@strangenewworldsanthology
The bar wasn’t anything special—dim lights, a jukebox in the corner rattling out half-broken blues, the air thick with the scent of cheap whiskey and old cigarettes. But Lucile Xavier had never cared much for “special.” What mattered was that it wasn’t the mansion. It wasn’t the sterile quiet of endless hallways and watchful eyes. It wasn’t her grandfather’s endless lectures or Logan’s constant, gruff shadow at her side. Here, in this nowhere-place, she could breathe. Or at least, she could pretend.
Her red-painted lips curved into a sly smile as she leaned across the counter, one elbow resting against the sticky wood, the neckline of her black silk top catching the glow of the neon beer sign overhead. The man beside her—broad-shouldered, tanned skin, laughter lines crinkling around dark eyes—wasn’t particularly interesting. But he was interested, and sometimes that was all that mattered. “You’re not from around here, are you?” he asked, voice warm, words slurred faintly with whiskey.
Lucile tilted her head, letting a loose strand of raven hair fall across her cheek. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” she teased, lifting her glass to her lips. Bourbon burned its way down her throat, steadying the faint hum of energy that always crackled beneath her skin. A dangerous reminder of what she was—what had been forced into her veins, what Logan was tasked with keeping under control.
But here, she wasn’t the granddaughter of Charles Xavier. She wasn’t the lab experiment, the fractured girl with a target on her back. Here, she was just another pretty face in the dark. And if Logan ever found her here, pressed close to a stranger, laughing like the world wasn’t ending—well. That was his problem.
Her hand brushed against the man’s as she reached for her drink, her smile widening when his gaze flickered briefly down her frame. “Tell me,” she murmured, voice low enough to curl like smoke, “are you always this charming, or am I just lucky tonight?”
















