Sunday night, 11:59 PM.
Miles sat on the cot in his apartment.
The cat wasn’t there; he had boarded it at a coworker’s place.
The room was deathly quiet, save for the occasional sound of passing cars outside.
He stared at the crack in his ceiling, which stretched from the corner of the wall to the light fixture like a dry riverbed.
He looked down at his hands.
Captain America’s power was still there.
That strength flowed through his muscles like a calm river—slow and steady, but capable of turning into a raging torrent at any moment.
He clenched his fists, his knuckles popping softly.
He had grown used to this power—used to the feeling of being able to punch through concrete walls, used to the feeling of touching the ceiling with a casual leap.
Three seconds left.
Two.
One.
Something was suddenly pulled from his body.
It felt like a tightly wound string snapping loose.
The feeling of Captain America’s power fading was strange—it wasn’t painful, but rather a hollow sensation of loss, like reaching into your pocket and realizing your wallet was gone.
His muscles softened instantly, and the strength drained from his fingertips like water.
And then—
The wheel spun.
Miles closed his eyes.
The wheel spun deep in his consciousness, its speed accelerating.
Red, blue, gold, silver—all kinds of colors flashed across the darkness.
His heart rate sped up to the rhythm of the wheel, and his palms began to sweat.
*Click.*
Stop.
An unfamiliar force erupted from his chest, surging through his blood vessels to his limbs like molten lava.
His hands clenched violently, his knuckles popping.
And then—ten bone claws burst from the spaces between his fingers.
They didn’t grow on top of his skin.
They came from *inside*.
The moment the claws pierced his skin, the sharp pain made him gasp.
It wasn’t the pain of an external wound—it was the agony of bone tearing through his own body, like teeth cutting through gums, but a hundred times more intense.
He could feel the bone puncturing muscle, fascia, and skin, breaking through layer by layer.
Blood dripped from his knuckles.
One drop, then another, pattering softly onto the wooden floor.
But a few seconds later, the wounds began to heal.
The self-healing factor surged through his body like a warm tide washing over a beach.
His skin became smooth again, as if nothing had ever happened.
Miles raised his hands, staring at the ten bone claws.
Under the desk lamp, the claws gleamed with an ivory luster.
They extended about thirty centimeters from between his fingers, their tips as sharp as surgical scalpels.
He tried clenching his fists—the claws shifted accordingly, feeling like a natural extension of his body.
He splayed his fingers, and the claws spread wide.
He flexed his wrists, cutting several silver-white arcs through the air.
He stood up and walked over to the mirror.
The man in the reflection was slightly pale, with a thin layer of sweat on his forehead.
But his eyes were bright—not with excitement, but with realization.
His previous templates—Spider-Man, Batman, Captain America—all possessed non-lethal powers.
Spider-Man used webs to bind.
Batman relied on his intellect.
Captain America fought with a shield.
But Wolverine—he was built for slaughter.
Miles stared at his reflection.
The bone claws caught the cold light of the lamp.
He slowly willed them to retract—they slid back between his knuckles, and the skin sealed up seamlessly, leaving no trace.
He rubbed his knuckles; the skin was completely intact, without a single scar or blemish.
Miles stared at his phone screen.
The faces of the children at the Red River Institute flashed through his mind.
Mrs.
Park’s tears.
Ji-ho Park being sent to that hell at age six.
The registry numbers on the experimental records—R-001 to R-347, every single number representing a child.
He typed: “What do you want me to do?”
Butcher replied instantly: “We move tomorrow night. Leave no survivors.”
Miles stared at those three words for a long time—”Leave no survivors.”
He remembered Homelander sitting in the White House, legs crossed, sipping red wine, saying with a smile, *”I can make The Deep have an accidental death.”* He would never forget that smile.
It wasn’t an angry smile, or a threatening one—it was the smile of someone playing a game where everyone else was just a pawn on the board.
He remembered Starlight telling him, *”I killed that man,”* her voice as calm as if she were telling someone else’s story.
But her eyes had betrayed her—they held a deep-seated terror and guilt, nightmares that hadn’t faded in three years.
He remembered the female intern outside The Deep’s office—*”Please don’t,”* her voice as faint as a mosquito.
The Seven had walked right past her, and not a single one of them had stopped.
Not one of them had looked back.
He sent his reply: “Got it.”
Then he tossed his phone onto the bed and went into the bathroom to splash cold water on his face.
The water ran down his jawline into the sink.
He looked up, staring at himself in the mirror.
Water droplets clung to his brow like sweat.
He extended his right hand. Enjoying the story? Read on at g.com.
The bone claws burst from between his fingers—this time, there was no pain.
Instead, there was a sudden rush of released power, like exhaling a breath he had held for far too long.
The claws gleamed under the bathroom light, their tips scraping lightly against the tile wall with a soft, metallic screech.
He looked at the five claws.
It wasn’t fear.
It wasn’t anger.
It was a strange, profound calm—as if he had finally acquired a suitable tool.
A tool he could use to protect those who needed protecting.
He retracted the claws and wiped his face with a towel.
Returning to the bedroom, he sat on his bed and picked up his phone.
There were no new messages.
He opened his chat history with Starlight.
The last message was her “Okay” in response to his “Don’t look for me Monday night.”
He thought about it, then typed: “Goodnight.”
After sending it, he stared at the screen for a moment, waiting.
No reply.
He set his phone down and lay on his back.
The crack in the ceiling was still there.
A car drove past outside, its headlights sweeping across the ceiling before vanishing back into the dark.
He stared at the crack, remembering his first day moving into this apartment—the walls had been clean, the ceiling white, the room completely empty.
Now the ceiling was cracked, copies of the Red River files were piled on his desk, and a folding knife he’d bought at a convenience store was hidden under his pillow.
Three months ago, he was just an intern who couldn’t even carry a cup of coffee without shaking.
Now, he had bone claws that could slice through steel plates.
He closed his eyes.
The claws felt restless beneath his skin.
They rested just beneath his flesh, ready to burst out at his command.
It was a bizarre sensation—as if his body had grown a new organ, a weapon ready for deployment.
He thought of Butcher’s words: “Leave no survivors.”
He didn’t know if he could do it tomorrow night.
He had never killed anyone.
Spider-Man didn’t kill, Batman didn’t kill, Captain America didn’t kill.
But Wolverine’s claws—they were built to pierce flesh.
He rolled over, facing the wall.
There was a water stain on the wall, shaped like a bird with spread wings.
He didn’t know if he would kill tomorrow night.
But he knew one thing—he was going to get those kids out.
No matter what it took.