In Marvel with the Force?

Tyr staggered through the door of his workshop, each step sending a sharp jolt of pain through his battered body. He winced as he shut the door behind him, leaning heavily against it for support. His costume was torn and bloodstained, his breaths shallow. 

The superficial cuts on his arms and legs had already closed, his body's enhanced healing working overtime. But the deeper injuries—bruised ribs and a fractured forearm—would take a few days to mend, even with his accelerated recovery. 

He shrugged off his mask, tossing it onto the workbench. The room was silent, save for the faint hum of the machines that filled the space. Tyr sank into a chair, staring blankly at the wall as the events of the night replayed in his mind. 

Silvermane. 

The name filled him with a mix of frustration and determination. The cyborg mob boss had been unlike any opponent he'd faced before—relentless, powerful, and nearly impossible to damage. The fight had pushed Tyr to his limits, exposing the gaps in his abilities and forcing him to confront a hard truth: he wasn't strong enough. Not yet. 

---

After a few minutes of rest, Tyr forced himself to his feet. He couldn't afford to wallow in self-pity. He had work to do. 

Sitting at his desk, he opened his laptop to check on Terraria. The game had already been a modest success, but when he saw the latest metrics, his eyes widened. 

The number of downloads had exploded overnight, and the player reviews were overwhelmingly positive. Streams of comments flooded the page, praising the game's innovative mechanics and addictive gameplay. 

"Finally," Tyr muttered, a small smile breaking through his exhaustion. "Something's going right." 

The revenue from the game was starting to accumulate, giving him access to resources he could only dream of before. Materials, tools, and components were no longer out of reach. 

---

Tyr closed the laptop and turned his attention to his training. The fight had highlighted two glaring weaknesses in his approach: his telekinesis wasn't strong enough to handle heavy opponents, and his agility wasn't sufficient to evade those who outmatched him in raw strength. 

He grabbed a small weight—a 5-kilogram metal cylinder—from his workbench and held it in his palm. Concentrating, he extended his telekinesis, willing the object to rise into the air. It trembled slightly before hovering a few inches off his hand. 

"Not enough," Tyr muttered, his brow furrowing. 

He pushed harder, trying to lift it higher, but the strain was immediate. His current limit was 10 kilograms, and even then, his control was shaky. 

"Precise. Controlled," he reminded himself, repeating the mantra he'd been using during his training. 

He set the weight aside, taking a deep breath. The fight had shown him that telekinesis alone wasn't enough—not in its current state. He needed more power, more finesse. And that would take time and relentless practice. 

---

Next, Tyr turned his attention to his second weakness: mobility. 

He had realized during the fight with Silvermane that he couldn't rely solely on his speed and reflexes to avoid attacks. Against stronger, heavier opponents, he needed something more—a way to outmaneuver them entirely. 

Flipping through his notebook, Tyr found a half-finished design for a propulsion system he'd been working on. 

Using his arc reactor as the power source, he sketched out a pair of boots equipped with small thrusters. The idea was simple: the boots would allow him to hover for a few seconds, perform short bursts of propulsion, and execute something akin to a double jump. 

"It's not flight," Tyr said to himself, his pencil scratching furiously across the page, "but it's a start." 

With the revenue from the game, Tyr was able to purchase the components he needed. Over the next few days, he worked tirelessly, balancing his recovery with his new project. 

By the end of the week, the boots were ready. They were sleek and black, designed to integrate seamlessly with his costume. The small thrusters at the back glowed faintly with the purple light of his arc reactor. 

Tyr strapped them on and stepped into the open space of his workshop. Taking a deep breath, he activated the system. 

A burst of energy propelled him upward, lifting him a few feet off the ground. The sensation was exhilarating but brief—the thrusters cut out after three seconds, and Tyr landed back on his feet with a soft thud. 

"Short bursts," he muttered, adjusting the controls. 

He tried again, this time using the thrusters to propel himself forward. The movement was smoother, almost effortless. He repeated the process, testing different combinations until he managed to execute a double jump, the second burst propelling him higher and farther than the first. 

A grin spread across his face. "That'll do." 

---

Switch POV: Silvermane

Silvio Manfredi stood in his private chamber, the faint hum of his cybernetic enhancements filling the air. His mechanical arm, still sparking from the damage it had sustained during the fight with the Black Wolf, lay dismantled on a nearby table. 

The mob boss scowled, his glowing red eyes narrowing as he watched a replay of the battle on a monitor. 

"He's clever," Silvermane muttered, his voice cold. "Too clever for his own good." 

The Black Wolf had been an irritant for months, but this last encounter had been different. The boy had managed to damage him—*him*, the man who had transcended the limits of flesh and blood. 

"It won't happen again," Silvermane growled. 

Turning to his lieutenant, Carlo, he gestured to the mechanical arm. "Get the engineers. I want upgrades—new alloys, reinforced joints, and a failsafe for any weak points." 

"Yes, boss," Carlo said, hurrying to obey. 

Silvermane leaned back against his chair, his mechanical body creaking softly. "This boy thinks he's untouchable," he said, more to himself than to anyone else. "But I'll show him what true power looks like." 

The cyborg's fingers clenched into a fist, the metallic whine echoing through the room. 

"Next time we meet, Black Wolf," Silvermane said, his voice laced with venom, "you won't be walking away."