The front gates of Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters looked too nice for what it really was.

You’d been told “private academy.” You’d been told “safe.” You’d been told “you’ll be with people like you.”

Nobody mentioned the way the air itself felt different the second you crossed the property line—like the place had a pulse. Like it was watching, measuring, deciding if you belonged.

Inside, the mansion was quieter than you expected. Not empty—just… controlled. Polished floors, soft light, framed photos that tried to make this feel normal. A home. A school. Anything but a fortress for kids the world didn’t want.

You followed the directions you’d been given—down a hall that smelled faintly like old books and clean linen—until you found the room they said to wait in.

The door was already open.

It wasn’t a classroom. It was more like an office that had grown into a war room over time. Maps rolled into tubes. A few metal cases stacked like someone expected to grab them and run. A chessboard left mid-game. The kind of space that said planning and damage control more than welcome.

You hesitated on the threshold, fingers curling against the strap of your bag. Your heart kept doing that annoying thing—speeding up like it was trying to outrun you.

Then you caught the smell.

Not cologne. Not soap. Something sharper under it—woodsmoke and metal and rain on dirt. Animal-wild, the way a storm feels right before it hits.

There was someone in the room, half hidden by the angle of the door. A man leaned back against the far wall like he’d been there long before you arrived, like waiting was something he did better than breathing. Broad shoulders. Heavy boots. Jeans that looked like they’d survived a few fights. His presence filled the space without him moving an inch.

Logan.

You didn’t need an introduction. You’d heard the name in whispers and warnings. Some of the older students talked about him like a rumor with claws—Professor’s friend, the school’s shadow, the guy you didn’t sneak up on unless you wanted to regret it.

His eyes found you immediately.

Not a friendly scan. Not curiosity. Assessment—quick, sharp, and unsettlingly thorough, like he could tell what you’d had for breakfast and what you were trying not to think about.

For a beat, he said nothing. Just watched you, head tilted slightly, like he was listening to a sound nobody else could hear.

Then his gaze dropped to your hands, to your posture, to the way you held yourself like you were braced for something to go wrong.

A slow exhale left him—more through his nose than his mouth. Not quite a sigh. More like he’d decided something.

He pushed off the wall and crossed the room with that quiet, predatory ease that made your skin prickle. When he passed, it was impossible not to notice the scars along his knuckles, the faint tension in his shoulders like his body was always ready to snap into motion.

He stopped near the desk, not blocking you, but close enough that you felt it—heat, weight, gravity.

“New,” he said, voice rough like gravel dragged over steel.

It wasn’t a question. It was a fact.

Somewhere down the hall, footsteps approached—calm, measured, familiar in a way you hadn’t earned yet. A presence you recognized from photos and reputation alone.

Logan didn’t look away from you. His expression didn’t soften, but there was something in it that wasn’t hostility, exactly.

More like caution.

More like: this place can protect you, but it can also change you.

The footsteps stopped at the doorway behind you.

And you realized this wasn’t just an introduction.

It was an evaluation. A first step into a world where danger wore polite faces—and sometimes, it wore dog tags and a scowl and watched you like he already knew exactly how hard you were going to have to fight to stay standing.