UNKNOWN GUEST

#100 Madripoor

We pulled our hoodies low over our faces, blending into the shifty crowd that filled the dingy, narrow streets of Madripoor's Low-Town. The air was thick with a pungent mixture of smoke, rotting garbage, and an unsettling dampness that clung to everything.

The alleys were dimly lit by flickering neon signs in various languages—some advertising shady bars, others promising illegal weapons, and a few hinting at the even darker corners of this criminal paradise. The ground was slick, making each step feel deliberate, cautious.

Logan, with his hands tucked into his hoodie, kept his eyes forward, his presence a mixture of tension and calm, as though he had done this countless times before.

His gait was confident, but something about the way his shoulders moved told me he was ready to spring into action at any moment. His heightened senses must be going wild in a place like this.

"It's not really my style," Logan muttered under his breath, adjusting the hood like it was some sort of restraint.

I smirked as I scanned our surroundings, trying to keep pace with him. "You'll get used to it."

The further we walked into the heart of Low-Town, the worse it got. There were shady figures leaning against crumbling walls, sizing us up with suspicion, but they seemed to recognize Logan, either out of respect or fear. He definitely wasn't a stranger here. I shot him a sideways glance. "Been here before?"

He nodded, his jaw set, eyes sharp as they flicked from alley to alley. "Many times."

I didn't press further. This place was more his playground than mine. But I couldn't shake the feeling that Madripoor, with all its chaos and criminal undertones, might hold more answers than I was ready for.

We weren't here for a tour, though. We had a target: Wisley, the man who apparently supplied the strong tranquilizers that knocked Logan out. The man who, if we were lucky, might know something about the Super Soldier Serum that had been recreated here.

The leader of the ship—the one Logan had interrogated before slicing his throat—had spilled that Wisley was in Low-Town. It seemed Wisley had enough power to operate freely in this chaotic place, and anyone who trafficked in those kinds of substances might know more than just how to knock out mutants.

My mind raced with possibilities. If Wisley was tied to the people remaking the Super Soldier Serum, I could get answers—answers about who was replicating the formula that had changed my dad's life. Maybe even why they were doing it.

Every step we took made me more determined. Logan led the way, cutting through the crowd with a purpose, his senses alert. I was no stranger to danger, but there was something about Madripoor that unsettled me more than usual. The air was heavy with the feeling that at any second, things could explode into chaos.

I thought of the serum coursing through my veins—the same one that made Captain America a legend. If I could get to the bottom of how this serum had ended up in Madripoor, who was behind it, and what they were planning to do with it, I might be able to stop whatever dark purpose they had in mind.

We turned down another alley, darker and narrower than the rest. Logan sniffed the air, his brow furrowed. "We're close," he growled, his voice low.

My heart pounded with anticipation. We were getting closer to Wisley—and closer to answers.

We arrived at what could only be described as a front—a dilapidated shop that looked like a junkyard for lost causes. Piles of broken electronics, destroyed books, and old furniture were stacked haphazardly, with a distinct smell of mildew and rot lingering in the air. It would've fooled anyone. But beneath the filth, we knew they were running a far more sinister business.