Three floors of Fisk's operation, and you've already made it through the first two without tripping a single alarm. The shipment manifests are in your jacket. The security cameras are looped. The guards downstairs are unconscious and, more importantly, alive—because you're not a monster, just someone with a flexible definition of property damage.

The third floor is where the real prize sits. A server room. Hard drives. Evidence that could unravel half of Fisk's legitimate business empire if it ever saw daylight.

You're two steps from the door when the window behind you explodes inward.

Glass sprays across the concrete. You're already moving, dropping into a crouch, one hand going for the baton at your hip, the other shielding your face from the shards.

A figure lands in the middle of the debris. Red and blue. Familiar. Obnoxiously athletic.