Logan moved with a predatory grace, his claws slicing through the air with deadly precision. The first thug charged at him, swinging a bat wildly, but Logan barely flinched. With a quick swipe, Logan's adamantium claws flashed, cutting through the thug's hand like it was paper.
The thug screamed, clutching his mangled hand. "My hand! You freakin' monster!"
Logan gave him a cold look, shaking his head as if the thug's reaction was overdramatic. "Don't be a baby," he growled, his voice laced with dark humor.
Before the thug could respond, another attacker stepped forward, this one armed with a gun, eyes wide with panic. He raised the weapon, aiming it directly at Logan. But Logan was already moving. With a snarl, he lunged forward, crawling across the ground with a speed that caught the thug off guard. In one fluid motion, Logan closed the distance and drove his claws deep into the thug's chest.
"Guh—!" The thug gasped, his eyes bulging in shock as Logan's claws tore through flesh and bone. The gun slipped from his hands, clattering to the pavement.
Logan withdrew his claws with a sickening squelch, his expression unbothered by the blood now dripping from his hands. "Told you not to mess with me."
Bill stood a few feet away, momentarily frozen as he watched Logan dispatch the thugs with ease. The brutal efficiency of it—the way Logan's claws carved through them like they were nothing—was a stark contrast to the battles Bill had fought in the past. This wasn't war; it was something far more personal, more savage. Yet Logan moved like it was second nature, like the violence was just part of his DNA.
But Bill didn't have time to dwell on it. Another wave of thugs was coming, drawn by the chaos. Bill saw their shapes moving from behind buildings, heard the pounding footsteps as they rushed to join the fight. They were relentless, emboldened by their numbers, but there was something different in their eyes now—fear.
"There's more coming!" Bill called out to Logan, snapping back into action. His heart raced as he sized up the next group of attackers. He couldn't rely on Logan to take down all of them. He had to fight too, PTSD be damned.
Logan glanced over his shoulder, his eyes narrowing. "Yeah, I can smell 'em." He looked back at Bill, a grim smirk tugging at his lips. "You ready, soldier boy?"
Bill nodded, gripping his fists tightly. "I'm not running."
The next thug, larger than the others and armed with a crowbar, charged at Bill with a roar. Bill ducked under the first swing, the weapon whistling just inches above his head. His body reacted on instinct, years of military training flooding back into him. He pivoted, delivering a hard punch to the thug's ribs. The impact reverberated through Bill's arm, but the thug stumbled back, winded.
Before the thug could recover, Bill followed up with a sharp elbow to the side of his head, knocking him to the ground.
Meanwhile, Logan was already tearing through another thug, his claws ripping into flesh with surgical precision. He moved like a beast, his every movement fueled by primal fury. A thug tried to sneak up behind him with a knife, but Logan didn't even need to turn around. His heightened senses picked up the slightest sound, and in one swift motion, he spun, driving his claws straight into the thug's gut.
"Too slow.." Logan muttered as the thug crumpled to the ground, clutching his bleeding stomach.
Bill glanced around, his chest heaving as more thugs poured into the street. There had to be at least a dozen of them now, all advancing with grim determination. Some of them had guns, others carried makeshift weapons—pipes, chains, knives. They weren't just here for a fight; they were here to kill.
"These guys won't stop." Bill muttered under his breath. The weight of the situation was pressing down on him, but he refused to back down. Not when lives were at stake.
Logan growled low in his throat, his eyes scanning the thugs. "Good. I was starting to get bored." He cracked his knuckles, his claws gleaming with fresh blood. "Let's give 'em hell."
Bill steeled himself, his mind sharp and focused despite the flashes of PTSD threatening to resurface. This fight was real, and he had to stay in the moment. With Logan beside him, they had a chance.
As the next wave of thugs closed in, Bill and Logan surged forward, ready to face the onslaught together.
..........
[Meanwhile]
As the dim light flickered in the dingy room, the woman's sobs echoed off the grimy walls, her broken body trembling in the aftermath of the horrors inflicted upon her. Litzo Tatum, the feared enforcer of Atlas Pendragon—nicknamed the "Soldier of Vengeance"—stood over her, his face twisted into a sneer of satisfaction. He barely glanced at the blood staining the sheets, too accustomed to the depravity he reveled in.
Suddenly, the door burst open.
"Knock for once, you motherfucker!" Litzo growled, his voice laced with irritation as he turned to see one of his underlings standing in the doorway, breathless.
"I'm sorry, sir, but we've got a problem." The thug shifted nervously, sweat beading on his forehead as he tried to avoid looking at the woman still trembling on the bed. "There's a man—he's got claws—and some guy that looks like a soldier. They're taking out our men. It's chaos out there."
For a brief moment, Litzo's eyes narrowed in confusion. "What?" he spat, his voice sharp, but then realization hit him. The "man with claws" could only mean one thing—trouble. Real trouble.
Litzo, standing at an imposing six feet four, radiated raw power. His muscular frame, chiseled from years of brutal street fighting and military training, flexed as he yanked his pants back on, buttoning them up with cold efficiency. He moved without shame or hesitation, the woman's suffering nothing more than background noise in his twisted world.
His eyes darkened as he pulled on his shirt, the scars of old battles crisscrossing his torso like a map of violence. This wasn't just some thug running around, causing a disturbance. This was something more—someone with real skill, someone bold enough to challenge his reign of terror.
Litzo grabbed his black leather trench coat from the back of the chair, slipping it on with a practiced movement that had been repeated countless times before he went to break skulls. His face, hardened by a lifetime of bloodshed and vengeance, twisted into a snarl.
"Take me to them," he commanded, the cold steel of his voice cutting through the air like a blade. "And gather more of our men. I want every last one of those bastards dead by the time the sun goes down."
The thug hesitated for a moment before scrambling to obey. He knew what happened to men who failed to follow Litzo's orders quickly enough—he'd seen it before, the bodies left in alleys, broken and unrecognizable.
Litzo stepped into the hallway, the heavy boots he wore clanking against the concrete floor. Each step was measured, deliberate, the footsteps of a man who had mastered the art of war and vengeance. He had earned his nickname by leaving a trail of bodies in his wake—people who had crossed him, disobeyed him, or simply stood in his way. And now, someone dared to challenge him? To take down his men?
As they walked toward the building's exit, more of Litzo's men gathered, their faces grim, their weapons at the ready. Knives, bats, chains—whatever they could get their hands on. They knew a fight was coming, and they knew that if they didn't end it quickly, Litzo would deal with them next.
Litzo's mind raced, his pulse steady and slow. He thought about the men who had dared to challenge him—some clawed freak and a soldier? It didn't matter who they were. Litzo had taken down worse before. He was born in the fire of combat, baptized in blood during his time on the front lines as a U.S. Army soldier. But the Army had been too weak for him. When they'd sent him home after the war, they hadn't known what they'd unleashed on the streets. A soldier without a cause was dangerous. But a soldier bent on vengeance? Unstoppable.
Litzo's thirst for vengeance had been ignited the day he lost everything. His family had been butchered, caught in the crossfire of a gang war while he had been overseas, defending a country that couldn't protect his own loved ones. The image of his wife and child—lifeless, broken, their blood staining the walls of his home—was seared into his mind. From that moment, something inside him snapped. He vowed to become the very weapon the world feared.
It was then that Atlas Pendragon Holtwood, an ancient and mysterious figure, had appeared before him. Litzo had heard rumors of Holtwood, a warlock of immense power who had roamed the earth for centuries, manipulating the threads of fate from the shadows. Holtwood had seen the rage burning inside Litzo and knew how to harness it. Recruiting him into his dark fold, Holtwood gifted him with knowledge of arcane powers, imbuing Litzo with strength far beyond that of a normal man.
"Vengeance fuels you," Holtwood had said, his voice deep and commanding as they stood over the graves of Litzo's family. "You seek justice in a world that knows only chaos. Join me, and I will give you the power to destroy those who took everything from you. You will be my Soldier of Vengeance, an unstoppable force bound by the blood you've lost."
Litzo had accepted, willingly stepping into the abyss. Under Holtwood's twisted mentorship, he had learned to channel his hatred, his thirst for blood, into something more—a primal force that made him nearly invincible on the battlefield. His physical prowess was unmatched, and now, dark magic flowed through his veins, enhancing his strength, sharpening his instincts, making him more lethal than ever.
He had become more than just a soldier. He was vengeance incarnate.
Now, standing in the moonlit street, Litzo felt that familiar fire surge inside him. These men who stood in his path, who dared to challenge his authority—they had no idea what was coming. Litzo had torn through armies, crushed gang leaders, and dismantled empires, all under Holtwood's sinister guidance. And now, he would crush anyone who opposed him.
The air hit him as he stepped outside, the sound of distant gunfire and shouts ringing in the distance. His men were already in the thick of it, the clash of violence escalating.
Litzo grinned, a dark, feral smile. "Looks like it's time to show these bastards what real vengeance looks like."
He marched forward, his thugs trailing behind him like a pack of wolves, hungry for the fight to come. Litzo was a man who lived for moments like this—for the thrill of combat, for the satisfaction of watching his enemies fall before him. His hands itched for the feel of breaking bone, of skin splitting beneath his knuckles.
As they rounded the corner, the scene of carnage unfolded before them. Bodies of his men lay scattered across the street, broken and bloodied. And there, in the center of it all, stood Logan, his claws dripping with blood, and Bill Gregory, battle-hardened but weary, bracing for another wave of attackers.
Litzo's eyes locked onto Logan. "You're the one with the claws, huh? You picked the wrong day to fuck with us."
Logan glanced over, his expression bored, almost amused. "Oh, this should be fun."
Litzo cracked his knuckles, a wicked smile spreading across his face. "Let's see how tough you really are."
As he charged forward, his men followed suit, the clash between savagery and vengeance about to erupt into full-scale war.
To be continue