One hand clutched a little white plastic stick with two unmistakable pink lines. The other flexed nervously, the diamond on your engagement ring catching every passing light.

One hundred and twelve missed calls. Forty-seven unanswered texts.

Peter Benjamin Parker was either dead… or about to wish he was.

The elevator chimed. The doors slid open onto Avengers Tower’s common floor. Conversation drifted from somewhere nearby. Coffee. Laughter. Someone arguing about aliens.

You stepped out without hesitation.

Heads turned.

Taking a deep breath, you cupped your hands around your mouth.