The sun was going down as he was dragging himself to his car, also his home. He was breathing heavily, blood still wet on his shirt. Not all that blood was his, of course.
He scratched the wall as he passed by it, nearly not paying attention to the fact that his claws were still out.
He was tired, and old, but mostly tired.
Just three days ago, he watched his friends dying and he nearly got killed himself. You might think he would be used to it by now, but it truly was too much, even for a man as tough as he was. He did not imagine how bad it would turned, but the world kept showing him it could always be worse.
The metal on his bones became a burden, a curse. It was poisoning and intoxicating him, and his body was not healing as fast as before. In fact, the blood has not stopped dripping from his wounds for the last hours.
He did a lot, he saved the world more than once and he fought the battles. He even began to think he was capable of doing justice.
This battle has left him a wreck.
He hardly entered his car. In the back seat was laying down his teacher, his father, his friend, and the person who was, not deliberately, responsible for the death of almost everyone he still held dear.
He could not start the engine, let alone drive.
He lay down the seats, groaned in pain and opened his right hand. In his palm was a single bullet, made of the same metal that was coating his bones.
He knew, deep inside, he still had responsibility for the man next to him. However, just for a moment, Logan wanted to believe he was free.