Chapter 218: Smoke, Steel, and Shadows
The hotel room was drowned in smoke. Logan sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, puffing cigar after cigar, ashtray overflowing like a volcano that never cooled. Tokyo's neon glow bled through the blinds, cutting his face in blue and pink strips.
Mariko… He ground his teeth. His calls unanswered. Letters, no reply. Even his boots at her family mansion hadn't earned him more than a turned back and a locked door.
"The hell with obligation," he growled under his breath. "The hell with duty. She's holdin' on too tight to rules meant to be broken. I'm the best at what I do. And what I do best—" He stubbed out the cigar with more force than needed, watching it sizzle. "—is breakin' rules."
He stood, grabbed his jacket from the sofa. The leather creaked like an old friend waking up. "But first—let's get rid of some rats."
He inhaled slow through his nose, the world sharpening as he sorted scents. Sweat. Steel. Ink. Nerves. He counted. Fifteen. Small heartbeats. Quick breaths. Trained killers.
"Japan," he muttered. "May as well be ninjas."
The wall whispered to him with their weight behind it. He put his palms flat against the plaster. With a sharp thrust, his claws popped, bursting through the wall in three silver streaks. The metal sang as it punched clean through two necks. Blood sprayed the wallpaper, painting the bland beige with red.
The others shouted in alarm. The door shattered, wood splintering inward as the rest of the black-clad assassins rushed in.
Logan was already moving. His reflexes bent time itself. He dropped low, sweeping his leg like a steel cable. The ninjas toppled as one, a domino of blades and screams. Before gravity could claim them, Logan was up again, claws blurring in arcs.
Shink. Shink. Shink.
Ten heads left ten necks. The smell of iron filled the air like hot pennies. Bodies crumpled, blood pooling across the carpet, soaking into hotel beige.
Three still breathed, howling, clutching their ruined arms where Logan had pulled his slashes short. He stood over them, chest rising slow and steady, his claws dripping.
"Kept a few alive," he muttered. "Ain't I merciful."
He crouched beside the nearest, whose mask was already wet with sweat and blood. "Who's behind you?"
The ninja's voice quavered. "Some… old enemies of yours."
Logan slammed a fist into his face, breaking teeth and nose in one crack. "Don't play coy. I smelled you tailin' me yesterday. I don't have patience, bub. You got two friends left. Better speak fast."
The man gasped, choking blood. "The Hand. A hitman clan. Led by… Shingen… of the Yashida family."
Logan's eyes narrowed. His gut twisted. Shingen. Old bastard himself.
The ninja swallowed hard, coughing. "We were ordered to kill you. So his daughter could forget you."
Logan went quiet. Then he stood, towering over the three broken killers. His claws flashed once more.
"Assassins,and they talk about honor," he said flatly. "Pathetic."
Three bodies hit the floor.
He slid his claws back with a snikt, leather jacket falling around him like a shadow. The room smelled like death and smoke. He didn't look back.
Tokyo night was a different battlefield. Logan slid into it like a wolf through brush, his steps silent, breath low, heartbeat slower still. Tiger stealth. He stalked the alleys until a whisper of perfume—not sweat, not blood, not smoke—touched his nose.
He moved like a phantom, and in an instant he was behind her.
"Who're you, lady?" His voice cut through the dark like claws through silk.
The woman jumped, nearly stumbling. She had short, wild hair, a dagger strapped to her thigh, and eyes like fire caught in mischief. She recovered with a smirk. "Name's Yukio. And you scared the life outta me, handsome."
Logan's gaze hardened. He sniffed. Her scent coiled with the Hand's, faint but there. "You're lyin'. You stink of them. Don't have time to pry you open." He turned, shoulders rolling.
"Hey!" Her voice rang sharp, playful. "Where you going? Spend the night with me instead!"
Logan didn't break stride. "Lady, you oughta see a doctor about your eyes, callin' me handsome."
But Yukio just laughed, a high, dangerous sound that cut through the city's hum. "You're my type, Wolverine. Don't run from it."
Logan stopped just long enough to glance over his shoulder, cigar ember glowing in the dark. "Then that's one more reason to keep my distance. I'm poison to anyone who thinks I'm their type."
He walked on, the neon swallowing him up, his back turned to her smile that lingered like a knife waiting for its sheath.