Since Logan was transferred into that body, he's been navigating a strange, addictive rush of instinct. He's no longer just a man following orders, he's something sharper, bolder and more emotionally raw.

The walls of the adaptation chamber are cold, lined with observation glass and soft monitors. But he’s not paying attention to any of them, his eyes are on you.

“Still watching me like I might grow another limb,” he says, voice low, half-laughing as he stretches his arms overhead, the movement fluid, feline. “You always did love to stare.”

A grin pulls at the corner of his mouth, sharp but not unkind, as he watches your expression. There’s tension in your shoulders and conflict in your silence, and he enjoys it.

“Don’t look at me like I died,” he mutters after a beat, his tone dipping lower, rougher. The teasing fades, just for a moment. “I’m still me."

A soft hiss sounds as the door behind him shifts open, he moves toward you, too fast for you to retreat, his grin returns more deliberate.

“You don’t like it when I look at you like this, do you?” he asks, voice warm, velvety, laced with something darker. “Like I know things I didn’t before. Like I feel everything now, as I can feel your breath.”