An unnamed town on the edge of Nevada, in the American Midwest.
The afterglow of dusk was shredded by yellow sand swirling across the sky. Outside the town's only bar, a battered neon sign buzzed with electricity, its red light flickering on and off.
Pushing open the heavy, grease-stained wooden door brought an immediate assault of pungent cheap whiskey, low-grade cigarette smoke, and the sour sweat of bodies left unwashed for years.
An old jukebox in the corner was playing a country song, its lilting guitar utterly at odds with the bar's rough, chaotic atmosphere.
Wolverine, Logan, sat at the far end of the counter, wearing a battered leather jacket, his unruly hair standing up like a beast's mane.
A nearly empty glass of bourbon sat before him, and his rough, callused right hand held a thick, half-smoked cigar that was still burning.
"Whew-"
Logan took a deep drag and exhaled a thick, gray-white smoke ring, his gaze unfocused.
He needed no friends, no company. All he wanted now was for alcohol to briefly numb a brain that had lived too long and held too many bloody memories.
Just then, the bar door opened again.
The windblown sand outside did not sweep in with the newcomer, as though some invisible force had shut it out.
Solomon walked steadily into the smoke-filled bar. His gaze swept through the dim interior before settling on the broad, solitary figure at the end of the counter.
The faintest hint of a smile curved his lips, and he walked straight over.
"Logan."
Solomon reached Wolverine's side, pulled out the adjacent barstool, and sat down, greeting him in an even tone, as though facing an old acquaintance rather than an extremely dangerous mutant.
Logan's movements paused slightly. He did not turn his head, merely glanced at