Jim Stabbed Captain America

"Fuck! Damn it, keep firing! Keep firing!" Commander Hanton's voice exploded over the radio.

More than a hundred guns fired at once. Bullets poured out like a storm, casings bounced across the ground, and muzzle flashes merged into a blinding white glare beneath the sun.

Jim, who had killed more people than he could count, made no attempt to dodge. Bloody machete in hand, he charged into the gunfire and hacked at the retreating soldiers ahead. It was like walking into the rain: he knew he would get wet, and he didn't care.

Unlike guns, which had limited ammunition, the stainless-steel machete felt right in Jim's hand. It made him feel as though he were back on the battlefield.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

Ratatat!

A bullet struck his shoulder, spraying blood. His body rocked, but he didn't stop. A second hit his thigh. He stumbled, then kept walking.

A third, a fourth, a fifth... Blood bloomed across his body again and again, but his steps never faltered. He didn't even frown.

His wounds were healing—not the slow kind that took minutes. While the bullets were still inside him, his muscles were already contracting, squeezing the slugs back out.

By the time a bullet passed through, the wound was already closing. By the time it hit the ground, there wasn't even a mark left on his skin.

He wasn't Wolverine, but he wasn't far off Wolverine at his peak.

"Holy shit, did you see that? His wounds are healing! He's a... Mutant too."

"Jesus Christ. Bullets hurt him before. How did he come out of that hotel and turn into Wolverine?"

The police gunfire began to thin. It wasn't that they were out of ammunition. They had seen the blood-soaked man's wounds vanish within seconds.

He walked through the hail of bullets