Scott Summers had no idea how he ended up in this situation. One minute he'd been minding his own business—well, okay, Jean's business—and the next, he was crouched in the stairwell like a discount James Bond, trying to convince himself that this wasn't as creepy as it looked. Spoiler: it totally was.
Meanwhile, Haris Lokison—the godling with more parental baggage than a reality show contestant—had obviously noticed him. Of course, he had. With blessings from practically every deity in the universe, Harry had the awareness of a demigod ninja crossed with a bloodhound. So, there Scott was, caught in the act, and Harry? Harry was loving every second of it.
"Hey, Summers," Harry called, leaning against the doorframe with the kind of casual confidence that screamed, I know something you don't. "You know, for a guy with laser eyes, your ability to blend in is kind of terrible."
Scott froze, hoping the bush he was hiding behind would suddenly develop a "teleport to anywhere else" function. No such luck. He straightened up, brushing imaginary dirt off his uniform. "I wasn't hiding," he said, his voice cracking slightly. "I was, uh, patrolling."
Harry raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. "Patrolling. Sure. Because the stairs have been looking real suspicious lately."
Scott bristled, his face turning an impressive shade of red. "I'm serious! I was just… making sure everything was fine."
"Right." Harry nodded sagely, his emerald-green eyes sparkling with mischief. "Because nothing says 'responsible leader' like lurking in the shadows while people are having private conversations."
Scott opened his mouth to retort but stopped. Harry wasn't just smirking now—he was grinning, the kind of grin that said, I know your deepest secrets, and I'm about to turn them into a comedy routine.
"Okay, fine!" Scott snapped, his hands balling into fists. "Maybe I was… checking on Jean."
Harry tilted his head, feigning confusion. "Checking on her? Like a concerned friend, or…" He leaned closer, lowering his voice. "Like a jealous ex-boyfriend who never got to be the boyfriend?"
Scott flinched. "I—what—no! That's not—" He groaned, running a hand through his hair. "Look, I don't trust you, okay? You show up out of nowhere with your magic powers and your charming… whatever, and now Jean—"
"Jean what?" Harry interrupted, his smirk fading slightly. "Talks to me? Laughs with me? Has a life outside of your weird daydreams?"
Scott blinked, taken aback by the sudden shift in Harry's tone. For a moment, he thought he saw something deeper in Harry's expression—a flicker of… understanding? Pity? Whatever it was, it made Scott's chest tighten.
"Listen, Summers," Harry said, his voice quieter now. "I get it. You care about her. But here's the thing: Jean isn't some prize you can win by glowering at people. She's her own person. And, spoiler alert, she gets to make her own choices."
Scott scowled, his frustration bubbling over. "You think I don't know that? I just—" He sighed, his shoulders slumping. "I don't want to lose her."
Harry's grin returned, softer this time. "Dude, you're not losing her, you never even had her in the first place. You're not the center of her universe. And you need to realise that that's okay. It's called growing up. Try it sometime."
Scott glared at him, wishing for the millionth time that his powers included the ability to punch people through dimensions. "You're awfully smug for someone who just got here."
"Smug is part of my charm," Harry replied with a wink. "Look, I'm not here to steal your thunder—or your telepath. But maybe if you spent less time lurking and more time, I don't know, talking to her, things wouldn't be so awkward."
Scott didn't respond. He was too busy plotting all the ways he could blast Harry into next week without Jean noticing. But deep down, he knew Harry had a point. Not that he'd ever admit it.
Harry clapped him on the shoulder, ignoring the death glare Scott shot his way. "Anyway, good chat. Let me know if you need tips on how to stop being a total creep. Or not. Your call."
With that, Harry strolled off, whistling a jaunty tune that somehow made Scott's blood boil even more. As much as he hated to admit it, the guy had style. Annoying, infuriating style.
Scott sighed, rubbing his temples. Maybe he did need to work on his approach. After all, Jean deserved better than a jealous stalker. But first, he was going to spend the next ten minutes imagining Harry being eaten by a giant, Asgardian shark. It was only fair.
—
It was a regular day in K'un Lun. Or, at least, it was supposed to be. But then again, if you've ever tried keeping a bunch of demigods, tricksters, and immortal dragons on a leash, you know how well that goes. (Hint: not well at all.)
Lei Kung, the Thunderer (and the kind of guy who liked his mornings quiet, his tea hot, and his students obedient), was glaring at a note. Not just any note. This note was written by Harry Lokison and his merry band of demigod misfits, who had, for reasons known only to them, decided that K'un Lun was too boring and they were definitely not going to follow any rules today.
The note, scrawled in Harry's unmistakable handwriting (which, incidentally, was about as neat as a phoenix on fire), read: "Taking a break. Be back in a few days. P.S. We beat the monks guarding the place. Sorry, not sorry."
Lei Kung scowled. It wasn't so much that they'd left—he could've handled that (kind of). But beating up the monks? That was a step too far. They were supposed to be in K'un Lun to learn discipline. To respect tradition. But instead, they'd pulled a Harry Lokison Special and snuck out in the dead of night, probably laughing while they did it.
Yu-Ti, the all-wise mentor of K'un Lun (and the guy who always looked like he knew something you didn't), was leaning back in his throne, looking at the note like it was a mild inconvenience—like a mosquito buzzing around his ear. "Well, I guess it's not a total disaster," he said, flipping the note over and inspecting it as if it were a coupon for discounted noodle soup. "They did leave a note. At least they're not complete barbarians."
Lei Kung stared at him like he was a crazy person. "Are you seriously defending them right now? They broke out of the temple, knocked out our monks, and ran off like they were on spring break!"
Yu-Ti raised an eyebrow. "Do you honestly expect Harry and his friends to behave like the other students? They are demigods, not ordinary warriors. Their sense of discipline is... well, nonexistent. And honestly? I'm kind of impressed."
Lei Kung rubbed his forehead. He could feel a headache coming on, the kind that only bad decisions and even worse timing could cause. "Impressed? Yu-Ti, they left—without permission! And they've taken our best monks' dignity with them as a souvenir! If they don't come back soon, I'll—"
At that moment, a low rumble echoed through the cave, and both Lei Kung and Yu-Ti turned toward the source. It was the unmistakable sound of laughter—a deep, resonant laugh that could only belong to one creature.
Shou-Lao the Immortal Dragon, currently lounging in his cave like a giant, fire-breathing cat, was clearly enjoying himself. "Oh, this is rich," he chuckled, his voice a mix of thunder and amusement. "Honestly, Lei Kung, what did you expect from a bunch of tricksters? Did you really think they'd follow the rules just because you said so?"
Lei Kung shot a glare that could've melted rocks. "They've been trained by us—they should respect the rules!" he snapped.
Shou-Lao, completely unimpressed, stretched out lazily, his wings brushing against the walls like a massive blanket. "Look, I get it. You're all about order and discipline and boring stuff like respecting boundaries. But come on—this is Harry we're talking about. The kid has chaos in his blood. Rules are more like... guidelines for him, and I can't fault him for that."
Yu-Ti nodded sagely, like a guy who had all the answers but wasn't going to share them unless it benefited him. "Shou-Lao speaks the truth. Harry is... how should I put this? Unconventional. But that is why he is here. To learn the balance between freedom and responsibility." He gave a half-smile. "Or, you know, to teach us to loosen up a bit."
Lei Kung's jaw twitched. "I'm not loosening up! They need to know that this isn't some kind of vacation spot for misfits!"
Shou-Lao's booming laugh filled the cave again. "Relax, Lei Kung. Let them go for a bit. Let them experience what the world has to offer. When they return, they'll know K'un Lun is home, and they'll understand just how good they've got it here." He gave a huge yawn, one that could've put a landslide to sleep. "And if not? Well, you can always discipline them later. Maybe tie them to a rock for a few centuries."
Yu-Ti chuckled, clearly finding some sort of twisted wisdom in the dragon's words. "Shou-Lao's right. They will return. They always do. And when they do, we'll be waiting... with lessons that will make their adventures seem like a mere distraction."
Lei Kung's shoulders slumped, a bit of the steam leaving him. "I swear, if they don't come back by the end of the week, I'm putting them through extra training. And no, not the fun kind."
Shou-Lao let out one last low, rumbling chuckle, as if he were secretly pulling the strings behind the scenes. "Oh, I'm sure that'll be a delight for them." His eyes glinted with mischief. "You know, it's not all bad. I think this little break might do them some good. After all, what's the point of being a demigod if you don't break a few rules now and then?"
Lei Kung didn't look too convinced, but Yu-Ti just smiled, his fingers tapping on his armrest. "Let them wander, Lei Kung. But when they return... we'll remind them why they came here in the first place."
And just like that, the fate of Harry and his chaotic crew was sealed: a little adventure, a little freedom, and then—the bill. And Lei Kung would be the one to collect.
Shou-Lao's laughter rumbled through the cave once more. "Oh, this is going to be fun."
—
The morning at the Grey family farmhouse was nothing short of a circus—minus the elephants but with a lot more chaos. The usual calm had been replaced by the sort of tension you could almost taste, like the air before a big thunderstorm—or a major prank. The front yard had been converted into a makeshift sparring arena, which meant the grass had no chance of surviving whatever was about to go down. Coach Hedge, who was probably more known for his bad temper than any actual fighting ability, was acting as the referee. As if that wasn't enough to make you wonder about your life choices, Luke Castellan and Remy LeBeau had somehow convinced everyone that betting on the outcome of the fight was a great idea. So, naturally, everyone had crowded around, eagerly anticipating the big event.
At the center of this circus, Natasha Romanoff and Haris Lokison were standing opposite each other like a couple of gladiators about to duke it out, except, you know, without the lions. Natasha, the daughter of Nemesis, looked like someone who'd trained to kill with a toothpick, her Bo staff gleaming in her hands. Meanwhile, Harry—well, Harry was... Harry. Son of Loki and Artemis, and currently so hyped up on energy that it was a miracle he hadn't started bouncing off the walls. He'd spent the last week sparring with Sun Wukong and had somehow managed to come out of it both cocky and oddly calm. It was probably the whole "god of mischief" thing.
"Alright, here's the deal," Coach Hedge barked, puffing out his chest like he was auditioning for a role in Guardians of the Galaxy. "No eye gouging, no hair pulling, and if I break my whistle, I will break you. Got it?"
"Sure, sure, Hedge," Harry drawled, twirling his staff like he was auditioning for Cirque du Soleil while the crowd exchanged amused glances.
Natasha shot him a look so cold it could freeze water. "I'm ready whenever you are."
From the sidelines, Jean Grey leaned in, her red hair catching the sunlight like it was part of some superhero costume montage. "This is going to be interesting," she muttered to herself, looking over at her family. Her dad, John Grey, was calmly observing while her older sister, Sara, was practically vibrating with excitement, eyes glued to the action. Elaine, Jean's mom, was trying to look interested in the fight's tactics, but I could tell she was already planning her strategy for dealing with whatever drama might come next.
Luke Castellan, standing next to Remy, had the kind of grin that was equal parts smug and knowing. "Harry might have the edge," he said thoughtfully, rubbing his chin like some sort of philosophical sage. "But Romanoff? You don't want to underestimate her."
Remy gave a low whistle, looking at the two combatants with a mixture of respect and amusement. "This is gonna be a show."
Coach Hedge blew his whistle, interrupting the banter with a shrill blast that practically cracked the air. "FIGHT!"
And just like that, Natasha was a blur. One moment, she was standing still, and the next, her Bo staff was hurtling toward Harry with all the speed of a freight train. The crowd collectively gasped as she closed the distance in a heartbeat.
But Harry? Yeah, he wasn't sweating it. With the casual grace of someone who knew they were going to win, he dodged the strike like it was nothing, twisting out of the way with the kind of fluidity you'd expect from someone who spent most of his life training with literal gods. He landed in a crouch, giving her a cheeky grin. "Is that all you've got, Red Room?" he teased, twirling his staff like he was practicing for a magic trick.
"Not by a long shot," Natasha muttered, narrowing her eyes as she prepared for another strike.
The crowd was practically on the edge of their seats now. Travis Stoll leaned over to his brother Connor and grinned. "Is this a fight or an acrobatics routine?"
"Eh," Connor shrugged, "same difference."
Kitty Pryde, who usually had a knack for staying out of the spotlight, was watching with wide eyes. "He moves like—he's bouncing. Seriously, is he... bouncing?"
Lance gave a laugh that echoed through the air. "Who knows, but I'm more interested in who wins. These two are insane."
Meanwhile, Scott Summers, the guy who usually kept his emotions on lockdown, couldn't help but smirk in approval. "Kid's got moves," he admitted. "I didn't think he'd be able to keep up with Natasha, but he's holding his own."
"Don't get too cocky, Cyke," Harry called out without looking, his voice light. "I'm just getting started."
Yelena Belova, who was one step away from being a professional spectator, leaned forward, her eyes narrowed with interest. "I can't decide if I want to beat him up myself or just... take notes," she muttered to Jean.
Jean chuckled. "I think Harry would give you a run for your money."
And then, in a move that should have been impossible, Harry blinked and leaped backward just as Natasha's Bo staff slammed into the ground where he'd been standing. Before anyone could process what had happened, Harry grabbed the staff, flipping into a backflip so smooth that the crowd almost missed it. He landed perfectly on his feet, twirling the staff in his hands like he'd just won a prize at a carnival.
"Nice try, though," he said, flashing Natasha a grin.
Jean's voice rang out from the sidelines, impressed. "I thought Natasha had him there."
Thalia Grace, who was sitting next to Clarisse, whistled under her breath. "He's too fast for her. If she doesn't change things up, he's got this."
Clarisse, ever the optimist when it came to not giving an inch, snorted. "Nah, she's got this. That girl doesn't know how to quit."
Back in the ring, Natasha had clearly decided it was time to stop playing nice. The strikes came faster, sharper, each move like a blur of raw precision. Harry dodged, blocked, and parried with an almost casual air, like he was the one setting the rules here. Every now and then, he'd taunt her, flipping around and tapping her lightly with his staff—like a cat playing with its food.
"Is that all?" he teased, his voice loud enough for the crowd to hear, flipping over her back and landing gracefully behind her.
"Not by a long shot," Natasha growled, clearly no longer in the mood for games. She was adapting, her movements getting faster, more aggressive, and Harry was starting to break a sweat. But he wasn't done yet.
The two collided again, their staffs cracking together with force that rattled the air itself. The ground beneath them shook with the power of their blows, and even Coach Hedge, normally the definition of chaos, looked like he might actually start taking notes.
"Alright! Alright!" Coach shouted, blowing his whistle as they both paused, chests heaving, sweat dripping down their faces. "Time's up! Looks like we've got a draw here!"
The crowd, caught somewhere between shock and awe, erupted into applause. They hadn't expected a tie, but everyone had to admit—it had been one heck of a show.
"Good fight, Romanoff," Harry said, his grin showing that he was more than a little proud of himself. "But next time, I'll bring a mirror to distract you."
Natasha wiped sweat from her brow, her lips curling into a wry smile. "And next time, I'll bring a few more tricks to keep you on your toes."
The crowd broke into applause, and Jean's family clapped, John Grey nodding approvingly. "Impressive," he said, though there was a glint of suspicion in his eyes.
Elaine raised an eyebrow, less impressed outwardly but clearly intrigued. "Efficient. Too efficient," she mused, glancing at Jean. "Do you think you could do that?"
Jean smirked, her eyes narrowing in focus. "Maybe, if I'm feeling up to it."
The fight may have ended in a draw, but there was one thing the crowd knew for sure: the next time these two faced off, it would be anything but boring.
—
As the crowd started to scatter, the farmhouse quickly transformed from a battlefield to a birthday party central. Jean Grey's 10th birthday was officially underway, and while the morning had been all about adrenaline and sparring, the rest of the day promised an entirely different kind of chaos. Spoiler alert: it involved food. Lots of food.
Inside the kitchen, pandemonium had been wrestled into something resembling order by the unlikeliest trio: Katie Gardner, Kayla Knowles, and, believe it or not, Brunhilde. Yes, the Brunhilde—battle-hardened warrior, destroyer of enemies, occasional wrecker of kitchen counters.
Katie was hunched over a massive chocolate cake like it was an artifact from an ancient prophecy. Her tongue stuck out in concentration as she piped red and gold swirls along the edges. "Phoenix colors," she announced proudly. This, naturally, earned groans from Travis and Connor Stoll, who had been lobbying hard for some blue and green. They'd even tried bribing her with chocolate chips. No dice.
Meanwhile, Kayla was running the stove like it was her personal war zone. Pancakes flipped with military precision, bacon sizzled in perfect harmony, and the air smelled like maple syrup and butter. If there was an Olympic event for breakfast-making, Kayla would've brought home gold. Twice.
Then there was Brunhilde. She stood at the counter, gripping a rolling pin like it was Mjölnir. "I'll have you know," she said in her no-nonsense Valkyrie voice, "that I once baked bread for an entire battalion. This is child's play."
Katie shot her a thumbs-up, though she made sure to stand far enough away to avoid becoming collateral damage. (The countertop had already learned that lesson the hard way during the dough-kneading incident. RIP, countertop.)
By the time they were done, the table was groaning under the weight of breakfast food. Mountains of scrambled eggs, crispy bacon, fluffy pancakes dripping with honey, and fruit salads that could've made a rainbow jealous. And in the center? Katie's masterpiece cake, shining like the crown jewel of breakfast.
As everyone gathered around the table, the vibe shifted from battle royale to full-on celebration mode. Jean took her spot at the head, her grin wide enough to rival the Cheshire Cat. Elaine and John, her parents, looked on with quiet pride, while Sara, Jean's older sister, bounced in her seat like she was trying to achieve lift-off.
"Happy birthday, Jean," Katie said, sliding the cake in front of her. The candles flickered dramatically, like they were auditioning for a scene in a Disney movie.
Jean's smile got even wider (how was that possible?). "Thanks, everyone. This is the best."
"Don't get used to it," Brunhilde muttered, shoving a plate of pancakes toward Jean with a gruffness that somehow still felt affectionate. Maybe it was the tiniest hint of a smile tugging at her lips. Or maybe not. Hard to tell with Brunhilde.
Luke Castellan, ever the instigator, leaned back in his chair with a wicked grin. "So, Jean, what's the plan? More sparring matches? Or are we finally going to settle which team can eat the most pancakes?"
Connor Stoll, already halfway through a syrup-drenched tower of pancakes, raised his fork. "Spoiler alert: it's us."
Jean laughed and shook her head. "No more fighting today. I think we've all earned a break."
The table erupted into laughter and chatter as everyone dug in. Harry, clearly still feeling smug about his earlier sparring match, leaned over to Natasha. "So, Romanoff, rematch after breakfast?"
Natasha didn't even look up from her plate. "Only if you're okay with losing."
"Bold of you to assume I'll lose," Harry shot back, earning a dramatic eye-roll from Yelena, who was already plotting ways to one-up both of them next time.
As the banter flew across the table, Jean took a bite of her cake and closed her eyes, savoring the rich chocolate flavor. When she opened them, her family was watching her, their faces a mix of amusement and love.
"Best birthday ever," she declared, her voice full of confidence. And in that moment, as laughter and pancake-fueled debates filled the room, no one could argue with her.
—
Around noon, just as the last pancake debates were winding down and the cake was being sliced into dangerously large portions, the sound of tires crunching on gravel outside the Grey family farmhouse caught everyone's attention. A sleek, black sedan pulled into the driveway, practically gleaming in the midday sun.
The front door opened, and in rolled Professor Charles Xavier, his sharp eyes scanning the room with a warmth that made everyone feel instantly seen. Behind him, Hank McCoy followed, appearing deceptively ordinary thanks to his holographic image inducer. To anyone unfamiliar with his true form, he looked like a bespectacled, slightly rumpled academic. And then came Warren Worthington III, his trench coat draped elegantly, hiding the harness keeping his wings concealed. The man could make "casual" look like it belonged on the cover of GQ.
The room fell into a respectful hush before erupting into excited chatter.
"Professor Xavier!" Elaine Grey greeted warmly, wiping her hands on her apron as she moved to welcome him.
"Good afternoon, Elaine," Xavier said with a polite nod. His gaze shifted to the table, and his eyebrows lifted slightly, his expression betraying his surprise. "It seems I underestimated the guest list. I wasn't expecting to find such distinguished company here."
Harry, leaning back in his chair with his trademark casual grin, raised his glass of orange juice in mock salute. "You know me, Professor. I never miss a party, especially not Jean's birthday."
Warren chuckled softly, shaking his head. "I figured you'd be here. Jean's practically family to you."
"And to you," Harry shot back, smirking knowingly. Warren didn't bother denying it.
Meanwhile, Hank's eyes lit up as they landed on Charles Beckendorf, who was currently balancing a forkful of cake in one hand and a blueprint sketch in the other.
"Beckendorf!" Hank exclaimed, striding forward with the kind of excitement usually reserved for scientific breakthroughs. "It's been far too long! Tell me, have you been working on anything new? Any progress on that metal alloy idea we discussed last time?"
Beckendorf blinked, caught mid-bite, but quickly grinned. "Hank! You won't believe it—I've made some tweaks to Hephaestus' original designs. Wait till you see this." He gestured toward his bag, already digging out a stack of notes and prototypes.
The two immediately fell into a rapid-fire exchange of ideas, completely oblivious to the rest of the room. Katie Gardner muttered to Kayla, "There they go. We've lost them to the science dimension."
Kayla snorted. "I give it five minutes before someone mentions quantum flux capacitors."
Meanwhile, at the back of the group, a nervous-looking boy hesitated near the doorway. Nine-year-old Bobby Drake, dressed in a puffy jacket despite the warm weather, shifted uncomfortably as his eyes darted around the crowded room.
Jean noticed him immediately and stood up, her wide smile disarming the boy's shyness in an instant. "Hi! You must be Bobby," she said brightly, walking over to him. "I'm Jean. Come on in! This is my birthday party."
Bobby's shoulders relaxed a little. "Happy birthday," he mumbled, managing a small smile. "This place is… big."
"Thanks," Jean said, grinning. "Wait till you see the cake. Katie went all out."
As Jean led Bobby toward the table, Xavier rolled closer to Harry, his tone dropping just slightly. "I trust you're keeping the excitement here contained, Harry?"
Harry smirked. "Define contained, Professor. There was a sparring match this morning, but nothing exploded. That's progress, right?"
Xavier sighed, though his lips twitched as if suppressing a smile. "Progress indeed."
By the time cake was served, Bobby had been introduced to everyone, Hank and Beckendorf were already sketching out plans for a new project on napkins, and Warren had managed to avoid any mishaps with his wing harness (though Connor Stoll kept eyeing him like he was plotting something).
As Jean blew out the candles, surrounded by her family and friends, the farmhouse brimmed with laughter, warmth, and just the faintest hum of anticipation—because when you gathered this many extraordinary people in one place, something exciting was bound to happen.
—
From his spot on the hilltop, Victor Creed—Sabretooth, if you wanted to keep all your fingers—squatted like the world's angriest gargoyle and stared down at the Grey farmhouse. The place practically screamed "Welcome to wholesome family fun," complete with kids running around, laughing, and looking like they didn't have a single care in the world. It was nauseating.
But then came the smells.
Sabretooth inhaled deeply, and that feral grin of his spread wide. Mutants. Oh yeah, there were definitely mutants down there. He could pick out their unique scents even from this distance. But wait, there was more! Some of those kids didn't smell mutant, human, or anything else he could neatly label. They smelled... weird. Not bad, necessarily. Just different. Like maybe the universe had taken a creative writing class and decided to invent a whole new species.
"Well, don't that beat all," he muttered, his voice low and gravelly. "Stryker's gonna flip his lid when he hears about this."
Speaking of Stryker, the boss had only sent him out to grab one kid—Bobby Drake. Easy job, or so Creed had thought. By the time he'd tracked the brat to Long Island, though, Xavier's crew had already swooped in and carted him off. Typical. But Creed wasn't one to give up just because Plan A tanked. No, sir. He'd followed the trail all the way to this picturesque little house of horrors. And instead of just one mutant, he'd found a whole buffet. Kids, teens, a few adults. It was like mutant bingo night.
He fished out his burner phone and flipped it open. (Yes, burner phones were still a thing. Creed wasn't exactly the tech-savvy type.) The line rang twice before Stryker picked up, his voice all sharp edges and disapproval.
"Creed. You better have good news."
"Oh, I got good news," Creed replied, sounding far too smug for anyone's comfort. "I didn't just find Drake. I found a whole group of 'em. Mutants—and some other... things. Can't say what they are, but they're definitely not normal. All cozy in a farmhouse, playing house like one big happy family."
There was a pause, the kind that told you Stryker was probably pinching the bridge of his nose. "How many?"
Creed grinned wider, his sharp teeth catching the light. "More than a dozen. Mostly kids. But there's a couple of older ones too. No idea what kind of powers we're dealing with, but my gut says they're good. Real good."
"Stay put," Stryker ordered, his tone like a dad telling you to stop touching the thermostat. "I'll send reinforcements. Don't engage until they arrive."
"Sure thing, boss," Creed said, though his claws flexed like they had minds of their own. Staying put wasn't exactly his strong suit, but even he knew better than to pick a fight he couldn't finish. Yet.
He closed the phone and crouched low, his sharp eyes glued to the farmhouse. This was going to be fun. Stryker's team would show up, they'd crash the party, and then Creed would get to do what he did best: cause chaos and collect prizes.
He licked his lips as he watched the kids gather around a birthday cake, their laughter ringing out like some bad sitcom. "Enjoy your party, kiddies," he muttered, his grin turning downright predatory. "Because the real fun's just getting started."
---
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