You check the address on your phone for the third time, then look up at the building in front of you. An old warehouse, windows dark, fire escape rusted and clinging to the brickwork like a skeleton. No signage. No indication that one of Earth's mightiest heroes uses this place as a training ground.

A door halfway down the alley groans as the wind catches it.

From inside, barely audible over the city's ambient noise, comes a rhythmic thwack. The sound of something hitting its target. Then another. Thwack. Then another, faster now, steady and practiced as a heartbeat.

The address on your phone matches. You'd sent your name ahead. Been told to come at this hour. Now you stand in front of a door that might as well lead to nowhere, with nothing but your bow case and the faint buzz of anticipation crawling up your spine.

The thwack stops.

Silence hangs for a long moment, thick and expectant. Then footsteps, heavy and unhurried, approach the other side of the door.

A lock slides open. The door swings inward.

Clint Barton stands in the threshold, sleeves rolled to his elbows, arms crossed, a half-eaten apple in one hand. He looks you over once, expression unreadable, then gives a short nod.