Five days later, Mexico City Genetic Research Institute.
Sandor Rice stared at the young, cloned version of Wolverine—X-24—crafted from Logan's DNA, and burst into triumphant laughter.
"Finally… I've finally succeeded! A Wolverine that obeys my every command. The world will soon kneel before me!"
His father, Dale Rice, had been one of the scientists responsible for bonding adamantium to Logan's skeleton. When Logan escaped the facility, he had killed Dale in the process.
From that moment on, Sandor vowed to eliminate all uncontrollable, dangerous mutants—and create an army of obedient ones under his rule.
He later founded Alkali-Transigen and, through his controlled food and beverage corporations, mass-distributed the M43 virus to the public.
The virus had no effect on ordinary humans, but it suppressed the abilities of existing mutants and prevented future genetic mutations in offspring.
After over twenty years of effort, no new mutants would ever be born again.
"Donald, dispose of the remaining test subjects. They're no longer compliant."
Turning away from X-24, Dr. Rice coldly addressed a man with a mechanical right arm.
His original plan had been to use harvested mutant DNA to breed a new generation of mutant children through surrogate mothers in Mexico, then sell them as weapons to other organizations.
But experiments proved these children, as they grew, developed minds of their own—resisting control, even attempting escape.
Now that he had perfected obedient mutant clones, these failures were obsolete.
In fact, he realized, selling them as weapons was just the beginning. With an army of loyal mutant clones, he could rule the entire world.
"Including Subject 757?"
Donald wasn't surprised by the order.
Dr. Rice hesitated for two seconds before nodding.
"Dispose of him. Now that replication is viable, we can mass-produce Wolverines—maybe even Xavier or Magneto. No need to waste resources on inferior prototypes."
"Understood."
Donald drew his pistol and left the lab.
Meanwhile, in his room, George—practicing wandless spellcasting—glanced at the wall clock, his expression darkening.
"Something's wrong. Is it starting?"
By now, someone should have come to take him to training.
"It is starting."
The door suddenly opened, revealing two familiar figures—his usual drill instructor and an armed guard.
"I told you this one was a waste of time. All that training, and now we're just scrapping him."
The instructor shot George a disdainful look before ordering the guard:
"Shoot him. Incinerate the body with the rest of the trash."
"Yes, sir."
The guard raised his submachine gun, racking the slide.
But just as he pulled the trigger, Subject 757 uttered something unexpected:
"Alohomora!"
Click.
The power-suppressing collar around George's neck disengaged.
Then—the guard felt a cold sting at his throat. His vision blurred.
George had begun casting the moment the two entered. His subtle hand movements went unnoticed.
With the suppressor off, his magnetic powers surged. A hidden dagger near the door shot forward, slitting the guard's throat—neutralizing the immediate threat.
Clang!
The instructor barely deflected a second dagger aimed at his back, cold sweat drenching him.
"What the hell?!"
Had he reacted a split-second slower, he'd be dead.
Years of combat reflexes saved him—the instant the collar dropped, he'd drawn his combat knife.
But if Subject 757 had targeted him first…
"You've been hiding your abilities?"
In training, Subject 757's knife control was weak—easily parried.
Yet now, the blade's speed and force rattled his wrist.
"The dead don't need answers."
George's dagger shredded the room's surveillance camera. Then—it lunged.
Normally, he held back—but today, wizard-blooded enhancements amplified his magnetism.
The dagger became a whirlwind of steel. Within seconds, the instructor bled from multiple gashes.
He tried fleeing, closing the distance—but George denied every opening. Desperate, he prayed for backup.
George, however, knew time was precious.
"Gun. Now."
While maintaining the dagger assault, he magnetically yanked the dead guard's submachine gun into his grip.
"Goodbye, sir."
He fired.
No honor duels. Just efficiency.
Brrrrt!
"Oh, God—"
The instructor's plea died mid-sentence, his body riddled with bullets.
Retrieving both daggers, George grabbed the gun and slipped into the corridor—disabling cameras, eliminating patrols.
Soon, distant gunfire and screams echoed.
He wasn't the only one marked for termination.
The other mutant children were rebelling.
That's why no one came.
Their chaos masked his escape—the sole reason he'd waited.
A lone breakout? Cameras would've doomed him.
Against a hail of bullets, he was no Magneto.