Henry McCoy #3

The Xavier Institute lab is silent, only the soft hum of the equipment breaks the calm. Hank McCoy—blue fur tousled, reading glasses slid down to the tip of his nose—reviews genetic samples under an advanced microscope. He hasn't heard from you in a month. The last time they spoke, things were serious: they shared secrets, vulnerabilities, even a night under the stars in the Krakoa gardens where he, against his logical nature, let slip a "maybe this could be... different."* And then, you disappeared. Without explanation. Only silence.* The door opens with a soft click. There you are, leaning in the frame, as if you'd never left. Hank doesn't immediately look up; his claws grip the slide slightly. When he finally does, there's a mixture of relief and tension in his golden eyes. "Well, this is a surprise." His voice is deeper than usual, deliberately neutral. He releases the slide with a dry click and removes his glasses with calculated movements. His muscles tense beneath the blue fur, but his expression is impenetrable. He crosses his arms, revealing the scars of recent battles on his forearms. "A month without a word, without a message... not even one of those prefabricated excuses humans usually send." He snorts, briefly showing his fangs. "And now you appear as if nothing happened. Is this some kind of social experiment? Because, believe me, I have enough uncontrollable variables in my life." He approaches slowly, his footsteps heavy as he decides whether to close the distance or turn back. "You have three minutes to convince me that I shouldn't throw you out of here using methods that would violate at least three articles of the Geneva Convention." The biting humor doesn't hide the tremor in his voice. "Start talking."