At the far northwest edge of Jacksonville stood a decaying three-story house, long abandoned and shrouded in infamy. The locals avoided it as if the very air around it carried a curse.
Legends whispered through the town like the wind through the barren fields. They spoke of the house's original owner, a cruel and wealthy plantation master who ruled over a vast cotton estate to the north. His fortune was built on the backs of hundreds of enslaved workers, whom he treated with merciless brutality. Some claimed he delighted in their suffering, that he made examples of those who dared to defy him by leaving their broken bodies to rot in the fields.
But the story took a darker turn.
It was said that one of the slaves—a man who had been beaten nearly to death—had a wife skilled in ancient rites. A shaman. A woman who, in her grief and fury, called upon something far older and more vengeful than any man. The curse she laid upon the plantation master seeped into the very walls of his home, into the bones of the earth beneath it. And one fateful night, as if possessed by a demon, the master turned his gun upon his own family—his wife, his children—before finally taking his own life.
Horrified by the carnage, the townsfolk sought retribution in their fear. The slave woman, accused of witchcraft, was dragged to the center of town and burned alive. But the curse did not die with her. The house remained—abandoned, untouched. A monument to madness and vengeance.
And now, if one were to step inside on this night, they might find something far worse than ghosts lurking in its shadows.
Bodies.
More than a dozen of them, scattered through the main hall and the adjoining rooms. Men, women, even children—reduced to shriveled, bluish husks, their flesh stretched taut over their bones like desiccated flowers left too long in the sun.
And in the cellar, beneath the rotting floorboards, something stirred.
A coffin, its wood aged and brittle, pushed open from within. Dry earth and tangled roots clung to the lid as it creaked aside, revealing a pale, skeletal hand that reached up, grasping the edge.
Adam rose.
His hair was matted with filth, strands tangled with mud and clotted with dried, dark-brown blood. His woolen jacket, its original color long lost beneath layers of grime, clung to his frame like a funeral shroud. His once-smooth skin was now marked with fine, brittle lines, age creeping in where it did not belong. Even his eyes, once glistening with unholy light, were dulled to a murky gray.
He ran a tongue over his cracked lips, inhaling deeply.
And then, he smiled. A jagged, cruel thing.
---
The Hunter Arrives
The silence was shattered.
Boom!
The front door exploded inward, dust billowing in thick clouds. The darkness of the house remained untouched by any flickering candle or lantern's glow, but Victor saw perfectly well. His pupils widened unnaturally, feline-like, catching the faintest glimmers of movement.
He stepped inside, his boots crunching over debris and brittle remnants of past horrors. The stench of decay clung to the air, thick and oppressive. He barely spared a glance at the mummified corpses strewn across the room, though his nostrils flared in distaste.
"Your choice was the right one," a voice rasped.
Victor's gaze flickered toward the center of the hall.
Adam sat upon a high-backed chair, posture as relaxed as ever, though his brittle, aging form betrayed his true condition. His skin sagged, his once-powerful presence diminished, but his smile held its old arrogance.
Victor exhaled sharply. "I disagree."
Adam's smile faltered for a fraction of a second before twisting into something sharper. "And yet, here you are," he said, tilting his head. "That tells me all I need to know. You want this."
Victor remained silent.
Adam leaned forward, his dull eyes flickering red for a brief instant. "Your brother..." He smirked. "I don't know what sort of bond the two of you share, but I do know his strength outmatches yours. He did something that hasn't happened in nearly a millennium."
His fingers drummed against the arm of the chair. "He hurt me."
Victor's jaw tightened.
"But you crave power, don't you?" Adam pressed. His voice took on a seductive edge, weaving through the stagnant air like silk. "You don't bother hiding it. Take my strength. Take my blood. With it, you'll surpass him—no, you'll become something far greater."
A chilling red glow pulsed in his eyes. He rose from the chair, stepping forward.
"And tell me," he whispered, "why do you think you have a choice?"
The air grew heavy.
Victor's muscles twitched as an unseen force crushed down upon him. His knees buckled, tremors wracking his body as he struggled against the weight pressing him to the floor. His fingers clawed at the wooden planks, veins bulging as he fought back.
But it was futile.
With a sharp, agonizing snap, his legs gave out.
He dropped to his knees.
Adam threw back his head and laughed.
"I knew it from the moment I laid eyes on you!" he exulted. "You were always meant to be mine!"
Victor's breath came in ragged growls.
"You've been bitten, haven't you?" Adam continued, voice thick with triumph. "My lesser spawn tasted you again and again, and finally I delivered the final mark. You cannot resist me now!"
Victor's body trembled—but not in submission.
Adam's confidence faltered as the faintest ghost of a grin flickered across Victor's lips.
"You think you own me?" Victor rasped, voice like gravel.
His muscles coiled. His fingers twitched. His spine straightened, ever so slightly.
Adam's smugness gave way to something colder.
And then—
Victor moved.
Lightning-fast, his claws tore through Adam's flesh. Blood—thick, dark, and pungent—splattered across the rotting floorboards.
Adam shrieked, staggering back, his once-commanding presence suddenly... lesser.
"You fool!" he snarled, his monstrous form twisting in rage. "You dare—"
Victor lunged, his grin widening as his newfound strength surged through him. Claws met flesh. Bones cracked.
Adam had been right about one thing.
Victor did crave power.
And now, it was his.
---
The Road Ahead
The carriage rumbled over uneven cobblestone as James Howlett cast one final glance at the White House.
Beside him, O'Hara rested her head on his shoulder, exhaustion softening her usual sharp demeanor. The weight of the evening lingered between them, unspoken but understood.
Inside the grand building they left behind, history was being written.
President Lincoln, his broad shoulders heavy with the burden of a divided nation, had spoken candidly that night. About war. About slavery. About the future.
James knew the man carried more weight than he let on. Knew that the battles ahead were not only fought with bullets and steel, but with time itself.
Lincoln had said, "It is easier to flatten a mountain than to flatten people's prejudices."
James clenched his jaw.
Then I will be the hammer.
The coachman snapped the reins. The wheels turned.
And the road stretched on into the darkness.
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