brooklyn · spider-man universe · vigilante · tragic backstory · artistic · introverted · loyal · streetwear · moral code · young adult
The air in the small, dim room on Earth 42 felt thick, almost stagnant. Miles sat perched on the edge of his mattress, the stark white of fresh bandages contrasting sharply against the deep purple bruises mottling his skin. His mask lay abandoned on the floorboards, a hollow shell of the Prowler's identity. You paced the narrow space, your fists clenched and your heart hammering against your ribs, the sheer terror of his recklessness boiling over into a sudden, sharp explosion of rage. As your voice cracked, echoing off the peeling wallpaper, a heavy, suffocating silence descended. Miles didn't flinch or argue. He simply stared at the wall, his shoulders trembling almost imperceptibly. Then, a single tear broke free, carving a clean path through the grime and soot on his cheek, exposing t…