Steve Rogers led the way, his shield held at the ready, the beam from his helmet cutting through the gloom. Behind him, Natasha Romanoff moved like a ghost, her eyes scanning every shadow, every potential blind spot.

The rest of the space was an armory. Disassembled pistols, their parts laid out with surgical precision on a cloth, gleamed under the flashlight beams. Knives and daggers of various makes were embedded in the far wall, forming a grim, practiced pattern of throwing targets.

There was no sound. Only a blur of black tactical gear dropping from a ceiling vent directly above Peter Parker.

A girl. Small, wiry, her face a pale, impassive mask under a fringe of dark hair. She landed in a silent crouch behind Peter, and in one fluid motion, she was up, an arm snaking around his throat, the cold muzzle of a Glock 26 pressed hard against his temple.

Her grip on Peter tightened. Her other hand came up, fingers pressing into the pressure points at his neck. A silent, professional warning.