gift you gave me was your death."

  With that he took to the skies in a red trail, in the distance the explosion that could easily level a block, the Yukon wilderness tainted by he bad blood of the Creeds, once where stood a house, where Birdy, Magnus and Victor called a home, a rare sanctuary in a brutal life, now just a pile of ash and rubble engulfed in a fireball in the night.