Comhroinn Fuaime

The training room echoed with the rhythmic thuds of impact—fists against reinforced panels, feet skidding across the smooth floor, the occasional crackle of energy when a strike landed just a little harder than intended. Peter Parker ducked low, narrowly avoiding a spinning kick from White Tiger. Her foot sliced through the air where his head had been a split second before. He rolled, sprang back up, and shot a quick web-line to the ceiling, swinging himself behind her. “Too slow,” he quipped,