_"Dear Mr. Howlett,
This is my first personal letter since taking office. As I mentioned in our previous correspondence, it is essential that you and I meet in person. As one of the most significant financial backers of the Republican Party—and perhaps its most critical capital partner—you hold both the right and the obligation to voice your political stance and expectations.
I look forward to our meeting.
Your friend,
Abraham Lincoln"_
James Howlett folded the parchment and tapped his fingers against the desk, his sharp gaze lingering on the bold signature at the bottom. Three years had passed since his grandfather's death, yet the weight of the Howlett name had only grown heavier. The bitter Canadian winter wrapped around the estate like an iron shroud, the snowfall piling high enough to swallow the world in silence.
Yet, beneath the quiet landscape, the underground training hall beneath the Howlett estate told a different story.
A roar—low, guttural, and full of untamed fury—reverberated through the stone walls.
The sound was followed by a deafening impact.
Victor Logan, towering at nearly seven and a half feet, panted heavily. His hulking frame was covered in sweat, muscles rippling beneath his scarred skin. His long, clawed hands twitched as they flexed, blood dripping from his fingertips onto the stone floor. His feral yellow eyes burned with frustration as he glared at James Howlett.
Across from him, James stood with effortless composure, rolling his shoulder where three faint claw marks had once been—already healed without a trace.
"Not bad," James mused, cracking his neck. "You're getting faster."
Victor spat a mouthful of blood onto the ground. His fangs bared, frustration boiling just beneath his skin. "You're holding back."
James sighed. "Not really. You're just not quite there yet."
A snarl. Victor lunged—only to be met with a precise, crushing fist to the jaw. The force of the impact lifted him off his feet, sending him sprawling backward. He hit the ground with a thud, his massive frame momentarily stunned before he exhaled sharply and realigned his dislocated neck with a sickening crack.
James dusted off his knuckles, retrieving his robe from a nearby hook. "That's enough for today."
Victor didn't respond. Instead, he turned toward the spiked iron training posts and, without hesitation, began striking them with relentless, bloody-handed fury.
James watched for a moment, shaking his head. "Masochist."
Victor didn't respond, lost in his obsession.
An Understanding of Beasts
Their arrangement had started two years ago.
James had found Victor in the forest, tearing through the wilderness in search of something he couldn't name. When he'd approached him with a challenge instead of judgment, Victor had been wary at first—but his instincts had recognized something in James. Something familiar.
That night, they had fought.
James had shattered nearly every bone in Victor's body, crushed his ribs, and left him in a broken heap. Yet Victor had gotten up again. And again. And again.
Not a word was spoken between them—only the sound of fists, claws, and bones breaking.
They had repeated this ritual, night after night. James never explicitly taught Victor the intricacies of martial arts, but he had instinctively used Tiger Form against him—a brutal, predatory style of Chinese boxing designed for lethal efficiency.
And Victor had taken to it like a starving beast to fresh meat.
Now, his strikes carried a vicious elegance, the rawness of his aggression tempered by an ever-growing sense of control. The saber-toothed tiger in him had found its natural rhythm.
A Letter from Washington
Back in his study, James barely had time to settle before a knock at the door.
"Master, a letter from Washington."
Wayne, the Howlett family's trusted butler, entered the room with his usual quiet efficiency. Despite the years, the man's posture remained as rigid as ever, his expression unreadable.
James took the letter, eyes scanning the elegant handwriting.
A smirk pulled at his lips.
"Well, it seems the President is getting impatient," he mused.
Wayne adjusted his gloves. "Shall I arrange for an escort? Given the state of the Union, it may be prudent."
James waved him off. "No need. I'll send word to the Howlett family members in Washington to receive me. I'll handle the rest."
Wayne hesitated. "What about Mr. Logan? He may serve as—"
"Victor has no interest in politics." James chuckled. "He only cares about breaking things."
The butler gave a small nod. "Very well, sir."
The next day, James boarded a train bound for Washington, his mind already calculating the potential outcomes of the meeting ahead.
The White House
The grandeur of the White House struck James with an odd sense of amusement.
He had lived long enough to witness empires rise and fall, yet there was something fascinating about witnessing history as it unfolded. The Civil War loomed on the horizon, and within this building, men shaped the fate of a nation.
And here he was—playing his own part in it.
Abraham Lincoln was taller than James had expected.
At 6'4", with broad shoulders and hands roughened by labor, he hardly fit the image of the refined politician James had imagined. There was something about him—an aura—of quiet strength, tempered by a lifetime of struggle.
Lincoln extended his hand, his voice rich with warmth. "Mr. Howlett, it is an honor."
James grasped his hand, feeling the callouses beneath his fingertips. "The honor is mine, Mr. President."
The evening was pleasant—filled with thoughtful discussion, laughter, and even a teasing remark from Mrs. Mary Lincoln about James' bachelor status.
But something felt… off.
A scent.
James' nose twitched subtly.
Something foul lingered in the air, masked beneath the aroma of fine wine and roasted meats. A stench he recognized all too well.
Blood.
Decay.
Predator.
His muscles tensed as his senses honed in on a location—ten meters away.
He rose abruptly. "Mr. President, forgive my rudeness, but may I ask—what room lies beyond that hall?"
Lincoln blinked at the sudden question, caught off guard. He turned his head slightly. "That would be my youngest son's playroom. Why do you ask?"
James didn't answer.
His instincts took over.
With a burst of speed, he was gone—moving faster than human eyes could track. He reached the door in a single step, shoving it open with enough force to crack the hinges.
What he saw inside made his blood run cold.
The tall, thin maid from earlier was crouched over a small child.
Her face—twisted, monstrous, unnatural—had turned a shade of sickly gray, veins blackened and bulging beneath her skin. Her mouth, lined with rows of jagged fangs, dripped with venom.
The boy, no older than five, was frozen in terror.
James' eyes darkened.
A predator had entered the White House.
And it would not leave alive.