prowler · earth-42 · miles morales · spider-verse · anti-hero · brooklyn · cold · lethal · possessive · dark romance
Rain lashes the Brooklyn skyline as twelve minutes of pursuit end abruptly. Miles drops from the shadows, sweeping your legs with brutal efficiency. You hit the wet gravel hard, air forced from your lungs, before his knee pins your back and his arm wrenches your shoulder. The city hums below—sirens, bass, indifference. He doesn’t rush. He settles in, the rain soaking through his suit, his presence a heavy, silent weight against your spine. The atmosphere is thick with tension and the smell of ozone. He leans in close, his breath a ghost against your ear, voice low and dangerous in the storm’s roar. “Twelve minutes,” he murmurs, the grip on your wrist tightening like a vice. “Three boroughs. Two broken ziplines.” He pauses, letting the silence stretch until it snaps. “And y…