The next morning arrived in a blur of early sunlight filtering through the skyscraper windows, casting long shadows across the investment office. Duncan Nenni stepped into the hallway, his polished shoes clicking against the tile as he carried a folder tucked under his arm. He was dressed sharply, as usual—his dark suit immaculate, his tie perfectly knotted. Today, however, his usual calm was undercut by a sharp determination. He wasn’t here to play games.

Knocking firmly on Mr. Davidson’s office door, Duncan didn’t wait for an answer before stepping inside. Davidson, sitting behind his large wooden desk, looked up from his computer with surprise.

“Mr. Davidson,” Duncan began without preamble, setting the folder down on the desk with a deliberate motion. “I think we must stop the bond origination.”

Davidson frowned, leaning back in his chair. “What? Why?” he asked, his voice tinged with frustration.

Duncan flipped open the folder, revealing a stack of printed photos. The images were grainy but clear enough to show armed guards, Sentinel blasters, and Carl Denti standing amid a convoy of SUVs outside the warehouse. Davidson’s eyes widened as he picked up the photos, his fingers tightening on the edges.

“What? How did ya get these?” Davidson demanded, his voice rising slightly.

Duncan’s expression remained impassive. “Don’t matter, sir. But let’s say it was a concerned party. Someone who thought you should see this.”

Davidson flipped through the photos, his face growing pale. “These are… incriminatin’,” he muttered. “The investors will hate this.”

“If this gets leaked,” Duncan said, his voice calm but firm, “the damn X-Men will show up, and damn the deal, won’t they, sir?”

Davidson nodded slowly, his hand rubbing at his temple. “Yeah, you’re right. They’ll never pay interest, much less the principal.”

“No, sir,” Duncan added, his tone sharper now. “It’ll be junk status.”

Davidson sighed heavily, leaning forward on his desk. “Dang it… I’ll cut ’em off.”

But before either man could say anything further, the office door opened without a knock. The tension in the room doubled as Graydon Creed, now clearly identified as Mr. Kane, stepped inside, flanked by Carl Denti—the X-Cutioner. Both men were dressed in sharp suits, their presence radiating a quiet menace that seemed to darken the room.

“Mr. Kane,” Davidson said, his voice faltering slightly as he stood.

“Greetings, Mr. Davidson. Mr. Nenni,” Creed said smoothly, his cold smile never reaching his eyes. He gestured to the man beside him. “This is my associate, Carl Denti.”

Denti stepped forward, extending a hand to Davidson, who shook it reluctantly. He then turned to Duncan, his eyes narrowing as he extended his hand once more.

Duncan hesitated for only a second before gripping Denti’s hand firmly. The tension between the two men was palpable.

“Your hands,” Denti said, his tone casual but laced with suspicion. “They’re warm.”

“Yup,” Duncan replied evenly. “I’m usually warm, yes.”

Denti didn’t let go, his grip tightening slightly. “This temperature… it’s unusual. Way above 100°. You’re in a fever state.”

Duncan held his gaze, his tone calm but pointed. “No, I reckon I’m just fine.”

The two locked eyes, an unspoken hostility passing between them. Carl’s lips curled into a faint smirk as he finally released Duncan’s hand. “You have a very strong grip.”

“I train,” Duncan replied, his voice edged with sarcasm.

Denti gestured faintly toward Duncan’s broad shoulders. “I can see,” he said.

Davidson cleared his throat, breaking the tension. “Can we talk about the deal?”

Creed’s attention shifted back to Davidson, his sharp smile returning. “Yeah… ’bout that, Mr. Davidson. I hear there’s some hesitation. Why?”

Davidson shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “Well, Mr. Kane, we’ve been reviewing the terms, and we’ve come across evidence suggestin’ possible cooperation with the FoH.”

Creed’s expression hardened slightly, though his tone remained even. “And? Do you have a problem with that?”

Denti, standing at Creed’s side, smirked and added, “Yeah, do ya?”

Davidson raised his hands, his voice placating. “It’s not about personal politics. The problem is, if this gets out, the X-Men will target y’all. And when that happens, they’ll destroy everythin’ y’all built. That means you’ll never pay back the debt.”

Creed’s smile thinned, his eyes narrowing. “Who let the boy speak?” he said, motioning toward Duncan, his voice full of disdain.

Duncan didn’t flinch. “I can more than stand fer myself,” he said, his voice steady.

Creed ignored him, turning back to Davidson. “Let me make this clear: you have no reason to deny this deal.”

Davidson hesitated, his gaze shifting nervously between Creed and Duncan. “We… we can’t go on with the deal. The risk is too high. If the X-Men find out we’re in collusion with the FoH, they might decide we’re a threat too.”

The room fell silent for a moment. Then Denti stepped closer to Duncan, his imposing frame looming over him. His face was mere inches away, his voice low and dangerous.

“So you’re against cleanin’ the streets of criminal freaks and terrorists?” Denti's voice came cold and dry. His eyebrows furrowing in anger.

Duncan met his gaze unflinchingly. “I’m against losin’ money,” he said coldly. “Especially when it’s tied to petty tyrant freedom-hatin’ fucks like the FoH.”

Denti’s eyes narrowed to slits. “People support causes for three reasons: they’re benefited by it, they’re in it, or they know someone involved. So which is it, cowboy? Are you benefiting from the muties, a mutie lover, or a freak yourself?”

Duncan’s jaw tightened. “What I am ain’t none of yer concern.”

Denti’s smirk turned into a sneer. His hand dipped into his jacket, and he pulled out a sleek black Glock 17, aiming it directly at Duncan.

“Woah,” Davidson stammered, raising his hands. “Denti, calm down.”

Denti didn’t look away from Duncan. “Call security,” he said, his voice venomous, “and you’ll be gone too, desk jockey.”

Duncan didn’t flinch, his gaze locked on Denti’s. “I ain’t afraid of no tyrant, X-Cutioner,” he said softly. “Go back to whatever hole you crawled out of.”

Denti’s finger tightened on the trigger.

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The sharp click of the hammer echoed in the room, and everything froze.

The sound of the gunshot rang through the office like thunder, silencing everything. For a moment, the world seemed to stop. Davidson yelled, his voice frantic: “DUNCAN!”

But there was no scream of pain, no crumpling body. Instead, the silence was broken only by the soft clink of the bullet casing hitting the floor. The bullet itself lay flat on the ground, its tip crumpled, as though it had struck an impenetrable wall. Duncan looked down to the ground at the spread hollow-point 9mm projectile laying on the floor, like flower blossoming in the spring.

“What?” Denti muttered, his voice laced with confusion and rising panic.

The tension in the room thickened as Duncan stood there, unmoved, the faint blue glimmer of plasma energy dancing across his chest where the bullet had struck. His sharp eyes glared at Denti, his voice low and measured. “I’m sorry, X-Cutioner. Ya oughta try harder if ya wanna kill me.”

Denti’s face twisted in fury, and he fired again—three more times in quick succession. The bullets hit their mark but clattered uselessly to the floor, the metal gleaming under the fluorescent lights.

Duncan’s expression hardened. Without a word, he stepped forward and grabbed the X-Cutioner by the neck, lifting him off the ground with terrifying ease.

Denti struggled, his feet kicking at the air. “Freak!” he spat. “Stay behind me, Creed!”

Duncan’s grip tightened slightly, his voice dripping with calm menace. “My turn, X-Cutioner.” He raised his other hand, forming his signature finger gun, a glowing blue plasma bolt forming at the tip of his finger. The room filled with a faint hum as the energy built, and then he fired.

The bolt struck Denti square in the chest, sending him flying across the room. He crashed into the wall with a sickening thud, his suit and tie charred, his tactical vest barely protecting him from being burned alive.

Duncan stepped forward, his tone cold. “Gets worse, Denti.”

Denti scrambled to his feet, pulling a second gun from his belt. He fired wildly, but Duncan was faster, sidestepping the shots with effortless precision. With a sudden burst of speed, Duncan closed the distance and grabbed Davidson, pulling him out of harm’s way as the bullets tore through the air.

“You’re a mutant?” Davidson asked, his voice trembling.

Duncan smirked, glancing over his shoulder. “Bless yer heart, y'all took yer sweet time to figure it out.”

The X-Cutioner, now furious, charged at Duncan with a feral roar. The fight exploded into chaos, Denti swinging wildly as Duncan dodged and countered with precision. Desks were overturned, papers flew through the air, and the sound of shattering glass filled the room.

At one point, Denti lunged at Davidson, but Duncan blocked the attack, shoving him backward. “Go home, Denti,” Duncan growled, his voice low and dangerous.

The fight spilled into the open office space, the sound of their struggle drawing the attention of every employee on the floor. Heads poked out from cubicles, and soon a crowd began to gather, their whispers filling the air.

“Is that Duncan?” One of the office workers stammered back, hot coffee spilling over the floor from his surprise.

“Oh my god, is he a mutant?” One of the other workers, a younger woman spoke from her cubicle.

Denti stumbled back, his chest heaving. He raised his gun again, shouting, “DIE!” and fired.

Duncan didn’t even flinch. The bullet barely touched him before falling to the ground. He closed the distance in an instant, grabbing Denti’s leg and lifting him off the ground. With a swift motion, he slammed the man into a nearby desk. The desk shattered under the impact, sending shards of wood flying.

“ARGH!” Denti howled, rolling away in pain.

Duncan stalked after him, his voice calm but filled with authority. “Done yet?”

Denti forced himself to his feet, pulling another gun, a smaller .380 compact. “Freak!” he spat. He fired again, but Duncan moved faster, grabbing the gun and crushing the barrel slide and the frame below it in his hand.

“You’re done here, Denti,” Duncan said, his voice steady as he grabbed the X-Cutioner and lifted him above his head. “Go home. Dallas ain’t a place fer the likes of ya.”

Denti, his face contorted with rage, spat in Duncan’s face. “You freaks are all the same! Fighting and dying for your cause! This will be no different.”

Duncan wiped the spit away, his eyes narrowing, glowing faintly red. Plasma energy coursed through his veins, his hands burning hot as he tightened his grip. Denti screamed, clutching his neck as Duncan’s touch left searing burns.

Desperate, Denti pulled a hidden adamantium blade from his boot and hurled it at Duncan. The knife struck Duncan’s hand, embedding itself there.

Duncan stared at it, unfazed. “Asshole,” he muttered, pulling the knife out like it was nothing more than a splinter. There was barely any blood, the wound already beginning to close.

Denti stumbled back, his face a mixture of fear and fury. “You freaks are all the same!” he snarled. “You’re monsters! Radicals! Criminals! All for that god damned X-Gene”

Duncan stepped closer, his voice low and unyielding. “I ain’t no X-Man. My cause is not the same.”

With that, Duncan grabbed Denti again, lifting him effortlessly. “KILL ME!” Denti screamed. “SHOW THEM WHO YOU ARE! MUTANT!”

Duncan’s gaze hardened. “No. I won’t kill ya. But I’ll humiliate yer ass.”

He threw Denti to the ground with a sickening thud, then stepped on the man’s right knee. A loud crack echoed through the office as Denti screamed in pain. A loud crunch was firstly heard, then a coarse almost sand like noise, his bones scrapping breaking beyond any medical save.

“ARGH!!!!” Denti yelled clutching his legs in agonizing pain.

Duncan moved to the left knee, his voice calm. “There ya go, Carl Denti.” Another crack, another scream.

But as Denti writhed on the floor, clutching his shattered legs, Duncan’s attention shifted.

Graydon Creed still stood in the doorway, his cold gaze fixed on Duncan.

The tension in the office was palpable as Duncan Nenni stood over the broken and battered Carl Denti, his imposing frame outlined by the faint glow of residual plasma energy. Behind him, the gathered employees of the bank whispered nervously, their eyes wide with a mixture of fear, awe, and confusion. But the room went silent as Graydon Creed, now fully revealed, stepped forward, his sharp suit barely containing his seething anger.

“You mutants,” Creed began, his voice dripping with venom, “are all cruel brutes.”

Duncan turned to face him, his expression calm but his eyes burning with quiet fury. “Says the man who just tried to kill me, and has killed plenty before.”

Creed sneered, his fists clenched at his sides. “You don’t understand what it’s like to be powerless. To live in fear of your kind!”

Duncan raised an eyebrow, his tone steady but cutting. “I wasn’t always a mutant, y’know. Powers take a while to manifest.”

Creed scoffed, his voice rising. “Doesn’t matter! You care for nothing and no one. All you mutants do is tear, break, destroy! You’re a plague—a cancer on this earth. And if we don’t stop your kind, you’ll destroy ours!”

Duncan’s expression hardened. “You’re insane, Creed. We just want to be left the damn alone.”

“Is that so, freak?” Creed spat. “Does Magneto want to be left alone? Does Apocalypse? Mystique?! SABERTOOTH?!”

Duncan took a step forward, his voice cold and sharp. “Ya’re comparin’ me to vicious criminals. By that logic, all humans are murderers too—’cause Denti here killed a bunch of people. Or I dunno… let’s go with Red Skull, Stalin, Hitler… y'know ad infinitum.” He gestured widely, his voice rising slightly. “Ya can’t measure anythin’ collectively. Each individual is—”

Before he could finish, Creed moved suddenly, launching a collar meant to disrupt mutant powers. The device gleamed as it sailed through the air, a perfect shot aimed directly at Duncan’s neck.

But Duncan was faster. With reflexes honed by both training and instinct, he snatched the collar out of the air with a loud clap, holding it in his hand like a useless toy.

“Seriously?” Duncan said, narrowing his eyes. “Mid-monologue? You’re an asshole, Creed.”

Creed’s lips curled into a snarl. “You end here, mutant,” he growled, reaching into his suit jacket and pulling out a Sentinel blaster. The weapon unfolded from its compact form, nanotech plating extending across Creed’s arm until it resembled something out of a science-fiction nightmare.

The gathered employees gasped, some ducking behind cubicles, others scrambling for cover. The blaster began to hum, its energy cells charging as Creed raised it toward Duncan.

But before Creed could fire, Duncan moved. His eyes flicked to a nearby laptop sitting on a desk, and in one swift motion, he grabbed it and hurled it at Creed. The computer struck him square in the face, knocking him backward into a cubicle with a loud crash.

“Sorry, Janice,” Duncan muttered to the wide-eyed co-worker crouched behind her desk.

Creed groaned, struggling to his feet, the Sentinel blaster sparking slightly from the impact. Duncan walked toward him, his footsteps slow and deliberate.

“Not all mutants are evil, Creed,” Duncan said, his voice low but carrying across the room. “I won’t hurt ya, but don’t bother me again.”

From somewhere in the back of the room, Paco, one of Duncan’s colleagues, yelled out: “DUNCAN! DO A CATCHPHRASE!”

Duncan paused, turning slightly toward the voice. “What? N—Ahem… hmm…” He cleared his throat, then turned back to Creed, his tone mock-dramatic. “Remember the Alamo, motherfucker.” He paused, then repeated it with more gravitas: “Yeah. Remember the Alamo, Creed.”

From the sidelines, Pablo muttered, “Corny ass line.”

Duncan sighed, shaking his head. “I’m tryin’, god damnit.” But there was a hint of amusement in his eyes, now red and glowing, a far cry from his dark browns.

He knelt down, grabbing Creed’s wrist. The Sentinel blaster hummed weakly, its systems damaged but still active. Duncan gripped it tightly, his plasma-charged strength crushing the advanced tech as though it were made of tin foil. Creed winced as the metal buckled, sparks flying before the weapon fell silent.

Duncan released Creed’s wrist, straightening up. “I’ll see ya ’round, Creed.” He turned and walked toward the shattered window, pausing only to glance over his shoulder. “And don’t come back to Dallas. It ain’t yer kinda town.”

With that, Duncan leapt through the broken window, his body enveloped in a blue streak of plasma energy as he shot into the sky.