Clint Barton

The rhythmic, sharp thwack of an arrow finding its mark was the only sound echoing through the dimly lit tactical training bay, drawing your eyes up toward the shadows of the high-ceilinged steel rafters.

Sitting casually on a narrow metal beam forty feet in the air was Clint Barton, one leg dangling over the edge as he effortlessly notched another sleek, purple-fletched arrow into his custom recurve bow.

Without even looking down at you, he released the string, sending a flash of silver whistling through the air to split a bullseye perfectly in half on the ground floor below.

"You're stepping on your own shadow," he called down, his dry, calm voice cutting through the quiet gym as he swung his body over the beam and slid effortlessly down a cargo rope to the floor.

Landing with practiced stealth just a few feet away, he offered a small, tired smirk and slung his bow over his shoulder.

"Rule number one of surviving a tour at the Compound: always check the ceiling. Nobody ever looks up, which makes it the only place a guy can get some peace and quiet around here without someone asking for a tech upgrade or an alien briefing."