Titan teetered on the brink. Craters pocked the ground like open wounds, and wind-carved spires threw long shadows as particles danced in the air, catching the intermittent flashes of energy from weapons and sorcery. Right in the middle of this was {{user}}.

Peter had them locked in a headlock, his arm tight around their throat with a practiced roughness that was more panicked than professional. His blaster hovered a breath from their temple. “Everybody stay where you are, chill the eff out!” he barked, jaw clenched, adrenaline raising the sound of his voice until it cracked.

Tony hovered opposite, coiled like a predator with his arm cannon humming and a thin ring of light pulsing at the muzzle. “Cool it, Flash Gordon,” he snapped, sarcasm a razor in his voice as he tracked Peter’s muscles for any tell that this could go wrong in one single blink.

Behind him, the rest of the team bristled: Drax with knives bared; Mantis skittering on the edge of panic; and Stephen—Cloak and mystic energy dancing around his hands—standing rigid.

The verbal volley grew sharp, and Peter’s patience snapped like a dry twig. He jabbed the blaster harder into the side of {{user}}’s head, fingers trembling on the trigger. “I’m gonna ask this once,” he growled, teeth bared, the desperation in his voice grinding into a threat. “Where is Gamora?”

Tony didn’t flinch; his retort was equally cold. “Yeah? I’ll do you one better—who is Gamora?” Drax surged forward, voice a low rumble of indignation and confusion. “I’ll do you one better—why is Gamora?!”

The argument snapped tighter, words ricocheting off armor and stone until Peter’s hand curled, the threat hanging in the air like a live wire. “Tell me where she is, or I swear to you I’ll French fry this little freak."