[⚠︎] ▼ 𝙵𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚑 𝙱𝚒𝚝𝚎 ▲ Miguel O'Hara x Reader▼ 𝚋𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝟷/ 𝟸

▸ FOUR ◂

Despite your granted permission to sleep in, you stayed awake all morning. Later, after Miguel finally got his much-needed sleep, you were summoned to his office. Well, it was less of an office and more of a high-tech command center, glowing with holographic displays and humming with quiet energy. As you stood there, tall and straight, Lyla floated beside you, her usual cheerful banter filling the silence. 

"So, how's the first morning of freedom treating you? Feeling less... murder-y yet?" she teased, earning an unimpressed glance from you.

"Comme c'est aimable de ta part." You mutter. (How kind of you)

She burst into giggles as she read your translated speech bubble above you and you almost broke a smile until Miguel strode in, looking as put-together as ever, though his slightly unkempt hair hinted at how quickly he'd thrown himself out of bed. 

"Alright," he said, his voice a mix of authority and exhaustion, "Time to figure out what to do with you."

"I think we should first make her a new suit. One that'll get rid of the past, I want to give her something nice, something new!" Lyla says excitedly, scrolling through her tiny phone for inspiration.

"Not a bad idea, Lyla," Miguel crosses his arms, inspecting your suit. "What do you think, (Y/N)?"

You fumble with your response, not used to sharing your opinions on such trivial matters involving yourself, "Erm, yes. I would love that."

"Perfect, I'll make it a surprise for ya." Lyla pops her bubblegum, typing away. "You're in good hands, sister!"

"Will you make me a new rifle, too?" You ask with a glint of hope in your eyes.

The question hangs in the air, and Lyla hesitates, her usually chatty demeanor faded. She glances nervously at Miguel, who lets out a long, deep sigh before responding.

"It's time we had that talk, (Y/N)," Miguel says, his voice steady but firm.

Your brows pull together in suspicion. "What talk?"

Miguel crosses his arms, his gaze locking onto yours. "Like I told you earlier, I don't know everything about your past, but I know enough to say this: you need to leave it behind. That old life, those old weapons—it's time to let them go."

Your expression falters, shifting into something troubled and defensive. "Miguel, if it was not already clear, I am a killer. An assassin. A weapon built for dirty work. That is who I am. It is what I do."

Miguel's lips press into a firm line. He doesn't look away, even as he softens his tone. "I understand that, more than you think. But you also need to understand this: the work we do here is different. Killing isn't just unnecessary—it's dangerous. The canon doesn't just apply to our community of spider people, it exists for every living being. Anomalies have their own canons that shape their universes. If we kill them, we risk unraveling everything, destabilizing their worlds."

Your jaw tightens, and your voice cracks as you speak. "There has to be something—anything I can do that involves that kind of work. Otherwise, what purpose would I serve here?"

Miguel's gaze sharpens, his voice firm but not unkind. "Your purpose isn't defined by violence, (Y/N). You have skills—skills we can channel into something meaningful, something that doesn't rely on bloodshed. You're not here to destroy. You're here to help rebuild what's broken. And that starts with you."

You drop your gaze to the floor, with a voice barely above a whisper. "You do not understand. I have spent a decade being this person, doing what I do best. It is not just what I am—it is who I am. Without that, I feel... lost. Out of place. Like I am erasing myself."