The dimly lit office reeked of desperation. Graydon Creed leaned over the metal table, veins bulging in his neck as he stared at the holographic screen before him. The scowl on his face deepened with every syllable spat at him by the man on the screen—Bolivar Trask. Behind Creed, Carl Denti, the once-feared X-Cutioner, sat slumped in a wheelchair, his face marred with scars and his body weighed down by the damage inflicted by the Alamo. A cold, metallic brace hugged his neck, and his hands trembled as he clenched the armrests of his chair.

The screen flickered, the stern visage of Bolivar Trask coming into sharper focus. His neatly trimmed mustache twitched with restrained anger, and his sharp suit seemed incongruous in the crude surroundings of the compound.

"Creed," Trask began, his voice heavy with disdain. "Denti."

Creed puffed his chest, attempting to mask his unease. "Trask."

Trask’s lips curled downward. "I see you are reeling from your failures."

Creed shot a glance at Denti, who looked away, shame and rage competing in his eyes. "We didn’t fail," Creed snapped.

"You did," Trask retorted, his tone icy and unyielding. "In your pathetic crusade against a single mutant, you have jeopardized the whole cause! Humanity is weaker because of your mistakes."

Creed slammed his fist on the table. "You are not my superior, Trask! Denti did as he was ordered to. He tried to protect our interests against a mutant saboteur!"

"You call this protection?" Trask leaned forward, his expression darkening. "Your actions were reckless, undisciplined, and shortsighted. You’ve made our mission harder by painting us as murderers and thugs. Do you understand the damage you’ve done?"

Creed growled, his teeth bared like a cornered animal. "He is dangerous, Trask! That mutant is a walking weapon."

"I know, X-Cutioner," Trask said, his voice dripping with derision. "But here you are, alive and without a plan, because your stupid mistakes made everything worse. What went through your heads? Attacking a damn social worker and a retired warden in their home?"

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"They were parents of a dangerous mutant!" Creed shouted, his face flushing with anger. "They raised him. They harbored him."

Trask’s laugh was humorless, a sharp bark that cut through the tension in the room. "And they were human. Do you know what that means? It means they were not our enemy. You morons have taken a sledgehammer to the already fragile image of our cause."

Denti, his voice hoarse from disuse, finally spoke. "Trask, they supported a threat. We acted as we had to."

Trask glared at him. "You provoked him, and you deserved that beating. Do you understand what the purpose of Friends of Humanity is?"

"To destroy the mutant plague," Creed said, his tone defiant.

Trask exploded. "It’s to protect humanity, you idiot! Killing people indiscriminately is bad for business! The Sentinels were designed to neutralize mutant threats—when they become a threat—not to act as executioners for your personal vendettas."

Creed sneered. "All mutants are threats."

"All mutants have the potential to be threats," Trask corrected, his voice measured but sharp. "There’s a difference. If we summarily kill every mutant we encounter, what separates us from them? And more importantly, what separates us from the radicals who want to paint us as genocidal maniacs?"

"We acted as protectors," Denti rasped. "That boy, he attacked us viciously."

"You provoked him!" Trask’s voice rose. "You stormed into his family’s home and dragged his parents into this. What did you expect him to do? Write you a strongly worded letter?"

Creed’s face darkened further. "These violent and powerful Mutants must be exterminated."

Trask leaned back, shaking his head in frustration. "Not because they’re disgustingly unnatural that we should immediately kill them. Be sensible, Creed. Play the long game, or I will find someone who can."

Creed’s fists clenched so tightly his knuckles turned white. "You wouldn’t dare."

Trask’s smile was as cold as the fluorescent light in the room. "Oh, I would. And if you don’t lose the heat you’ve drawn, I will."

"Trask," Creed said, his voice almost pleading now. "Are you abandoning us?"

"I’m giving you a chance to fix your mistakes. Lose the heat and sort out this X-Men mess. If you fail, there are other human groups—more competent ones—who would gladly take your place."

The screen flickered, Trask’s face frozen for a moment before it disappeared entirely. Creed’s chest heaved with suppressed rage as he stared at the empty monitor. Behind him, Denti let out a low growl, his fingers tightening on his wheelchair’s armrests.

"What now?" Denti asked, his voice venomous.

Creed turned to face him, his expression twisted into something between fury and resolve. "We do what Trask said. We clean up the mess. And we do it our way."

The room fell into silence, save for the faint hum of the monitors. Outside, the wind howled over the Windy City, a fitting backdrop to the brewing storm within the office. The FoH had been humiliated, but their resolve had not been broken. The X-Men would come, but Creed and Denti intended to make sure they paid dearly for it.