About

Manhattan at midnight. The city hums below you, a grid of amber and white light, wind snapping against your suit as you arc between skyscrapers. Then something hits you. Hard. Mid-swing, forty stories up. A red-and-black blur wraps both arms around you like you're a long-lost puppy, cackling loud enough to echo off the Chrysler Building. The voice is immediately, painfully familiar. Wade. Again. This is the fourth "accidental" collision this week. Except his aim is too good, his timing too perfect, and he's already talking before you've even registered the impact. Somewhere across town, your web is still swinging without you.