The neon lights bled into the damp night fog, painting the sky like a spilled vat of toxic dye. The island city-state in the Strait of Malacca was smaller than Singapore but felt infinitely more claustrophobic. It was a cyberpunk nightmare crossed with the worst elements of Gotham City—heavy clouds blocking out the sun, alleys where narcotics changed hands like pocket change, and private submarines belonging to global arms dealers idling in abandoned docks. The absolute lack of extradition treaties gave the air a distinct, metallic stench: copper blood and untraceable cash.
S.H.I.E.L.D. maintained outposts in both Lowtown and Hightown. Given their VIP cargo, the Quinjet touched down on the reinforced roof of the Hightown base. The facility was a sleek metal toothpick violently stabbed into a rotting fruit—a sterile, heavily armed pillar completely surrounded by Madripoor's staggering wealth inequality. The gleaming skyscrapers of Hightown literally cast shadows over the sprawling, impoverished slums of Lowtown below.
A pair of plainclothes S.H.I.E.L.D. agents escorted them to the elevator. Scott Summers, wearing his ruby-quartz combat visor, crossed his arms. Hank McCoy, currently stuffed into an oversized trench coat and fedora, looked intensely uncomfortable.
"I should have negotiated a steeper price with Fury," Scott muttered, watching the floor numbers tick down. "I should have made S.H.I.E.L.D. re-sod the entire front lawn of the estate in exchange for this escort." He glanced at the agent nearest the door. "Do you know where Logan is? Wolverine?"
"Mr. Patch should be at his casino right now, sir," the agent replied.
"What an aggressively stupid alias," Scott said, his jaw tightening. He turned to Peter and Cindy. "Stay close. If we find Logan quickly, we get the gene-editing device, fix your powers, and get you both back to school."
"And if you miss any crucial lectures," Hank rumbled, a warm chuckle vibrating in his chest, "I would be more than happy to help you catch up on the syllabus."
They stepped out onto the Hightown streets. Winter House was impossible to miss. It was an outrageously opulent casino, its massive neon marquee dominating the block. At the velvet-roped entrance, a pair of hostesses in strategically minimal dresses immediately approached them. They didn't even blink at the fact that their group consisted of a teenager in a full Spider-Man suit, an Asian girl in tactical S.H.I.E.L.D. gear, a man with glowing red goggles, and a massive, blue-furred mutant poorly hidden under a coat.
Scott didn't break his stride. He shoved past the hostesses and pushed the heavy glass doors open. "Keep up, kids. This isn't a place for minors."
A receptionist in a sharp suit stood up from a mahogany podium, raising a hand. "Excuse me, sir, do you have a—"
"I'm here to see your boss," Scott interrupted, his voice cutting through the lobby ambiance like a knife. "We're old friends."
"Sir, without an appointment—"
Scott ignored him and marched directly onto the casino floor.
Winter House was a sensory assault. A colossal crystal chandelier hung from the twenty-meter vaulted ceiling, its thousands of prisms refracting the overhead lighting into a blinding, golden ocean that spilled across the thick scarlet carpets. The air was a suffocating cocktail of sweet champagne, sharp Cuban cigars, expensive perfume, and the sour adrenaline-sweat of desperate gamblers.
At the roulette tables, men in bespoke suits shoved stacks of high-denomination chips across the felt. With every clatter of the ivory ball, chests heaved. Winners pumped their fists, screaming; losers slumped back, their bowties torn open, eyes hollow. Rows of slot machines chimed and shrieked in a chaotic symphony, their flashing LEDs reflecting in the vacant, obsessive eyes of the people yanking the levers.
Peter hated it instantly. The desperation in the room made his skin crawl. Cindy walked silently at his shoulder, her face mask pulled up over her nose, her dark eyes tracking the exits. Hank pulled his fedora down lower, clearly embarrassed by the sheer volume of human vice.
Scott plowed straight through the crowd. He shoved two heavily armed security guards out of his path. Hands reached for holsters. Earpieces were keyed. The situation was half a second from a firefight.
"Stand down."
The deep, gravelly voice echoed from the mezzanine staircase. "He's an old friend. Just lacks basic manners. Let them through. We'll talk in my office."
Peter looked up. The man descending the stairs was average height, built like a cinderblock. He wore a pristine, impeccably tailored white tuxedo with matching white trousers and gleaming leather shoes. A black eye patch covered his left eye. A lit cigar jutted from his teeth, and he casually held a crystal tumbler with a splash of red wine between the index and middle fingers of his left hand.
Scott smirked. He led the group up the stairs and followed Logan into the private office.
"I didn't expect to hear a lecture on manners from you," Scott said, taking in the room. A genuine lion-fur rug, mahogany bookshelves, boxes of imported cigars. "Looks like you're doing well for yourself since you went solo, Logan."
Logan whirled around and slammed his crystal tumbler down on the heavy oak desk, the glass cracking down the side. "Go to hell, Scott! You have no idea what you just did!"
Scott didn't flinch. "What did I do? Interrupt your revenue stream? Frighten away your high rollers?"
"You brought a New York superhero—in his bright red and blue uniform—into the middle of my casino!" Logan roared, pointing a thick finger at Peter. "I've been undercover here for two years! I'm tracking the remnants of the Weapon X program! And now you just marched an Avenger through the front door! Every spy in Madripoor knows something is wrong!"
Scott blinked. The tension in his shoulders dropped a fraction. "Oh."
Peter raised a hand, stepping out from behind Hank. "Listen, I didn't want to interrupt the yelling, but... are you sure your disguise was actually working, Mr. Logan?"
Logan froze, glaring at the teenager.
"I mean," Peter continued, gesturing at him. "You didn't change your hair. You didn't shave. You didn't use prosthetics. You literally just put on a white suit and an eye patch. You still look exactly like Wolverine."
Logan stared at Peter for three agonizingly long seconds. Then, he reached up, pulled the eye patch off his face, and shoved it into his jacket pocket. He chomped down on his cigar and glared at Scott. "Why did you bring him here?"
"His powers are destabilizing," Scott said, dropping the hostility. "We need the gene-editing device to recalibrate him. We know the last functioning unit is in Madripoor. We came to ask for your help." Scott exhaled slowly. "I'm sorry, Logan. I didn't realize you were still... doing the right thing."
Logan scoffed, leaning his knuckles against his desk. "Whatever. I don't have time to argue with you." He grabbed a map tube from the corner. "The gene-editing device is located in—"
BOOM.
The explosion ripped through the casino floor.
The shockwave shattered the office's interior glass, sending a tidal wave of heat, debris, and screaming gamblers surging through the building. Flames instantly licked up the mahogany walls.
Logan cursed loudly. With a deafening SNIKT, six adamantium claws erupted from his knuckles.
Scott just sighed, reaching for his visor. It seemed his track record for clean, quiet extractions was going to remain perfectly terrible.