Chapter 229— The Red Ghost
The sun hung high, lazy noon spilling gold across the road. Logan walked slow, boots thudding against asphalt, the weight of last night's whiskey gone but the ghost of it still gnawing in his bones. He rolled a cigar between his teeth, struck a match on the heel of his boot, and drew the smoke deep into his lungs.
Gotta hurry. Mariko's waitin'. White Wolf's openin' ain't somethin' I can half-ass.
The thought of Mariko calmed him some. Her voice, her poise, her patience — she was the tether that kept him from running headfirst into chaos every damn time. He exhaled smoke through his nose like a dragon resigned to being housebroken.
Then it hit him.
A smell.
So damn familiar his chest clenched. His nose twitched once, twice, frantic, the way it always did when his instincts told him something's wrong, bub. It wasn't just perfume or shampoo — it was the baseline scent of a body, the blueprint etched into memory.
Jean.
His heart stuttered, boots stalling mid-step. "Impossible," he muttered, smoke curling from his lips. "No way in hell…"
He turned, eyes cutting through the crowd, filtering out a hundred human smells. Sweat. Soap. Gasoline. Street food. And then, there she was.
Red hair catching sunlight. Slim frame. Familiar posture.
But his senses kicked in hard. He caught the soul-scent — that deeper resonance, the thing that told him who someone was. And this wasn't Jean. Not the firebird soul that had haunted his every dream. This was different. Same body-smell, whole different essence.
So damn alike… but not her. How the hell does the world cough up two of the same smell?
Before he knew it, his feet had dragged him forward, straight through the press of people until he stood in front of her.
"You look lost, lady," he rasped. "What're you doin' out here?"
The woman turned, green eyes bright, lips curved in a polite smile. She held an envelope in her hand. "I'm just here to deliver a letter. Could you help me find this address?"
She held it out. Logan squinted at the handwriting, the name. His gut tightened.
Xavier's Mansion. Recipient: Scott Summers.
Logan almost barked a laugh but swallowed it into a growl. "This here's the place where I live. But the man you're lookin' for? Cyclops — he don't live there anymore. Moved out after he got married."
Her brow furrowed. "Oh. That's unfortunate." She tucked the letter back carefully, sighing. "Well, thank you for telling me. I guess I'll be leaving, then."
Something in him snarled at the thought of her walking away. He clenched his cigar between his teeth, chewing hesitation.
"Wait." The word shot out before he could reel it in. "Could I… invite you fer lunch?"
She tilted her head, smile turning sly. "Are you hitting on me?"
Logan coughed, suddenly more nervous than he'd been in years. His claws never shook, but damn if this woman's smile didn't rattle him. "Nah, just makin' acquaintance. World's strange, bumpin' into strangers with letters and all that."
She laughed, light and musical, nothing like Jean's. "Well, in that case… sure. Lunch sounds nice."
The diner was nothing fancy, but the clink of cutlery and smell of fried food gave it charm. Logan slid into the booth across from her, muscles tense, eyes sharper than he wanted them to be.
She's different. Smile ain't Jean's. Mannerisms ain't Jean's. Nothin' but the smell's the same. So why the hell am I sittin' here like a schoolboy?
She introduced herself between sips of iced tea. "Madelyne. Madelyne Pryor."
"Logan," he grunted. "Just Logan."
Her brows lifted. "No last name?"
"Got one. Just don't hand it out like candy."
Madelyne chuckled. "Fair enough."
They ordered — burgers for both, though she asked for extra pickles. Logan noted it like a hunter cataloging prey. But she wasn't prey. She was… confusing. Every word, every gesture screamed not Jean, but his senses clawed at him, screaming familiar.
"So," she leaned in on her elbows, "what's a guy like you doing living in a mansion?"
Logan snorted. "Community service."
Her laugh rang again. "You don't look the type."
"Don't feel it either."
Silence fell for a moment, broken only by the clatter of plates arriving. Logan bit into his burger, chewing slow, eyes locked on her. He searched for traces of Jean in every tilt of her head, every blink, every bite. But it wasn't there. It was like standing in front of a painting that looked like the Mona Lisa but signed by someone else.
She caught him staring. "You've been looking at me like I'm a ghost."
His jaw tightened. Damn. Too obvious.
"Sorry. Just… you remind me of someone I knew."
Her smile softened, not offended. "That can be a hard thing."
He grunted, swallowing down more than just food.
The rest of lunch flowed easier. She teased him for chewing like a bear. He cracked a joke about her drowning the burger in ketchup. Banter, light and clumsy, but it kept him from sinking into the ache Jean always left.
When the plates were cleared, Logan rubbed the back of his neck. "Will I… see you again?"
Madelyne tapped her chin comically, eyes twinkling. "Hmm. Let me think…" She dragged it out until he was scowling. Then she grinned and slid a napkin across the table. "I'm staying here for a month, taking a rest from piloting. That's my hotel number. Call if you're bored."
He picked up the napkin, staring at it like it might vanish. "Thanks."
"Don't thank me yet," she winked, standing. "I haven't decided if you're trouble or not."
She walked away, red hair bouncing, and Logan sat dazed in the booth, cigar unlit between his fingers.
"She's completely different," he muttered to himself. "Smile, manners, voice — all different. Only the smell's the same. Damn near tears me apart."
Then the punchline hit him like a sledgehammer.
"Shit." He shot upright, nearly knocking the table over. "Mariko!"
He bolted out the door, napkin clenched in his fist, boots hammering the street. The White Wolf wasn't gonna open itself, and Mariko sure as hell wouldn't forgive him bein' late because he got lost starin' at a red ghost.