The morning sun lit Avalon's front shelves with soft, warm light—a deceptively calm glow in a week packed with more than a few storm clouds. Today's threat wasn't a ninja ambush or mysterious attacker, but the mundane yet vital ordeal of tax season.
At the counter, John hunched over ledgers and receipts, worn pages spread wide. His brow was furrowed as he balanced columns of supply invoices, renovation permits, and daily transaction logs. A battered calculator sat within reach, its keys worn smooth from constant use.
Beside him, Lorna hovered with a fatigued expression, clutching a wad of paper:
"How do normal people do this every year?" she asked quietly, holding up the receipt for the lighting upgrade.
John sighed. "Most people don't run a storefront named Avalon," he said half-joking, though both knew every purchase had a purpose. "Once we settle this, we find our rhythm."
They resumed the work. Meanwhile, the bell over the door chimed in with stripped-down regulars: an early shift worker, a student cramming her schedule before class, and an older neighbor peeking in for essentials. The first task of the day was always the same: stay legal, stay steady.
From the transistor radio, a local news bulletin crackled through static:
"This just in: Anthony Stark, known for his defense contracts, is under investigation. Allegations suggest misappropriation of government funds and extravagant private parties—far from the quiet engineer he once was. In corporate news, Oscorp has announced its urban 'Green Sector' upgrades in Queens, but environmental watchdogs are raising concerns. Meanwhile, Roxxon continues to evade scrutiny after a recent leak in their southern pipelines."
Lorna looked up, startled. "Stark again?"
John nodded. "Yeah. Rich guy, not a cape. Military tech, not heroics." He tapped his ledger purposefully. "His drama doesn't help us."
Later that afternoon, tax folders quietly arranged in manila envelopes, the two sat for a break. The day's dim bustle washed out, replaced by golden light from the open door. Lorna, rubbing a lingering headache, asked a question that had been nesting inside her all day:
"Why stay here? Why New York? With all this chaos?"
John paused, his expression softening. He touched the worn wood of the counter's edge.
"This is all I have left of them. My parents. Avalon... it was theirs. My earliest memories are here. I can almost hear Mom humming behind the counter, Dad fixing the freezer in the back with that stubborn smile."
His eyes drifted toward the Den's closed door upstairs.
"I daydream about it—me as a kid, chasing stray balls between shelves, tea cups clinking, laughter echoing. A different place, maybe. But I'm building on what I had. What I still have, in memory."
Lorna studied his reflection in the countertop. Her shimmering hair caught the sunlight, casting a rippling glow.
"I get that," she said softly. "Places matter when memories root them."
John managed a small, tired smile. "Yeah."
When evening fell, Bob slid into Avalon's back room, carrying trail mix and ginger ale with the ease of old routines.
John greeted him while folding the day's tax records into a box: "We finished instruction. We're filing tomorrow."
Bob leaned against the ledge. "Smart move. Keep the audit window small."
Across the counter, Lorna sipped her drink, eyes alert for the final bell's chime.
That night, upstairs under the skylight, they found refuge in their small gym. The White Tiger Gloves glittered on their padded mat as the first of their proper training began. Bob slipped them on with silent reverence.
"I've got some extra moves—Tiger variants with roots older than the gloves," he said.
He demonstrated:
Earthspike Strike—a hammering fist to destabilize an opponent's posture.
Rising Silk Hook—a spinning hook punch delivered with a precise upward twist.
John followed, palms gloved and heart pounding.
Bob coached: "Hips drive it. Not arms."
Lorna watched quietly, her hair dim from exertion.
After training, they gathered in the Den over pizza and cool sodas.
John finally turned to Bob. "Thanks for these. We're ready."
Bob grinned. "Just remember—weapon only when there's no other way."
Lorna nodded. "We use this for defense... not for show."
Bob reached into his back pocket—cash, winnings from the weekend's wagers.
"Use this for training—or the tax man," he said, sliding the money across the table.
John pocketed it with a quiet nod.
That night, John tucked the White Tiger Gloves back onto their padded shelf, next to family photos and Lorna's notebook of magnetic tests.
Lorna sat beside him, tracing the scarred leather.
"Feels like it belongs here," she whispered.
John leaned in. "It does."