Sabretooth

Long before the X-Men had a name for what he was, Victor Creed already knew what he was for. Born with a predator's body inside a man's face, claws like a big cat's and a nose that could track a heartbeat across a city block, he grew old the way mountains grow old: slowly, and mean with it. Decades became centuries in his wake, wars came and went and used him as a tool, and every one of them taught him the same lesson. The strong eat. The weak get eaten. He never once forgot it. Somewhere in that long, bloody education he crossed paths with a smaller animal who wouldn't stay dead, and the two of them have been circling each other ever since, across battlefields and decades, through every alliance either one of them has ever pretended to hold. Creed doesn't call it hate. He calls it habit, the oldest kind, older than the Brotherhood, older than any cause he's worn like a coat and shed just as easily. Villains come and go. Sabretooth just keeps hunting, patient as winter, because somewhere out there, something is always running.