The livestream of the Hammer Industry Expo was being broadcast across every major platform. Millions of viewers from around the world had tuned in—tech enthusiasts, military analysts, fans of Iron Man, and curious onlookers all eager to witness what Hammer Industries had to offer.
Then, everything went sideways.
When the Iron Soldiers unexpectedly turned their weapons on the audience, the comment section had gone deathly silent. For several heartbeats, not a single word appeared.
Then, like a dam breaking, the chat exploded.
"Holy crap—it's a Mutant!!"
"Wait, are the X-Men at the expo?!"
"What the hell is happening? Hammer's robots are attacking civilians, and the Mutants are SAVING them?!"
"Is this actually a livestream and not a Marvel movie?"
"Not gonna lie… those powers are insane. If I had psychic force like that, I'd never have to work again!"
"Nope, don't trust 'em. Mutants are dangerous freaks! They could wipe out this whole crowd if they wanted to!"
"But they didn't, did they? They're risking their lives to stop the massacre!"
"Exactly! If they hadn't jumped in, there would already be bodies everywhere!"
"Just because they helped this time doesn't mean they always will!"
"Oh yeah? And what about those Iron Soldiers? That's 'just' technology, and they opened fire on civilians too. So what now?"
"Superpowers kill. So can machines. Why is one evil and the other not?"
"This guy above is clearly a Mutant sympathizer!"
The discussion was heated, chaotic, and impossible to moderate. But one thing was clear: the world was watching. Hammer had partnered with several international news outlets for a simultaneous global broadcast, and now the whole planet was witnessing the most unexpected PR disaster of the century.
While the chat scrolled at hyperspeed, the camera continued to capture every heart-stopping second.
On-screen, Joseph's team—the X-Men—were unleashing their full strength. Phoenix, Cyclops, Storm, and Wolverine had all entered the fray. Their precise, powerful counterattacks had reduced the Iron Soldiers to scrap metal in minutes.
But on the other end of the feed, hidden behind walls and wires, Ivan Vanko—the man responsible—wasn't done yet.
He was furious.
He didn't have artificial intelligence to control his machines. Everything had to be done by hand—command inputs typed one by one. Which meant each Iron Soldier had to be ordered manually to take off or aim.
They were being picked off too quickly. He couldn't keep up.
So, in a blind rage, Vanko stopped giving commands.
He slammed his fists on the console and activated a global override instead—triggering massacre mode.
All across the stage, Iron Soldiers suddenly froze—then began to vibrate ominously.
Then came the sound.
A chorus of mechanical clicks and whirs as every weapon system—guns, mini-missiles, micro-howitzers, explosive canisters—deployed simultaneously.
They didn't aim. They didn't target enemies. They simply fired in all directions.
"Oh my god—he's lost his mind!!"
"He's turning the entire expo into a kill zone!!"
Shells flew.
Rockets spiraled.
The air was torn apart by streaks of fire and sound.
Thousands of people in the auditorium screamed in terror. Some ducked, others froze. Parents threw themselves over children. Panic took over.
In that moment, everyone, regardless of how they felt about Mutants, silently begged the same question:
"Can that red-haired woman stop it? Please let her stop it."
All eyes turned to Phoenix.
Her face tightened with concentration. She clenched her fists, and her Psychokinesis exploded outward, stopping a hailstorm of bullets and dozens of cannon shells in mid-air. The projectiles hovered, twitching violently as they fought against her invisible force.
But Phoenix hadn't yet awakened her full power.
And there were too many.
At least a dozen cannonballs broke through her hold—fired from awkward angles, ricocheting off surfaces, or concealed by larger explosions. Several of them curved through the air, targeting the auditorium from above and behind.
"Scott! Orolo!"
Phoenix shouted.
Cyclops and Storm were already moving. Cyclops narrowed his gaze, and twin beams of searing red light lanced across the air, exploding cannonballs before they could strike. Storm called lightning from the sky itself—blasting others into mid-air fireworks.
They worked furiously.
They pushed themselves to the brink.
And somehow—against all odds—they stopped every missile that slipped through Phoenix's defenses.
"They did it!"
"Unbelievable teamwork!!"
"Wait—what's that?!"
Just as the X-Men started to breathe, a final cannon shell tumbled through the air.
A mini-howitzer.
So small, so fast, and hidden behind a larger blast that none of them had noticed it. It spiraled downward like a falling star… directly toward a young boy.
He looked no older than thirteen.
In the chaos, the boy had gotten separated from his parents and ended up near the edge of the stage. His parents, just a few feet away, screamed in horror, frozen in place.
The shell whistled down.
The camera zoomed in.
No one could get there in time.
Not Cyclops.
Not Storm.
Not Phoenix.
The crowd collectively gasped. On the screen, some people covered their mouths, others covered their eyes.
"Oh no… please, no…"
"Somebody—anybody—save that kid!"
And then—
A shadow flashed across the screen.
A figure leapt high into the air—coiled like a predator, fierce and fearless.
He crashed down in front of the boy, wrapping his arms around him tightly, shielding him with his own body.
The explosion that followed was deafening.
BOOM!
Flames surged outward. A massive shockwave knocked over chairs and sent spectators tumbling.
And at the epicenter of that blast—
Wolverine.
The force of the impact shredded the flesh from his back. Blood and sinew exploded in a sickening spray. His coat was incinerated. Half his body was torn apart.
But the boy—wide-eyed and shaking—was untouched.
Safe.
Wolverine knelt, breathing heavy, face bloody… but alive.
The crowd was silent.
The internet, stunned.
"He blocked that with his BODY?!"
"That kid would've been vaporized!!"
"Who IS this guy?!"
"Am I crying?? Holy crap I think I'm crying."
"He didn't even scream… just protected the boy and smiled??"
Through the smoke and flames, the livestream caught a crystal-clear image.
Wolverine, barely holding himself upright, turned to the boy he had just saved. His body was torn apart, flesh mangled. But he still reached into the remnants of his jacket, pulled out a half-crushed cigar, and put it between his teeth.
He looked the boy in the eye and smiled.
"Kid…" he rasped, his voice hoarse but calm, "next time you hear explosions… don't run toward them, alright?"
The boy just stared at him—shocked, trembling, unable to speak.
"TEARS."
"REAL MEN EXIST."
"He's more than a Mutant. He's a HERO."
"What's his name? Someone tell me his name!!"
"Wolverine. His name is Wolverine."
"That's it. He's my hero now. Forever."
The comment section couldn't keep up. Thousands of messages flooded the server, nearly crashing the entire platform.
Even the most hardened skeptics were moved.
But while the world was still processing the act of bravery…
The camera lingered on the stage.
Wolverine wasn't healing.
His injuries—deep, savage, mortal—remained. The flesh didn't regenerate. The wounds didn't close.
"Logan!!"
Phoenix screamed, racing to his side.
Cyclops and Storm were right behind her, horror on their faces.
This wasn't normal.
Wolverine's regenerative ability—his mutant healing factor—should've already kicked in. He'd survived worse. He always did.
But this time… nothing.
His blood pooled beneath him.
And then—he slumped forward.
To be continued…
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