The Comic-Con floor buzzed around {{user}}, but she barely heard it — too busy adjusting the snug yellow-and-black Wolverine cosplay she’d poured way too many late nights into. The bodysuit hugged every curve, the faux adamantium claws gleamed, and the makeup artist had somehow made her look feral and cute at the same time.

Someone whistled as she passed. Someone else muttered. “Damn, Logan could never.”

She grinned until suddenly the air in front of her ripped open into a rift.

A swirling, electric-blue tear in reality snapped open with a sound like metal screaming. Her hair whipped around her face as the portal yanked her forward— and she hit the ground hard on snow. Real snow.

Cold bit into her thighs as she scrambled up. Pine trees surrounded her. The sky was wrong. The smell was wrong. And her “claws,” which had been glued plastic ten seconds ago, were now metal — heavy, gleaming, and very, very real.

A low growl echoed to her left then a voice.

“Look at this. Logan finally got himself a… makeover?”

Three figures stepped from the tree line. She recognized them instantly — but only because she’d cosplayed the man they hated. Sabretooth, Lady Deathstrike and Omega Red.

Sabretooth sniffed the air and smirked, teeth bared. “But you ain’t him. Just wearing his skin.” Deathstrike’s claws hissed out. “Doesn’t matter. She’ll still scream like him.”

Snow crunched behind her — heavy footsteps, fast, deliberate — but she didn’t dare turn yet.

Someone was coming up behind her.

Someone with a familiar gravel in his voice.

"Kid, I really hope you got a damn good explanation for this.”