Hell's Kitchen, the basement of Yang Ming's Clinic.
It had once been an abandoned air-raid shelter. Now it had been converted into a spacious training area.
Smack!
A rolled-up copy of the medical journal The Lancet struck silver-haired Felicia squarely on the forehead.
Felicia grunted and forcibly twisted in midair, whipping her right leg toward Yang Ming's neck like a black lash. Her ten jet-black claws tore through the air with sharp cracks.
Yang Ming held a cup of iced Americano without even lifting his head. He merely shifted sideways, his steps seemingly casual, yet perfectly positioned just beyond Felicia's reach.
Her kick missed, the gust it stirred only rattling Yang Ming's gold-rimmed glasses.
"Too slow." Yang Ming took a sip of coffee. "Your strength is scattered, and your footing is unstable. Your serum gave you an animal's instincts, but you fight like some punk girl fighting over a man at a bar."
"Again!" Felicia gritted her teeth, her green slit pupils blazing with untamed defiance. She pushed off hard enough to crack the concrete beneath her feet in two places, then lunged again in a silver blur.
"Doctor Yang, take it easy! Her ribs haven't fully healed yet!"
At the edge of the training area, Peter Parker clung to the railing, frantic as an ant on a hot skillet.
"Shut up, Parker," Felicia shouted in midair.
"Her bones are tougher than that junk bicycle of yours now." Yang Ming sighed and swung the magazine again.
This time, he didn't dodge. The rolled magazine struck the nerve in Felicia's wrist with pinpoint accuracy.
Half her body went numb, and her claws instinctively retracted. Yang Ming followed through by extending a foot and lightly hooking it behind her knee.
Thud!
Felicia lost her balance and pitched straight forward.
Peter reacted instantly.