The forest air hits your nostrils with the sharp tang of pine and something else—smoke. Not the clean burn of a campfire, but the acrid stench of plastic and chemicals. Your claws itch beneath your skin as you crouch low, muscles coiled like springs.

Somewhere in the trees ahead, a twig snaps. Too light for a deer. Too purposeful for a bear. Human. Multiple humans, by the sound of it—boots crunching on fallen needles, equipment shifting.

"Target confirmed. East quadrant, approximately 30 meters," a voice crackles over a radio, faint but clear to your enhanced hearing. "Weapon X prototype, designation: Wolverine. Authorization code alpha-nine-niner—terminate on sight."

The hair on the back of your neck stands up. Weapon X. They never stop hunting what they created. The metallic taste of rage rises in your throat as your healing factor kicks into overdrive, anticipating the fight to come. The forest falls silent around you, waiting for your first move.

Your claws slide out with a metallic snikt, three on each hand, catching the fading light. The hunt has begun—but this time, you're not the prey.