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Kurt Wagner—better known as Nightcrawler—trailed behind Ororo Munroe as they walked the streets of New York City.
Ororo, with her striking white hair tied back in a simple ponytail, passed easily for just another young woman in the crowd. No flowing cape, no stormclouds trailing in her wake. Just jeans, boots, and a leather jacket.
Kurt, on the other hand, wasn't so lucky. Blue fur, golden eyes, pointed ears—he couldn't exactly blend in. His tail was coiled tight under his coat, hidden as best as possible, but the summer heat made the trench coat unbearable. He tugged the brim of his wide-brimmed hat low over his face and bore it in silence.
On paper, the world had grown more "accepting" of mutants. But Kurt had lived enough of life to know what those sideways stares really meant. The muttered words, the lingering glances—tolerance, yes, but never trust. Walking down the street like this, he didn't feel like a man. He felt like an exhibit.
An animal in a zoo.
Still, Ororo insisted on walking. The place they were going didn't take kindly to people teleporting inside. Best to arrive the old-fashioned way.
Their destination loomed ahead: a triangular hotel wedged at the fork of two downtown streets. A place Kurt had never been, but he'd heard whispers. Dangerous whispers.
A young bellhop stood at the door, uniform pressed neat, red jacket with gold piping. When he tipped his cap to Ororo, Kurt caught it—the faint slit of gills at his neck, the brief flicker as his eyes rolled pitch black and back again. Mutant.
Inside, the lobby was quiet but heavy with tension. A few scattered patrons occupied the room. One pretended to read a newspaper. Another sat with eyes closed, resting. A third calmly stripped and cleaned a pistol between sips of coffee.
This was no ordinary hotel.
Ororo strode to the front desk and laid down a single gold coin.
The concierge, a tall Black man with the polished manner of someone who had seen everything, looked up. Recognition sparked, and he smiled with professional warmth. "Miss Munroe. It has been a long time. What service may we provide for you?"
"When there's word of Jean Grey, we're to be contacted immediately. You know the number."
The man's fingers closed over the coin, dragging it smoothly toward himself. "Of course. It will be our honor. As a courtesy, I can tell you this much: this morning, Miss Grey was seen on Genosha. She destroyed a special-ops unit of the U.S. Army, then vanished."
Ororo frowned. "News of a ghost is not the same as finding the woman. You understand the difference."
"Perfectly. Consider that a free gift," the concierge replied, smile never slipping, though it didn't reach his eyes.
With her request formally made, Ororo turned to leave—until his voice stopped her. "Miss Munroe. We have several open contracts suited to your… talents. Would you be interested in earning a little extra?" He slid a stack of files onto the counter.
Ororo glanced over her shoulder, unimpressed. "Not today. I've got more pressing matters. But when I'm free, I'll be back. You won't be rid of me that easily."
The concierge's grin widened, bright and sharp. "Then we await your return with anticipation."
Kurt exhaled only when they stepped back into the night air. He whispered urgently, "Ororo… what is this place? It feels… wrong. Dangerous."
"The Continental Hotel," Ororo said simply. "Neutral ground. A place where even Professor Xavier's name carries little weight. Don't start trouble here. Ever." She gave him a sidelong glance. "This stop was just business. What I really need your help with is elsewhere."
"Where to?"
"First, we find a subway entrance."
Kurt had always had an uncanny sense of direction, sharpened further by his teleporting ability. He quickly pointed down the block. "This way."
They slipped underground. Even in the chaos of New York's subway system, nobody gave them more than a passing glance. Commuters buried their faces in phones, power-walked without eye contact, or simply ignored everything that wasn't directly in their way.
Maybe that was why New Yorkers survived alien invasions with a shrug. By now, seeing a blue-furred man in a trench coat was practically background noise.
At the turnstiles, Ororo briefly considered doing what half the city's teenagers did—hop the gate and skip the fare. But not tonight, not with Kurt at her side. She bought two cheap tickets, and they stepped through.
When the train screeched into the station, Kurt started forward, eager to jump aboard. Ororo held him back.
The doors slid shut. The train rattled off into the dark.
"We're not taking that one?" Kurt asked, confused.
"No," Ororo said, scanning the thinning crowd. "We're going another way."
The platform was nearly empty now, quiet. Ororo led him down onto the tracks, then into a side tunnel.
Soon they were walking through the forgotten skeleton of the city: abandoned subway lines, half-finished construction, tunnels that twisted into darkness.
New York was a city above and below. And below, the rules were different. Here, the homeless multiplied in shadows, fighting for scraps in a world the police pretended didn't exist. Vampires stalked these tunnels. Werewolves claimed turf. Other things, stranger things, fed on the weak.
This was no man's land. And yet, for some, it was home.
Kurt shivered. It reminded him of Germany, when he'd been tricked into fighting for his life in mutant cage matches before Mystique saved him. If not for her, he might have grown up in a place like this—swallowed by darkness.
But he wasn't that boy anymore. He was an X-Man now.
And tonight, following Ororo into the labyrinth beneath New York, Kurt would learn just how deep the shadows ran.
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