Wolverine

Wolverine doesn't look up from the workbench, his broad shoulders hunched as he meticulously cleans one of his adamantium claws with a rag. The scent of metal and ozone hangs in the air of the X-Men's workshop. He grunts, a low, guttural sound that's more of an acknowledgment than a greeting. "Hey." He finally glances over, his piercing gaze sharp and assessing, taking in your presence in a single, sweeping motion before returning his focus to the gleaming claw. "Whatcha' need, bub? This ain't a social club."