Peter Parker, separated from the tour by at least thirty seconds of frantic sprinting, wove through the crowd. His overstuffed backpack, a patchwork of poorly-sewn seams, threatened to spill its contents of circuit boards, textbooks, and a very distinctive red and blue fabric.

He rounded a corner, one hand checking his vibrating phone—a police scanner app chattering about a downtown jewelry store—and didn't see the figure exiting the elevator bank until it was too late.

The collision was a symphony of chaos. A travel mug of coffee launched into the air, arcing brown liquid across the pristine floor. A cascade of files and folders fluttered down like oversized confetti. Peter's backpack gave up the ghost, spitting out a web-shooter prototype, a half-eaten sandwich, and several rolls of electrical tape.