𝐒𝐀𝐅𝐄 𝐒𝐏𝐀𝐂𝐄 ″miles⁴²

Prologue

The streets of the city pulsed with life, a blur of color and motion under the cold gaze of flickering streetlights. Miles Morales moved through the chaos like a shadow, his hood pulled low and his hands tucked deep into his pockets. His earphones blasted a steady beat, drowning out the cacophony of honking cars, chattering voices, and the occasional shout. The crowd parted around him like water, unnoticed and unbothered.

His eyes stayed low, sharp and observant despite his indifferent air. The damp pavement glistened under the haze of a recent drizzle, faint tendrils of steam rising from the heat of the bustling city. Miles walked with an effortless rhythm, each step precise, each movement deliberate.

A sudden thump against his chest broke the flow. His stride faltered as a smaller figure collided with him, stumbling back and landing with a splash onto the wet ground.

Miles stopped, his head tilting down as he glanced at the fallen stranger—a kid, by the looks of it, barely old enough to be wandering these streets alone. Their wide eyes flickered between embarrassment and fear as they scrambled to pick themselves up, muttering a hurried apology.

Miles let out a low sigh, the sound almost lost beneath his music. He crouched, his movements unhurried, and grasped the stranger’s arm with a firm but steady grip, pulling them upright in one fluid motion. The kid winced, brushing off the water clinging to their clothes, but before they could say another word, Miles straightened, his voice cool and detached.

“Watch where you’re going.”

The words hung in the air, neither harsh nor kind, as Miles turned on his heel and resumed his pace. The kid stood frozen, watching his retreating form disappear into the crowd, while Miles slipped back into the rhythm of the city, as if the moment had never happened.

The vendor’s stand glowed softly in the dim light, its wares neatly arranged under the warmth of a buzzing bulb. Miles stopped by, his hood still up, and gestured toward a small snack. He dug his hands into his pockets casually but froze mid-search, his fingers brushing against nothing but fabric. His calm expression wavered, and he started patting his jacket and pants frantically.

"My wallet—where’s my—" he muttered, his words trailing into a sharp curse as realization struck him, "...shit." His head snapped in the direction of where he had bumped into the kid. Without hesitation, Miles turned on his heels, agitation creeping into his movements.

Arriving at the spot, he found it empty. He scoffed under his breath, his jaw tightening. “Of course,” he muttered bitterly, scanning the crowd for any sign of the culprit.

A flash of movement caught his eye—a small figure darting through the sea of people. Miles’ gaze sharpened as he recognized the silhouette, the child’s hurried pace giving them away.

“Hey! Get back here!” he yelled, breaking into a sprint. His voice cut through the noise of the city, but the kid only quickened their pace. Miles pushed through the crowd, gaining on them with every stride, but the kid was nimble, slipping through a narrow gap between two buildings.

Miles skidded to a halt, glaring at the space too small for him to squeeze through. “Tch,” he hissed, grunting in annoyance. He glanced around briefly before veering toward a dark alleyway. Pulling his bag off his shoulder, he disappeared into the shadows, reemerging moments later as the Prowler.

Meanwhile, the child had stopped running, their breath ragged as they crawled into their hideout—a makeshift shelter cobbled together with scraps of fabric and wooden crates. The space was small and cluttered, a cold testament to their struggles. They collapsed onto the ground, clutching Miles’ wallet with trembling hands.

They opened it eagerly, their eyes lighting up at the sight of cash tucked inside. It wasn’t much, but to them, it meant a meal—a small relief from the gnawing hunger that haunted them. But their joy was short-lived.

A faint purple glow began to seep through the fabric-covered entrance, casting an eerie light across the tiny space. The child’s smile faltered, their stomach knotting with dread. Quickly, they scrambled behind a barrel, yanking an empty sack over their head in a futile attempt to hide.

The glow intensified, and the faint hum of the Prowler’s gauntlets filled the silence. Miles stepped into the hideout, his masked gaze sweeping the room. His patience, already thin, was wearing dangerously close to snapping.

“Will you come out already?!” His voice was low and commanding, reverberating through the small space. He began rummaging through the makeshift furniture, his frustration evident in the sharp, jerky movements. Objects clattered to the ground, some breaking under his grip.

“Hiding is useless!” he growled, his tone edged with exasperation. His eyes locked onto the barrels in the corner, suspicion flaring. In one swift motion, he ripped away the sack, exposing the trembling child beneath.

“Enough with the games. I am not playing hide and seek with you,” he snapped, yanking them upright.

The child whimpered, their small frame trembling as tears streaked their dirty cheeks. Their quivering hands shakily held out the wallet, their voice barely above a whisper. “I’m sorry…”

Miles took the wallet, his glare softening slightly as he noticed the tears pooling in their eyes. They wouldn’t meet his gaze, instead staring at their feet, their shoulders hunched in shame.

He opened his mouth to speak, but the sight of their pitiful state stopped him short. The ragged clothes, the grime on their skin, the hollow look in their eyes—it struck a chord he hadn’t expected.

“Damn it,” Miles muttered under his breath, running a hand over his temple. He glanced around at the mess he’d made, the overturned barrels and broken scraps. Guilt gnawed at him, his earlier frustration now feeling misplaced.

“I messed up, didn’t I?” he said quietly, more to himself than the child.

They didn’t respond, their focus still on their small, fidgeting hands. Miles sighed heavily, the sound laced with regret. Turning toward the entrance, he made to leave but paused at the threshold.

He looked back, his voice softer this time. “You coming?”

Without waiting for an answer, he walked off, leaving the child to decide their next move.