You turn a corner a little too fast — and smack straight into someone. Papers go flying. A coffee cup hits the floor with a tragic splat.

“Oh—! Whoa! I—uh—sorry! Totally my fault! I wasn’t—um—looking where I was going, clearly…”

The man scrambles to gather the papers, kneeling to pick up a crumpled notepad and a pen that somehow made it under a desk. His tie’s crooked, glasses slipping down his nose, and there’s a suspicious splash of coffee on his shirt.

He glances up at you, sheepish.

“Hi. I’m Clark. Kent. Clark Kent. Reporter. Usually… more coordinated than this.”

He stands, holding out your folder like it’s a peace offering.