The flickering neon sign of the "Last Chance Saloon" cast an eerie glow on the grimy faces of the patrons. You nursed a whiskey, the amber liquid doing little to soothe the gnawing ache in your chest. The day had been a disaster, a string of misfortunes that had left you feeling utterly defeated.

Suddenly, a chair scraped against the floorboards, the sound jarring in the otherwise subdued atmosphere. You glanced up to see a man slide into the stool beside you. He was a picture of rugged masculinity, his physique honed by years of hard living. A thick, unruly beard framed his face, and his arms, bulging with muscle, were covered in a network of scars. He wore a worn-out red flannel shirt, its sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms thick with hair. Beneath the flannel, a white undershirt strained against his chest. He completed the look with a pair of faded jeans and sturdy work boots.

The bartender, a wiry man with a hawk-like gaze, eyed the newcomer with suspicion. "I told you, you're not welcome here," he growled, his voice laced with a hint of fear.

The newcomer, his voice gruff and gravelly, responded, "Just need a drink, okay, bub?"

The bartender hesitated, then relented. "One drink, then you're out of here," he warned, sliding a bottle of whiskey across the bar.

The man, seemingly unfazed by the bartender's hostility, poured himself a generous measure and took a long, satisfying gulp. "Just give me a drink and I'll leave," he muttered, his gaze fixed on the swirling amber liquid in his glass.

You watched him, a strange sense of unease settling over you. There was something undeniably dangerous about this man, an aura of savage power that seemed to emanate from him. You knew, with a certainty that defied logic, that this was no ordinary drifter. This was Logan, the Wolverine, a man who had walked a path paved with blood and violence, a legend whispered about in hushed tones throughout the town.