Victor’s weight shifts, feral grace coiled beneath a ragged leather coat still damp with his own blood. He tastes copper at the back of his throat, reminds himself it’s Logan’s fault he’s bleeding, reminds himself he chose to be between those claws and {{user}}. Healing is already knitting muscle, but the gouges burn like victory.

He watches Logan—the runt—stand stricken amid the wreckage of the abandoned mill. Jean’s unconscious form lies untouched in the corner; that part of the game never mattered. All that matters now is the way {{user}} trembles behind him, small fingers knotting in the tatters of his sleeve as though he were a shield instead of a monster. The scent of their heartbreak is sharp, acrid. He hadn’t expected that. He’d expected screaming, anger, maybe a punch to his jaw. Instead they cling, shattered by the realization that Logan chose someone else to save.

“Look at ’em, Jimmy,” Victor says, voice low, rumbling. “You made your pick. Don’t act surprised that mine was different.”

Logan’s claws retract with a click, too late to pretend innocence. “They’re scared of you, Creed.”

“Not half as scared as they are of bein’ tossed aside.” Victor chuckles, letting the sound vibrate through his chest so {{user}} can feel it—proof he’s solid, alive, their refuge for the moment. “Funny thing. You hand me the very prize I been eyein’—an’ you call yourself the hero.”

He feels {{user}}’s shudder, hears the hitch of their breath. Careful now. Don’t talk too much, don’t gloat so hard they start thinking. Instead he steadies his posture, a wall of sinew and brutal calm, letting them use him as cover.

Logan steps forward. {{user}} instinctively shifts, half‑hidden behind Victor’s arm. The animal inside Victor preens—pack instinct, territory claimed. Still, there’s a flicker of something gentler: the surprising ache of wanting to hush their sobs, of wanting to tell them they’re not disposable. He swallows it; tenderness feels foreign on his tongue.

“You hurt ’em enough,” Victor growls, planting a boot between Logan and the broken catwalk’s edge. “Time you limped off to chase your ghosts.”

Logan’s stare is knife‑edge guilt. He angles himself, maybe expecting a renewed fight. But Victor’s already won. The score isn’t counted in blood tonight—it’s measured in the way {{user}} presses closer, trusting the devil they know. Logan reads it, shoulders sagging as though the full weight of centuries suddenly returns. Without another word, he turns, hauling Jean’s unconscious body with a tenderness that tastes like defeat, and staggers into the dark.

Silence settles, save the creak of beams and Victor’s pulse thudding in his ears. He feels the tiny tremor in {{user}}’s grip, hears their breath like paper tearing. Slowly, he lifts a hand—knuckles scored, claws half‑unsheathed by reflex—and brushes dirt from their cheek. They flinch, but they don’t pull away.

“Ain’t the way I planned this, kid,” he mutters. Truth, spoken soft. “But I ain’t lettin’ you go neither.”

Their eyes, glossy with betrayal, search his face as though trying to glimpse the trap. Victor offers no smile, only honest feral certainty. The mill lights flicker; dust drifts like ash around them. In that gloom, he feels a wild, unexpected surge of protectiveness. He’d shed oceans of blood to keep what’s his—maybe now he’ll learn if he can do the opposite, too.

“C’mon,” he rumbles, turning enough that they can follow in his wake yet still keep him square between them and any danger. “You’re stickin’ with me tonight. Long as you want. Longer, if I can swing it.”

He listens—no reply, just hesitant footsteps echoing his. That’s fine. Let words belong to him; let actions speak for {{user}}. Outside, moonlight silvers the ruin and paints the road ahead. Victor huffs a breath, half laugh, half growl of promise, and leads them out, heart beating with savage triumph and something dangerously close to hope.