Chapter Text
New York stank like money and rot.
Logan hated working here. Too many families clawing for a piece of the pie, too many eyes, too many rules he didn’t care to learn. But the payout on this job was too high to ignore. One clean hit. In and out. No name, just coordinates, a photo, and a deposit wired to an account he hadn’t touched in years.
He should’ve known it was too easy.
Logan tracked the target for two days before making his move. Kept to the shadows, as usual. The guy was sharp, changed his routine constantly, doubled back, eyes always scanning. A pro.
But pros still bleed.
The hit went down in an alley near the edge of Chinatown. Close quarters. Perfect for a guy with claws. One mistake. One swipe. Done.
Logan left the body slumped against a dumpster, throat torn open, twitching once before going still. He didn’t search the guy. Didn’t linger.
He just walked away.
The first text came the next morning from an untraceable number:
You killed my messenger, Wolverine.
His stomach sank. But not as much as it did when the second text arrived:
I’ll expect you at the Essex Building to discuss your options. Tonight.
Sinister ran his empire like a chessboard, and Logan had just kicked over the wrong piece.
The Essex Building stabbed into the sky like a sharpened blade.
Logan stood across the street, jaw tight. He watched the mirrored glass shimmer in the glow of passing traffic. From the outside, it looked like money and power, like it belonged to a tech mogul or oil titan. But inside, he knew, was something colder, crueler.
Sinister didn’t run his empire with brute force. He ran it with precision. With rot disguised as elegance.
Logan crossed the street.
The lobby was a cathedral of marble and steel. Rich types in suits moved like shadows, not one of them making eye contact. Logan’s boots hit the floor too heavy, too loud. He didn’t care.
Security clocked him the second he stepped through the doors. But no one moved. They didn’t have to.
Because someone else was already waiting.
“Look what the alley cat dragged in,” drawled a voice slick as oil.
Logan turned his head.
Ruckus. Sinister’s right-hand man. His pink hair was slicked back like a game show host. Too much charm. Not enough soul.
He stepped forward, arms outstretched like they were old friends. “Wolverine. You’re late. The boss hates that.”
Logan didn’t flinch. “Showed up, didn’t I?”
Ruckus tsked, grin widening. “Still full of piss and gravel. This is going to be fun.”
Without another word, he turned on his heel and strode toward the elevator. Logan followed, resisting the urge to leave claw marks in the polished floor.
The elevator was silent as a grave.
Ruckus rocked slightly on his heels, hands folded behind his back. “Y’know, you made quite the mess. George was a favorite. Well, one of them.”
Logan said nothing.
Ruckus chuckled. “That’s okay. Sinister loves cleaning up messes.”
The doors slid open with a soft chime.
Wolverine could smell blood in the office. Not the old, stale kind. Fresh. Still warm.
Behind the desk sat Sinister in a sharp suit, with an even sharper smile, swirling a glass of red wine like it was nothing more than a dinner party.
“You made quite a mess, Wolverine,” he said, like it was a compliment. “Your little outburst not only cost me a very reliable assassin, but also the priceless intel he alone could deliver.”
“Didn’t know he was yours.”
“Well. You do now.” Sinister leaned forward, wine glass cradled in one hand. “You owe me. And I don’t like letting debts rot.”
He let the silence stretch. Logan didn’t break it.
At last, Sinister stood and crossed the room. His movements were smooth, deliberate.
“You’re not the first man to come crawling through my city, claws bared, thinking you're outside the system. But here’s the thing,” He turned, eyes gleaming. “Everyone’s on the board. Whether they know it or not.”
Logan’s jaw twitched.
“Now,” Sinister said, stepping closer, “some would kill you. Quickly. Others would drag it out, make an example of you. Me? I’m more creative.”
He turned his back on Logan and walked to a framed photograph on the wall, a portrait of Sinister with his arm around a figure in a blood-red gown. The person had long brown hair, pale skin, and a smile that looked dangerous.
“My most valuable asset,” Sinister said softly. “Shapeshifter. Performer. Spy. Assassin. But they are…” He studied the photo like a man admiring a rare painting. “…temperamental. Special.”
He glanced back at Logan. “I need someone to protect them. Escort them. Keep them in line.”
“You want me to be a babysitter?” Logan growled.
“I want you to be a bodyguard. For someone worth more to me than five of you put together.”
“I don’t work well with others.”
“You’ll learn.” Sinister’s smile thinned. “You killed George. That leaves me with one less soldier and one more liability. You’ll be working it off. Every day. Until I say otherwise.”
He stepped closer. Too close.
“Of course, you can say no,” he purred. “But then I’ll have to find… other uses for you. One of my surgeons has been asking for a regenerative subject.”
Logan’s eyes narrowed. “You touch me, and I’ll—”
“Claw your way out?” Sinister chuckled. “Please. You’re not the first beast I’ve caged.”
He straightened his cuffs and looked to Ruckus. “Ruckus, go fetch Morph.”
Ruckus nodded once and slipped out, leaving the door open behind him.
“I’ll give you a piece of advice, Wolverine,” he said, voice low now. “Morph may look harmless. Playful. Fragile, even. But don’t be fooled.”
Logan didn’t respond, but his eyes were locked on the photograph. There was something about the smile on that face, something knowing.
Sinister turned his gaze back to him. “They were built to survive. Molded into something exquisite. I’ve seen them slit a man’s throat while laughing. I’ve watched them change into a grieving widow to lower someone’s guard and then, well, let’s just say the cleanup was expensive.”
He stepped closer again.
“They are mine, Wolverine. Mine to use, mine to shape, mine to keep safe.”
There it was. That flicker. The possessiveness coiled behind the polish. Not just control. Something darker. A twisted kind of pride.
“You’ll protect them with your life,” Sinister said. “Because if anything happens to Morph, anything I don’t authorize, then what I do to you will make George’s death look merciful.”
The door opened.
Morph moved like they weighed nothing.
They circled the edge of the office with a kind of lazy grace, like a dancer too bored to perform, or a cat deciding whether or not to bite. Their outfit was sharp, every line tailored to perfection, but the way they held themselves said they could vanish in half a second if they wanted to.
Sinister watched them with open pride, like a man admiring his favorite weapon.
Logan didn’t like it.
“Do I get a say in this?” Morph asked. Their voice was light, almost amused, but there was tension buried under it, tight at the edges, like a thread pulled too far.
Sinister swirled his drink. “Don’t be tedious, darling. You know how this works.”
Logan caught it then. A flicker. The way Morph’s jaw tensed just a second too long. Then they turned to him with a practiced smirk, smooth as silk drawn over barbed wire.
“So, you’re the new watchdog.” They leaned against the arm of the leather chair across from Sinister’s desk, eyes trailing up and down Logan in a way that was definitely more sizing up than flirting. “You any good at keeping things from breaking?”
Logan crossed his arms. “I’m better at breaking things.”
Morph chuckled, soft and brittle. “Lucky me.”
“Enough introductions,” Sinister said. “Wolverine, your first mission starts tomorrow night. You’ll escort Morph to a social gathering. One of my competitors is getting bold. I want you to keep your ears open and your hands off the merchandise.”
That last part came laced with a threat. Logan didn’t dignify it with a response.
Morph stood, smoothing an invisible wrinkle from their shirt. “Guess I should show you the penthouse.”
Logan raised a brow. “What, we’re roomies now?”
Morph glanced over their shoulder with something like a smile, but it didn’t touch their eyes.
“You’ll get used to it.”
They turned and walked out, not looking back. Logan followed, instinct already humming.
Something wasn’t right.
And he didn’t just mean the job.
The elevator ride was silent.
Morph leaned against the mirrored wall, arms loosely folded, gaze fixed on the ceiling. Logan kept his eyes on their reflection. The calm on Morph’s face was too smooth, too polished.
The doors slid open on the second-highest floor.
The penthouse stretched out in warm shadows and cool glass, the whole city glittering beyond the wall of windows. Dark mahogany floors. Dark red upholstery. Art that looked expensive but soulless. Everything curated. Controlled.
Morph strolled in like it was nothing.
“This is home,” they said.
They moved through the space with a casual sort of ease, gesturing to the sleek bar, the velvet-draped lounge.
“I spend most of my time here,” Morph added. “Unless Essex wants something.”
Morph moved to a hallway off the main room. “Your bedroom’s down here. Next to mine.”
They opened the door to a minimalist space. A bed, a desk with a chair, and a small closet.
“No hidden cameras that I’ve ever found,” Morph said with a smirk.
Logan stepped inside, scanning the room. It didn’t feel lived-in. It felt like a hotel room waiting for a guest who wasn’t meant to stay.
He turned back to Morph. “You always this friendly with your bodyguards?”
Morph leaned against the doorframe, that same smirk playing at their lips. “Only the grumpy ones with murder in their eyes.”
Logan didn’t smile. “You with him by choice?”
A beat. A flicker. Then Morph laughed, sharp and practiced. “Define ‘choice.’”
They pushed off the doorframe and started back down the hall. “Get some sleep, Wolverine. Tomorrow’s going to be a long one.”
Logan stood there a moment longer, listening to the soft pad of retreating footsteps.
That laugh hadn’t been real.
And Logan was starting to realize that neither was anything else around here.