Carl Denti rolled his wheelchair down the dimly lit hallway, his hands gripping the wheels so tightly that his knuckles turned white. The metallic hum of fluorescent lights above flickered in and out, casting eerie shadows against the cold steel walls. This facility—one of Trask’s many hidden strongholds—was unfamiliar, but the same sterile atmosphere and clinical detachment from human warmth remained.

Denti’s body ached. A deep, gnawing pain that never really left. His bones felt like brittle glass, his nerves screamed in protest with every movement. His body wasn’t what it used to be, and he knew who to blame.

A mutant.

A boy.

A damn kid.

He gritted his teeth, wheeling himself into the office he had been summoned to.

The room was far too grand for what it was. A massive mahogany desk, lined with old books, framed certificates, and artifacts of a bygone age—a deliberate contrast to the cold, scientific reality outside these doors. It was meant to be imposing. It was meant to show legacy.

Sitting behind the desk, Bolivar Trask leaned back in his chair, hands folded over his stomach.

"Ah, Mr. Denti," Trask greeted with that same smug, calculated smile he always carried.

Denti hated it.

"It’s good to see you here," Trask continued, his voice cool and professional.

"Yeah, great, really," Denti muttered, sarcasm dripping from his tone as he adjusted his thick-framed glasses.

His brown hair, now streaked with premature white strands, was disheveled. His face was lined with deep creases, the kind that didn’t come from age but from stress, from war. He was somewhere in his late forties, maybe early fifties, but he felt twice as old.

Denti sighed, rubbing his temples. "Do you know why I’m here?"

Trask’s smirk didn’t falter. "I brought you here because I want to give the Friends of Humanity a chance."

Denti’s brow furrowed. "A chance?"

"You’re less extreme than Creed," Trask explained smoothly, his fingers drumming against the desk.

Denti snorted, rolling his eyes. "Yeah, Creed... Creed is Creed, you know how he is."

He spat the name out like it was poison. Creed was a rabid dog, unpredictable and barely controlled. He made for a great weapon but a terrible leader. That much had been obvious for years.

Trask nodded. "That’s exactly why you’re here—to protect mankind. To save the Friends of Humanity... from Creed."

Denti let out a sharp laugh. "This seems desperate, Trask."

Trask simply smiled. "It’s not. It’s necessary."

He stood up, walking slowly to the side of the room, where a glass case held a Sentinel's robotic hand, mounted like some kind of war trophy.

"We have to stop the mutants," Trask said, his voice growing colder, sharper. "They just killed one of Carraro’s men."

Denti's eyes flickered upward at that. His stomach twisted.

"Who?"

"Thompson."

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Denti froze.

His fingers gripped the armrests of his wheelchair. "What about his family?"

"Hurt," Trask said simply, his voice devoid of emotion. "Destroyed. All because of the X-Men."

Denti’s pulse pounded in his ears. He had worked with Thompson. He knew the guy. A straight-laced former MP. A family man.

A good man.

"It can’t be," Denti muttered, shaking his head. "Thompson was—he was a soldier, but he wasn’t a fanatic. He wasn’t one of Creed’s attack dogs. He—he just wanted to provide for his family."

"Well," Trask said, walking slowly back to his desk. "Mutants don’t care."

He sat down again, leaning forward.

"Good, bad, in between—it doesn’t matter to them," he continued, his voice dripping with venom. "All they want is to ensure they will rise and conquer. That is their goal, Carl. Not coexistence. Not peace."

He let the words sink in.

"Dominance."

Denti felt his nails dig into the leather of his chair.

He wanted to deny it. He wanted to say that Trask was exaggerating. But the pain in his body, the humiliation he had suffered at the hands of a mutant, was a permanent reminder of just how dangerous their kind was.

Thompson was dead.

Another casualty.

And if they didn’t act now, how many more would there be?

Trask watched Denti carefully, then leaned back, clasping his hands together.

"You know I’m right."

Denti’s jaw clenched.

"What do you need from me?"

Carl Denti’s hands curled into fists as he sat in his wheelchair, his eyes locked onto Bolivar Trask with a mix of contempt and disbelief. The very idea of returning to the field was a sick joke.

"I want you to go back to the field," Trask repeated, his voice steady, unwavering.

Denti let out a bitter, humorless laugh. "Are you blind, Trask?"

His voice was sharp, laced with barely-contained anger as he gestured to the empty space where his legs used to be.

"I’m a damn cripple. A broken man."

Trask didn’t flinch. Didn’t waver. His expression remained calculated, as if this was merely another equation that needed solving.

"Well, I’m sorry for that," Trask said coolly. "But being in a wheelchair doesn’t define who you are, Denti. You’re a fighter. A man of justice."

Denti’s hands gripped the leather armrests of his chair so hard they creaked under the pressure.

"You," Trask continued, his voice dripping with manipulation masked as inspiration, "are our Captain America. A man of principle. A man of justice. For Mankind."

Denti snapped.

"Don’t." His voice was dangerously low, like a blade unsheathing from its scabbard. "Don’t you dare compare me to Captain America. I’m long past that point."

His lips curled into something between a grimace and a smirk. Bitter. Hollow.

"I’ve done too much," Denti muttered, more to himself than to Trask. His voice was laced with something heavy—regret, maybe? Or just exhaustion.

Trask’s eyes darkened. His fingers drummed against his desk in a slow, deliberate rhythm.

"IT IS A WAR," he said suddenly, his voice rising, sharp and commanding. The sudden outburst made Denti flinch. "It was needed. Everything we have done—everything you have done—was for the greater good."

Denti clenched his jaw.

Trask leaned in, his sharp gaze pinning him in place.

"Do it for Thompson," Trask pressed, his voice softening, almost persuasive now. "Do it for his family."

Denti’s breath hitched.

Thompson.

A good man. A family man.

He could still hear his voice.

"I don’t give a shit about mutants, man. I just wanna put food on my family’s table."

"The pay’s good, Carl. I mean, hell—where else am I gonna get money to send my daughter to med school?"

And now he was dead. Because of them.

Mutants.

The X-Men.

Denti felt his hands shaking.

"To save the future…" Trask’s voice slithered into his ears like a snake whispering in Eden. "From mutant domination."

Denti closed his eyes for a brief moment, exhaling through his nose.

When he opened them, something inside had hardened.

"Alright," he said. His voice was steady now. Cold.

His eyes bore into Trask’s.

"What do you want?"

Trask’s lips curled into a small, knowing smile.

He didn’t respond—not immediately. Instead, he turned away, his crisp, pristine lab coat rustling faintly as he walked to the far end of the room.

A low mechanical hum filled the air as Trask approached a reinforced, armored glass window.

With a tap of a biometric scanner, the window’s security shutters slid open.

The moment they did, Denti’s breath hitched. His eyes went wide.

Beyond the glass lay a sprawling lab, filled with scientists, machines, and something… something massive.

Denti felt his heart pound against his ribs. His fingers twitched involuntarily.

Whatever he was looking at… it was big.

Trask turned slightly, his expression unreadable.

"I want the X-Cutioner back."

Denti’s breath shuddered.

He felt it. The weight of the moment.

Something inside him whispered, This is your second chance.

A chance to finish what he started.

A chance to end them.

End him, the one who put him in this state.

A chance to make the mutants pay.

Denti’s lips curled into a slow, almost feral grin.

"Then let’s get to work."