Marvel: Monkey King

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The Danger Room doors hissed open. Jack stepped out, his black-and-pink hanfu in tatters, stained with blood—both his and Logan's. His golden eyes flickered under the fluorescent lights as he strolled into the hallway, stretching his arms like he had just finished a casual sparring session.

Behind him, the X-Men descended into the Danger Room, rushing to check on Logan.

Jack glanced over his shoulder, smirking. "Good call stopping the beating, kid."

Scott Summers turned to face him, expression unreadable. "You're not even that much older than me," Scott muttered.

Jack snorted. "Maybe not. But experience? That's another story."

Scott stayed quiet. Jack tilted his head, watching him. Then—his smirk widened. "Well, good luck with the consequences of stopping us."

Scott stiffened.

Jack shrugged. "Hopefully, Logan sees you as a mature leader after this." Jack paused, then added with a chuckle—"And not just some wannabe trying to prove himself."

Scott's jaw tightened. His eyes flickered toward Logan, still lying on the ground, unmoving. The others hovered around him. Checking. Whispering. Worrying. Scott exhaled, shoulders tense.

He wondered—had he made the right choice? Logan never says surrender to Jack. He never said he wanted to stop. Was this what it meant to lead? To step in, even when no one asked you to? To take the blame, even when it wasn't yours to carry? Scott gritted his teeth, deep in thought.

Jack watched him for a second longer, then turned away.

As Jack stepped into the hallway, he saw three figures waiting for him. Charles Xavier. Ororo Munroe. Hank McCoy. They stood just outside the exit, arms crossed, faces unreadable.

Jack raised an eyebrow. "What? No round of applause?"

Silence.

Jack tilted his head. Then—his face turned serious. "Why didn't you stop the fight, Baldy?"

Xavier stayed calm. "Logan personally asked us not to meddle with his resolve. Especially when it comes to anything involving his past."

Jack whistled. "Huh. And yet, you let Scotty take the blame for stopping it."

Xavier smiled slightly. "Scott is 19. It's time for him to lead his own team and make his own decisions."

Jack stared. Then—he laughed. "Damn. So I'm just an unpaid guest teacher for your little school, huh?"

Hank adjusted his glasses. "That's one way to look at it."

Jack grinned. Then, he turned to Ororo, leaning in slightly. "And if you—my angel—ever need a tour of Hell's Kitchen, call me."

Ororo raised an eyebrow.

Jack smirked. "You know what all the women say—Once you go Jack, you never go back."

Ororo chuckled, arms still crossed. "I'll consider it. After you stop being weird."

Jack laughed, stepping back. "Well, that's one way to reject a handsome man, I guess."

With that—he strolled away. Humming a song to himself. Still grinning like he hadn't just nearly beaten Logan to death.

Back inside the Danger Room, Logan slowly sat up. His wounds were already healing, but his mind was still racing.

Jack's words lingered. "You're too caught up in what lies behind the hill... that you don't realize you're already standing on a mountain of gold."

Logan exhaled sharply. The kids crowded around him. "Logan, are you okay?" Bobby asked. Kurt grinned, trying to lighten the mood. "Don't die or your bike vill be mine."

Logan snorted. "Tch. Don't come near me, kids. I still need a bath after all this." He shook his head, wiping blood from his face. But as the others helped him up, his thoughts remained.

Jack knew something. And Logan wasn't done with him yet. Not by a long shot.

…

Jack walked through the mansion halls, his steps slow and deliberate. His robes were in ruins—torn, slashed, and soaked in dried blood. His skin, once marred with open wounds, had sealed shut as if his body simply decided it was done bleeding.

But the stains remained—red streaks across his arms, neck, and legs. Everywhere he passed, eyes followed him. The students who hadn't seen the fight stared in horror. "What the hell happened to him?" someone whispered.

In the common area, Kitty Pryde and Jubilee sat on a couch, chatting and sharing snacks. Jubilee was mid-bite into a Twizzler when she spotted Jack. Her jaw dropped.

Kitty followed her gaze—and nearly choked on her soda. Jack walked past, looking like he had crawled out of a warzone.

"Dude... is that the guy Logan dragged in earlier?" Jubilee whispered.

Kitty nodded slowly. "Yeah. And now he looks like that."

They both watched in shock as Jack casually strolled by, humming to himself.

Jubilee leaned closer to Kitty. "What the hell did they do in there? Sacrifice him to the evil gods?"

Kitty shuddered. "I think he won."

Jubilee stared. "...Then what does Logan look like?"

Neither of them wanted to know.

In the training room, Remy LeBeau (Gambit) and Calvin Rankin (Mimic) sat at a table, locked in a tense arm-wrestling match.

Their hands shook, muscles straining, neither giving an inch. The tension was thick. The students watching held their breath.

Then—Jack walked past. Dried blood. Torn robes. A lazy smirk on his face. Remy's grip loosened for just a second.

BAM.

Calvin slammed his hand down, winning instantly. 

Remy blinked. "Merde… what in da hell—?"

Calvin stared after Jack. "What happened to that guy?"

No one had an answer.

Jack continued walking, unfazed by the attention. Then—he saw Tenzin. The young monk stood by the hallway, his hands folded in front of him.

Jack paused, then gave a small bow. "Amitābha."

Tenzin returned the bow, but concern flickered in his eyes. "Amitābha. Are you... alright?"

Jack grinned. "I am now. That fight was more refreshing than a five-star spa."

Tenzin frowned. Jack chuckled, patting the kid's head before continuing on his way. Jack turned a corner—And nearly ran into Jean Grey.

She stopped, blinking as she took in his bloody, torn-up appearance. "Are you okay?" she asked, concern evident in her voice.

Jack grinned. "Why? You worried about me, Bird?"

Jean raised an eyebrow. "Bird?"

Jack tilted his head, studying her. His golden eyes gleamed with something unreadable. "Mm." He chuckled. "Yep. Definitely a bird."

Jean folded her arms. "I'm serious. I'm sure Logan didn't mean to use all of his power on you."

Jack laughed. "Didn't mean to? Oh, sweetheart." He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. "I won."

Jean frowned, confused. Jack looked like he had been ripped apart and barely stitched back together—If this was him winning, then—Just how bad did Logan lose?

But before she could question him further—Jack winked and strolled past her, humming to himself.

Jean watched him go, unease settling in her stomach.

Jack stepped out into the cool night air. The front doors of the mansion closed behind him. The wind felt good against his bruised skin. Jack stretched, rolling his shoulders. "Alright. Time to head home."

Then—he froze. His eyes widened. His smug grin twitched. "Wait... wait, wait, wait."

He turned on his heel. His golden eyes flickered with panic. "...I forgot to take something."

So far—Iron Man's middle finger? Taken. Daredevil's baton? Taken. Wolverine's...?? NOTHING. Jack's hands went to his head. "Arghhh, I'm so stupid!"

He had wasted a perfect exit! He vanished like a mysterious badass! And now? Now, he had to go back inside like a dumbass to take his self taken reward.

Jack groaned. "Okay. Think, think, think..." Then—his golden eyes landed on something. A shiny, black-and-chrome motorcycle. Sitting right there in the garage. Keys still in the ignition.

Jack's smile returned. "Oh, Logan, buddy... you really shouldn't leave your keys lying around." He strolled toward the bike, whistling.

Hopped on. Start the engine. Twisted the throttle. The engine roared to life. Jack grinned. "Perfect."

Jack rolled forward, easing toward the front gate. Just as he passed the mansion grounds—A large figure stepped into his path.

A broad-shouldered man, arms crossed, towering over him. Piotr Nikolaievitch Rasputin. A.K.A. Colossus. Jack slowed the bike. Piotr turned, offering a polite nod. "Good night, comrade."

Jack nodded back. "Good night, metal dude."

Piotr blinked. Then, his eyes flickered to the motorcycle. His brow furrowed. Wait. That was Logan's bike. His Russian accent thickened. "Hey... who are you?"

Jack's grin widened. Then—he twisted the throttle.

VROOOOOM.

The bike shot forward. As he sped past, Jack shouted—"I'M LOGAN'S DAD!" Piotr stood there, confused as hell. Then—he scratched his head. "How does Logan have a father... younger than him?"

…

The night air whipped against Jack's face as he tore through the streets of New York on Logan's stolen motorcycle. He was giggling like a little girl, wind howling past him, completely oblivious to the chaos unfolding in the city.

But while Jack was reveling in his petty theft—The rest of New York?

New York was burning with speculation.

On every screen in Times Square, on every news broadcast, on every television in homes, bars, and street corners across the city—Wilson Fisk appeared.

Standing behind a podium, dressed in a black suit, his broad shoulders hunched slightly, his face the very picture of distress.

Behind him stood a row of his most trusted political allies, business partners, and even a few city officials.

A carefully orchestrated display of legitimacy. The cameras zoomed in as he spoke, his deep voice carrying a calculated weight.

"Friends, colleagues, fellow citizens... I stand before you today, not in anger, but in profound fear."

The city listened.

"Fear for what this world is becoming, and fear for what it means to try and do good within it."

The screens flickered between Fisk's face and pre-prepared images—Photos of his supposed "charity" work. Clips of Fisk shaking hands with community leaders. A shot of him standing before a newly constructed homeless shelter, smiling.

"For too long, I've poured my heart and soul into building this city... from hospitals to shelters, fighting for reform, creating my foundation to help the people."

"I believed—truly believed—that by doing what's right, we could make a difference."

His voice dipped lower, quieter.

"But recently... recently, I've been met with a wave of... malice."

The word rang through the air. The reporters leaned in. The citizens watching from their homes felt a chill. Fisk lowered his head, exhaling shakily. Then—he looked back up, his expression raw, vulnerable.

"I don't understand it."

"I don't understand the vitriol, the accusations, the attempts to tear down everything I've worked for."

"It feels like... like I'm being punished for trying to help."

A pause. He licked his lips, his face lined with exhaustion. The cameras zoomed in—capturing every flicker of emotion.

"I'm not a perfect person. I've made mistakes, I'm sure."

"But my intentions have always been pure."

A sharp inhale.

"And now... now I'm scared."

"I'm scared that if I continue—if I keep trying to do what I believe is right—this... this malice will only intensify."

He looked up. Straight into the cameras. Straight into the hearts of the citizens watching.

"I need your help."

"I need to know that there are still people out there who believe in good."

"I need to know that I'm not alone in this fight."

His voice cracked—just slightly, perfectly timed.

"Because, honestly..."

"I don't know if I can continue without your support."

The city held its breath.

"I don't know if I can keep trying to do good... if the world refuses to protect those who try."

Another pause. Then—his voice softened. Almost defeated.

"I just… I just want to make a difference."

"And I'm afraid that's becoming impossible."

The broadcast ended. But the damage had been done. New York erupted.

Social media exploded. Politicians, news anchors, and ordinary citizens began debating the speech immediately. Some felt sympathy.

"Fisk has done a lot of good for this city. Who would want to hurt him?"

"He sounds like a man who's genuinely afraid for his life."

"Maybe we've been too harsh on him..."

Others weren't so easily fooled.

"Oh, please. This is classic manipulation."

"He's playing the victim while still holding all the power."

"You don't become a billionaire and then cry when someone fights back from the way you became a billionaire."

Fisk had successfully shifted the conversation. No longer was he the tyrant. Now? Now, he was the victim. And somewhere, in a fancy penthouse, sipping whiskey...

Wilson Fisk smiled. Because his trap had been set. And New York had walked right into it.

…

Meanwhile...

Jack? Jack was tearing through the city streets on Logan's motorcycle. Completely unaware that he had just been declared an enemy of the city.

His laughter echoed through the night. The bike's engine roared beneath him, tires screeching as he took a sharp turn.

A police siren flashed in the distance. Jack grinned. "Hah! Catch me if you can, suckers!" He revved the engine—and vanished into the neon-lit streets.

Oblivious. Carefree. And completely unaware of the storm that was about to come.

**A/N**

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**A/N**