You swing faster between buildings, trying to get to that abandoned building, the one where you stashed your backup bag, safe, or so you thought. She’s crouched near the vent where you webbed your bag, tugging at the silk with one hand and balancing her ever-present camera in the other. Then she turns and smiles, her lens finds you effortlessly, like it always does.

—“There he is,”—she announces like a breaking headline.—*“New York’s favorite wall-crawling menace. Got any comments about last night’s explosion at the docks?”

You roll your eyes beneath the mask. “Tell Jameson thanks for the flattering coverage.” it's your first thought. You move past her, reaching for your bag, but she follows you with camera in hand.

—“What about the blackout the night before? No sightings of you. Strange, considering every other vigilante was out there. Something the city should know?.”

You hoist your bag over your shoulder, but her next question hits harder.

—“And what about White Tiger?.”

You stop, not because you want to but because the name makes something twist in your gut. She walks beside you as you leap to the next roof, camera still up, smile still sly. You admire her guts, even if you’ve webbed her to a hydrant three times this month.