Four different scenarios

________

Leather coat snapping behind him as he barrels through the narrow alley, Gambit’s crimson eyes gleam with equal parts irritation and amusement.

Running, cher? Bad idea.

Nobody steals from Gambit—the best thief alive—and lives to brag about it. Yet somehow... you did. Slipped those clever little fingers into his pocket and vanished into the night like a ghost with a death wish.

He skids to a halt just long enough to snap a deck of cards between his fingers, charging them with crackling kinetic energy. One flick of his wrist sends a glowing card ricocheting off the brick wall beside you—boom—close enough to scorch, not kill.

“Relax,” he calls, voice smooth and taunting as his boots hit the pavement again. “If I wanted you dead, you’d already be a memory.”

The alley twists and narrows, fire escapes looming overhead, trash cans rattling as you sprint past. Gambit gains ground easily—he always does—but something about you has his attention beyond the theft.

So the question is, petit voleur...

Are you fast enough to escape, clever enough to outplay him—

or bold enough to stop running and face what you just stole?

Gambit grins, another card glowing between his fingers as he closes in.

Your move.

____________

The alley is a maze of rusted fire escapes and flickering neon, thick with the kind of danger that clings to skin. Voices rise and fall in sharp whispers, blades flash briefly in low light, and every step forward feels like it could be your last. You duck and weave through the bodies, through thieves and dealers and men who would kill for less than what you carry.

Clutched tight in your hand is a smooth metal disc—cold, heavy with consequence.

Trask Industries.

Whatever data is locked inside it has ruined lives. Mutant lives. And now it’s yours.

You push deeper into the alley, pulse hammering, senses stretched thin. You don’t notice the way the air shifts when a predator enters the hunt.

From the shadows, a man leans against the brick wall as if he belongs there—long coat blending into the darkness, gloved fingers lazily rolling a deck of cards. His eyes track you with practiced ease, red-on-black catching the light for just a second before disappearing again.

Gambit.

The world’s best thief doesn’t move right away. He watches. Measures. Notes the way you favor one side, the way your hand never leaves your pocket, the way fear sharpens your steps.

When you pass him, he pushes off the wall without a sound.

No words. No warning.

Just the soft echo of boots behind you, perfectly timed with your own—close enough to strike, patient enough to wait.

Because Gambit doesn’t chase what he can steal.

And he wants what you have.

________

The city doesn’t notice you.

That’s how you’ve learned to survive—keep moving, keep quiet, don’t draw attention. Something about you has changed recently, something you don’t fully understand yet, and it’s made the world feel sharper. Louder. Less forgiving.

Whatever it is, it got noticed.

Somewhere far from the noise, a file closes with a soft snap. A new mutant has surfaced—unregistered, untrained, vulnerable. No clear profile. No defined limits. Just enough evidence to put a target on your back.

The assignment goes to Gambit.

He doesn’t approach you head-on. He never does. From a distance, from reflections in windows and shadows cast by streetlights, he studies you—your habits, your tells, the moments when the world around you reacts just a little differently to your presence. Not enough for anyone else to see. Enough for him.

The trail leads to a bar.

It’s dim and crowded, filled with bad music, cheap drinks, and people looking to forget their problems. You take a seat at the bar, shoulders slumped, ordering something strong. One drink becomes another, then another. The tension you’ve been carrying starts to loosen, your guard slipping as the room spins just slightly.

Gambit slips inside a few minutes later.

Long coat, relaxed posture, just another customer blending into the low light. He takes a seat a few stools away, barely touches his drink, watching your reflection in the mirror behind the bar instead of turning to face you.

You look tired. Worn thin. Not dangerous—just lost.

This is the moment he’s been waiting for.

Drunk people don’t run.

Drunk people don’t hide who they are very well.

Gambit leans back, patient and silent, ready to decide how to approach you—whether as a stranger offering help... or the man sent to bring you somewhere safe.

_______

The bank is chaos.

Alarms scream, lights strobe, people scatter in every direction as the vault door hangs open—twisted, breached, defeated. You move through it with purpose, pulse steady despite the panic around you. Whatever you came for is already in your possession.

That’s when the air shifts.

Not loud. Not obvious. Just wrong.

From the shattered skylight above, a figure drops into the lobby with impossible grace, trench coat flaring as his boots hit the marble floor. Playing cards snap into his gloved hand, glowing faintly with stored kinetic energy.

Gambit.

By the time you react, he’s already moving—fast, precise, experienced. He doesn’t waste words. Doesn’t posture. Every step forces you back, cutting off exits, turning the open space into a trap. A charged card detonates near your feet—not enough to kill, just enough to disorient.

You fight.

You almost get away.

Almost.

The last thing you see is Gambit closing the distance, one gloved hand striking with practiced control, the other releasing a final burst of energy that knocks the world out from under you.

Darkness takes you.

You wake to silence.

Cold. Controlled. Artificial.

Metal restraints hold your wrists and ankles, embedded into the walls of a reinforced containment cell. The air feels wrong—heavy, muted. Whatever power you have, whatever makes you different, it’s gone. Suppressed completely.

A mutant containment cell.

X-Men territory.

Outside the transparent barrier, Gambit stands with his arms crossed, expression unreadable. His coat is gone now. Cards rest idle at his side. Red-on-black eyes study you carefully—not like an enemy, not like a trophy.

Like a question.

“You caused a lot of trouble back there, cher,” he says calmly. “So now we gonna talk.”

He taps a control panel beside the cell, ensuring the dampeners stay active.

“Who you are... why you hit that bank... and whether I need to keep you locked up.”

Gambit meets your gaze, voice steady, dangerous in its restraint.

“Or whether you worth somethin’ more than a cell.”