Location: Xavier Institute, Evening
Logan stood leaning against the frame of the observation window, arms crossed, a half-empty bottle of soda in one hand. Below, the training room was empty now—quiet except for the faint mechanical hum of cooling systems and lights.
The sparring session had ended, but its effects lingered like the scent of ozone after lightning.
Bobby had walked off in silence, still shaken. The look on the kid's face when Riven bled—that flash of guilt, then confusion when Riven smiled and asked, "You ready?"—Logan didn't miss any of it.
Neither did the other students.
Logan took a sip, exhaled slowly through his nose. Jean and Ororo had already left, the tension still thick in their footsteps. Cyclops hadn't said a word since stepping in to de-escalate things, but the set of his jaw said plenty.
He glanced down at the mat where it happened. The blood had been cleaned, but he could still see it—red on black.
"Kid's lucky," Logan muttered, more to himself than anyone. "Real lucky."
He turned as he heard someone approach. It was Beast, arms folded, expression unreadable.
Logan jerked his chin toward the gym. "If Bobby ever saw what that guy used to do to his opponents—what Hydra made him become—he'd never ask for a spar again. Ever."
Beast nodded solemnly. "He held back."
"More than that," Logan said. "He let Bobby win. And even then, it almost broke him."
There was silence between them for a beat.
Then Logan added, quietly, "That wasn't training. That was mercy."