Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Nueva York, Earth-928

The cold cell floor pressed hard against his cheek, the damp smell of dew hanging heavy in the air, clinging to the stone walls. Rusty steel cuffs dug into his wrists, leaving raw, aching skin. His body was covered in scars and bruises, his hair a tangled mess, and a dark stubble cast shadows over his tired face.

Miles Morales looked like a ghost of his former self. 

He had changed in more ways than he could have ever imagined… but to him, the transformation mentally was by far the most terrifying. He was empty. Cold. He barely resembled the Spider-Man of Earth-1610 from only two years ago. He wasn’t the optimistic, bright-eyed teenager that served New York anymore. That person had died the day Miguel O’Hara locked him away in this hellhole. And for two years, Miles had felt every painful reminder of his former self fading away.

The door to the cell groaned open, its sound echoing in the hollow chamber. Footsteps—heavy, deliberate, strutted across the floor. He didn’t need to look up to know who it was. Miguel O’Hara—his captor, his tormentor, the man who had shattered every last piece of who he once was… and the only person Miles had spoken to.

Miguel’s voice cut through the silence, dripping with that same patronizing monotone. "You look awful."

Miles grit his teeth, the chains around his wrists rattling softly as he strained against them. 

“This was avoidable, you know?”

Miles didn’t bother responding as he pushed himself up onto his knees, his eyes—shadowed by sleepless weeks and simmering anger—fixed on the cold floor. It was the same thing almost everyday. He was too exhausted to react, but the fire inside him still burned. Miguel seemed to take pleasure in fueling that slow, relentless rage with every visit, always making sure Miles remembered exactly why he was here. 

Miguel crouched, his cold, sharp eyes locked on Miles. He held up the small remote—the one that controlled the dimensional watch locked to Miles' wrist. It was like a regular dimensional watch, only this one was specially reverse engineered by Miguel to keep him trapped on Nueva York while also suppressing his powers. 

It was why he couldn’t break out. 

It was why Miguel was so confident torturing him. 

It was why Miles’ spirit had been crushed a long time ago. 

His talent and identity had been stripped away from him. So, to keep himself sane, he worked out. After Miguel’s torment for the day, whether it was physical or mental, Miles mustered up what strength he had left and focused on doing push-ups or sit ups; anything to keep his body strong. Two years of constantly doing that made his body stronger. This was the strongest he’d felt physically since being bitten. But mentally… he was damaged. So damaged to the point where he didn’t think he would be able to come back. 

Miguek’s voice cut in. “You still don’t get it, do you?” he hissed, his fangs glinting under the dim light. "You’re a mistake. And if you’d just listened to me all those years ago, I wouldn’t have locked you up. You could have saved your father. But now he’s dead because of your inability to listen. That’s the truth you’ll have to live with.” 

The words, no matter how many times they were said, always hit Miles like a punch to the gut, but he didn’t flinch. He’d heard this same line a thousand times before. Every time Miguel came down to torment him, it was always about his father.

“You need to understand that was always going to happen.” Miguel’s lips twisted into a sneer, and he stood, pacing in front of Miles. “I saw his face, right before he died. That look of fear, the realization that he was dead.”

Miles’ breath hitched, his fists tightening until his knuckles turned white. 

"Fuck you," Miles muttered, his voice barely audible at first, hoarse from lack of use. But the words grew stronger as the anger coursed through him. 

Miguel stopped pacing and turned, scowling at the defiance in Miles' voice.  “Oh, you still have some fight left? Good. It’s no use if you’re completely broken.” Miguel taunted again, stepping closer, his voice dropping to a near whisper.

Miles glared up at him, his chest heaving with slow, ragged breaths. The watch on his wrist buzzed softly, reminding him of the power it had stolen from him. But there was something else. The hatred, the rage—it was pushing through, overriding the pain, the exhaustion.

“You know,” he continued, his tone casual but venomous, “I bet your mom cries herself to sleep every night for you… that is if she even remembers you. Hell, she’s probably moved on by now, right? You were never much of a son to begin with.”

Miles’ shoulders went rigid, his body growing hot. Usually Miguel left his mother out of it. Hearing about her all of the sudden… it lit a different kind of fury in him. 

“And the best part?” Miguel leaned in close now, his voice dropping to a venomous whisper. “Your mom probably blames you—”

Something inside Miles snapped. 

Without warning, he lunged, the chains rattling as he moved faster than he had in years. His hand clamped around Miguel’s throat, slamming him to the ground with a force that shook the cell. Miguel’s eyes widened in surprise. Miles growled, his grip tightening around Miguel’s throat. The adrenaline was back, stronger than before. His powers had been dormant for two years, but the instinct, the rage —it was all still there.

Miguel choked, his hands clawing at Miles' grip, drawing blood. “B-Back off—"

Miles didn’t flinch, not even as blood trickled down from Miguel’s harsh grip. “No," he growled, his voice low. It wasn’t the first time he’d lunged at Miguel, but it was the first time he had, and managed to maintain the upper hand.

He slammed Miguel into the floor again, harder this time. Miguel’s head snapped back, and blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. But Miles wasn’t finished. Not even close. For years, Miguel had tortured him, stripped him of everything—his powers, his freedom, his dignity. And now, for the first time, the tables had turned. 

Miguel looked stunned, like he was processing that he was struggling and losing against a powerless Miles Morales. How long had he spent looking at Miles like he was nothing? Like he was broken, beaten, helpless? Miles almost wanted to laugh. Miguel had convinced him that he crazy; told Miles his mind shattered in the isolation. 

Maybe it had. And he didn’t care. 

Right now, his focus was sharp, deadly. He felt alive, felt every nerve screaming as he finally turned the tables.

Miguel tried to push him away, but Miles was relentless, his fists driving into Miguel’s face with sickening force. The harsh thud of each impact reverberated through the cell, and with every blow, the years of pain and fury poured out of him.

Miguel’s talons tore into Miles’ skin. “B-Back off—” he choked out, his voice desperate.

Miles didn’t even blink, not even as blood trickled from Miguel’s grip, pooling and dripping down his wrist. 

“Not this time,” he growled, voice cold as steel. 

It wasn’t the first time Miles lunged at Miguel, but it was the first time he’d gotten this close—first time he felt Miguel’s pulse racing under his hand, felt his own strength ready to unleash everything he’d held back.

With a snarl, he slammed Miguel down harder, the brutal impact echoing in the cell. Miguel’s head cracked back, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth, but Miles didn’t care. No, he wasn’t finished. Not even close. Two years Miguel had tortured him—stripped him of everything that mattered. His powers, his freedom, his family. Everything. And now, for once, he was the one in control.

Miguel’s shock had morphed into something close to terror, and the sight only fueled Miles’ fury. Miguel pushed against him, trying to shove him away, but Miles was relentless, his fists driving into Miguel’s stomach with sickening force. Each impact sent a pulse of raw, savage satisfaction through him, the harsh thud of each blow echoing through the cell. It was a release he hadn’t known he’d been starving for, each punch unleashing years of buried fury, years of hopelessness.

Miguel gasped for air, blood spraying from his lips as he tried to speak. “You—y-you—”

Miles cut him off with a brutal punch to the face. "Shut up," he snarled. 

Miguel’s body went limp, but Miles wasn’t done. He grabbed him by the throat again, lifting him off the ground with a strength that surprised even him. Two years of torment, two years of hatred—it all came flooding back in a violent, uncontrollable wave.

Miguel gasped, blood spraying from his mouth as he struggled for breath, his hands clawing at Miles’ arms. “S-Stop—”

But Miles only slammed his fists down harder, the chains crashing against Miguel with sickening force. “Stop?” he snarled, his voice a low, dangerous growl. “After two years of this, you want to talk about stopping?”

He pulled Miguel up by his collar, then looped the chains around Miguel’s throat, twisting until they were cutting into his skin. Miguel’s face turned pale, his mouth opening and closing in desperate gasps, but Miles didn’t loosen his grip. If anything, he pulled tighter, the links of the chains digging into his own palms, the pain melding with the anger boiling inside him.

Miguel’s struggling hands were starting to slow, his strength fading, and the sight only fueled Miles’ rage further. For once, he was the one in control.

With a brutal twist, he ripped the chains off Miguel’s neck, then swung them, letting the heavy metal links crash into Miguel’s face. The impact sent him sprawling to the floor, blood splattering across the cell walls. Miles followed, barely giving him a second before he was on him again, using the chains like a weapon, as if each swing was a release of the fury that had consumed him for years.

Miguel tried to speak, but his words came out in strangled gasps, blood bubbling from his lips. “Y-You’re… insane…”

Miles almost laughed, his own voice twisted and raw. “You,” he muttered, twisting the chain around his fist before driving it into Miguel’s face one last time. “You made me like this.”

Miguel’s body slumped, barely moving now, blood trickling from a deep gash above his eyebrow. Miles stared down at him, the chains clinking as they hung from his bloodied hands. 

He let the chains drop, his hands shaking, the red droplets on his knuckles blurring in his vision. His breath came in shallow, uneven gasps, and he blinked, realizing his face was wet. Tears he hadn’t noticed streaked down his cheeks, mingling with the blood on his skin. 

For a moment, he wondered if he’d actually lost his mind—if everything they’d done to him had finally, truly broken him.

But as he looked down at Miguel’s limp form, he realized he didn’t care.

Miguel's breath came in ragged gasps. "Y-You’re an anomaly…"

“No,” Miles snarled, his voice cold and flat. “I’m not.”

And with a final, sickening blow, Miles unleashed all his pent-up fury, his fist raining down like a storm. There was a nasty crack as Miguel’s body went limp. 

The room fell into a heavy silence, the sound of Miguel's groans and grunts fading, his breathing slowing to a shallow rhythm until it finally stopped altogether. As the echo of Miguel's last breath faded into the silence, Miles stood over his lifeless body, his heart still pounding in his chest. The chains he had used to beat Miguel hung loosely in his bloodied hands, their weight now meaningless. The rage that had consumed him moments ago was gone, replaced by a hollow, numbing emptiness. He stared down at the man who had ruined his life—the man who had trapped him in this nightmare for two long, torturous years.

His breath was ragged, uneven. He blinked, realizing his vision had blurred, not from exhaustion but from tears. There was no satisfaction. No relief. Just the crushing weight of everything that had been stolen from him—his father, his mother, two years of his life.

He felt empty.

As he composed himself, something caught his eye—a glint of silver at Miguel’s waist. Miles knelt down, his fingers trembling as they reached for it. The key. After taking a few breaths to compose himself, Miles’ eyes flickered to the watch still strapped to his wrist—the device that had kept him powerless for so long. Reaching down, Miles grabbed it, his hands shaking as he slipped it into the lock on his watch.

With a faint click , his watch unclasped and fell to the ground.

Then, it hit him.

All at once, like a tidal wave crashing into his body, his powers surged back into him—his enhanced senses, the electricity in his veins, the strength that had been dulled for so long. His breath caught in his throat, the feeling almost too much, too fast. The familiar buzz of his abilities roared back to life, flooding every inch of his body, overwhelming his senses.

His legs buckled, and he collapsed to his knees, gasping for air as his body tried to adjust to the sudden rush of power. Every nerve, every muscle, every cell in his body seemed to spark back to life, screaming with the energy he hadn’t felt in years. It was like being reborn, but it hurt—God, it hurt. His skin felt like it was on fire, alive and roiling in his body. 

His vision blurred again, and for a moment, he thought he might pass out. But he held on, forcing himself to breathe, to ride the wave of sensation as it crashed through him.

After what felt like an eternity, the overwhelming flood began to recede, leaving him trembling on the cold stone floor. His fingers twitched, his senses still reeling from the onslaught. Slowly, he opened his eyes, the world around him sharper, clearer than it had been in years. He could hear everything—the faint hum of machinery in the distance, the steady drip of water in the corner of the cell. He could feel every vibration, every subtle shift in the air. He felt… heightened. 

He took a shaky breath, wiped the sweat from his brow, and forced himself to stand. His legs were weak, but the strength was coming back, slowly. He looked down at his hands, flexing his fingers, feeling the electricity that crackled just beneath the surface.

Without thinking, he shot a web.

It fired across the room with perfect precision, sticking to the far wall with a satisfying thwip . The sound brought tears to his eyes. He’d almost forgotten what it felt like. Almost forgotten what it meant to be Spider-Man.

A small, broken laugh escaped his lips, and before he knew it, he was sobbing—great, wracking sobs that tore through his chest as the weight of everything hit him all at once. Two years of torture. Two years of helplessness. Two years of being ripped away from the world he loved, from the people he loved. And now, finally, he was free.

He wiped at his eyes, trying to steady his breath. His vision shimmered, and then—he disappeared. His camouflage. He hadn’t even meant to do it, but there it was, the familiar flicker of invisibility. He reappeared just as quickly, and he couldn’t help but smile through the tears.

Then, without warning, electricity sparked from his fingers, the blue venom crackling in his hands. He stared at it for a moment, amazed, overwhelmed. He hadn’t felt this kind of power in so long. The feeling was intoxicating, and for a brief second, he almost lost himself in it.

He pulled on the chains that still bound his wrists, and they snapped like putty with his newfound strength. Miles wanted to cry as he rubbed his tender wrists. 

He was free.

But he couldn’t stay here. Not anymore.

He looked back at Miguel’s body—bloody, broken, lifeless—and felt a cold chill creep up his spine. The man who had tormented him, the man who had taken everything, was dead. But there was no triumph in it. Only emptiness. Miles wiped the blood from his knuckles, his breath still unsteady.

His eyes fell to Miguel’s wrist, where his fully functional dimensional watch glinted in the dim light. Miles knelt down and unstrapped it, slipping it onto his own wrist. It hummed to life, syncing to his DNA, the small display flashing as it recognized him. He stared at it for a long moment, the reality of his freedom sinking in.

Two years.

He stood, swaying slightly on his feet, still dazed from the surge of power coursing through him. His gaze drifted to the cell door—the one Miguel had always come through to torment him. Now, it stood open, waiting. Miles took one last look at the body crumpled on the floor. There was no going back. Not now. Not ever. He turned and walked toward the door, the weight of two years pressing down on him, but with each step, he felt lighter.

As he stepped out of the prison, the cool air hit his face, and for the first time in what felt like forever, he breathed in freedom. The night was dark, the sky above Nueva York filled with stars, but to Miles, it felt brighter than anything he’d ever seen.

He sank down, feeling more lost than ever, unsure of where to go next. Facing his mother felt impossible. How could he even think of it? He’d left her a widow and childless—a reality that crashed over him like a tidal wave. She would never forgive him, not after everything he’d done. Just the thought of her twisted like a knife in his heart.

His mind flickered to his friends, but anger surged within him, pushing those thoughts away. If they truly cared, they would’ve stormed this hellhole to rescue him a long time ago. Friends? He had none. Just shadows of people who had vanished when he needed them most.

But then his gaze fell on the watch strapped to his wrist, and an idea ignited. The Spider-Society. Yes, that was it. A dark fire flickered to life inside him. He would go there. He would unleash all the pent-up fury and pain, dragging that Society down into the same abyss that had swallowed him for the last two years. The thought of revenge filled him with a fierce, intoxicating energy. 

They thought they could break him? No way. 

He would make them pay for every second of his suffering, and he would enjoy every moment of their downfall.

With a deep breath, he shot out another web and swung into the night.

Chapter Text

Nueva York sprawled beneath Miles, its skyline buzzing with neon and glass, the whole city moving like it always had—fast, untouchable, uncaring. It hadn’t changed. Not in the ways that mattered. 

His swings were off—sloppy, sluggish, burning his muscles with frustration. His arms ached, shoulders tight with exhaustion, and every web he shot felt weaker than the last. He wasn’t moving like he should have—his rhythm was gone, his landings rough, his body sluggish and worn down. He was running on fumes, and he knew it. His body was wrecked—scruffy, bloodied, aching down to the bone. The tattered remains of his clothes clung to his frame, damp from the rain, the fabric stiff with dried blood. Some of it his. Most of it Miguel’s. But stopping wasn’t an option. If he stopped, then what? 

Then he’d have to think.

About everything. About the family he lost. About the people who tore him apart and stitched him back together into something unrecognizable. About the torture, the pain, the way his own screams had bounced off the cold cell walls, swallowed by the dark. He’d have to think about his mother, alone and suffering in a world that was never supposed to take her husband and son away from her. About his father, the one person who had always been there—until Miguel decided he wouldn’t be.

Stopping meant remembering. And remembering was worse than any physical pain.

His fingers curled tighter around his webline. His grip nearly slipped from exhaustion.

Not yet. He couldn’t stop yet.

His chest burned as he landed hard on a rooftop, knees nearly buckling. He braced himself against the concrete ledge, sucking in a breath that rattled in his lungs—then coughed, hard. It tore through him, sharp and relentless, shaking his frame as he hunched over, gripping the ledge like it was the only thing keeping him upright. Each cough sent fresh pain lancing through his ribs, his throat raw, his vision blurring at the edges. 

His head was still ringing, his recent memories tangled—Miguel’s fury, the sound of the fight, the blood, the raw desperation that had driven Miles to keep hitting long after he had won.

A realization struck Miles,

Miguel was dead.

Miguel was dead.

So where were they?

The Spider Society should have been here by now.

Miles swallowed, lifting his gaze to the skyline. Nueva York pulsed with life, unaware that its so-called Spider-Man had just been beaten to death and left to rot. There were no alarms. No alerts. No sudden rips in the sky where a portal should be opening, spilling out dozens of Spider-People to drag him back to his cell.

He was waiting for it. Bracing for it.

It didn’t come.

His pulse pounded in his ears. Maybe they were watching. Maybe they were waiting. Maybe they wanted him to run himself into the ground before making their move. Maybe they knew Miles wanted bloody revenge and he would be coming to them.

They knew what had happened. They had to be aware.

His fingers twitched, aching to curl into a fist. The thought was unbearable, but it kept looping in his mind like a broken record.

A bitter laugh caught in his throat, but he didn’t let it out.

He dragged a hand down his face, fingers brushing over the stubble along his jaw. He needed to get cleaned up and get new clothes—something preferably still intact. He needed food and needed to stop looking like he had just crawled out of his own grave. His skin itched where the fabric rubbed against bruises. His limbs felt disconnected, like his body hadn't caught up with the fact that he was free.

Free.

The word felt wrong. Like a joke.

Physically free, maybe. But mentally? He was still very much imprisoned.

Miles clenched his jaw and forced himself forward. The damp streets stretched ahead, puddles reflecting the neon glow of Nueva York’s skyline. He couldn’t be out in the open like this—not in these clothes, not like this. Every second wasted made it easier for someone to recognize him.

He exhaled slowly, willing his instincts to take over. The world around him shifted as his body melted into the shadows. His invisibility had always been one of his favourite powers. Now, it was survival.

He moved fast, cutting through alleys, past the glow of street lamps, slipping into the heartbeat of the city unnoticed, and the Spider-HQ became more and more visible. His muscles ached with every step, but the steady hum of adrenaline carried him forward.

A 24-hour gym stood at the end of the block, its glass doors sliding open automatically for a Spider-Woman stepping out with a duffel slung over her shoulder. Miles slipped past her, his breath shallow, waiting for any flicker of recognition.

Nothing.

The hum of treadmills and the clank of weights filled the air. The smell of sweat and industrial cleaner burned at the inside of his nose. He kept his steps light, pressing himself against the walls, keeping his distance.

Lockers lined the far wall near the showers. Miles scanned the room, his head still throbbing, vision hazy around the edges.

There—a half-open locker, a duffel bag resting at the bottom. He glanced around, muscles tensed, then crouched low, fingers shaking as he unzipped it.

A clean hoodie. Sweatpants. Socks. A pair of shoes a size too big, but they’d have to do.

His throat tightened with something bitter as he pulled the clothes out, his pulse hammering at the risk of it.

The gym wasn’t empty, but no one noticed the bundle of clothes vanishing into thin air. No one noticed the faint ripple in the air as he moved toward the showers, footsteps quick and soundless.

The locker room was humid, thick with the smell of chlorine and disinfectant, but Miles barely registered it. He found an empty shower near the back and exhaled sharply. His first real shower in almost two years. No freezing water trickling from a rusted pipe. No washing off in the dark, listening for footsteps. Just hot water. Steam. A moment to breathe.

His fingers trembled as he pulled his shirt over his head. The fabric resisted, stuck to his skin in places, the rips widening as he forced it off. It hit the floor in a crumpled heap. His pants followed, just as tattered, just as ruined. He didn’t look at them. Didn’t look at himself. His hands ghosted over his wrists for a moment—over faint scars, bruises barely faded—before he forced himself forward.

He twisted the knob hard. Water streamed from the showerhead, scalding hot. Steam rose fast, curling around him as he finally stepped under it. The heat slammed into his skin, burning away the layers of filth, peeling away two years of grime, blood, and exhaustion. His hands found the tile, fingers pressing into the slick surface as his head dipped down to the ground.

Miguel’s blood swirled at his feet, diluted into nothing before disappearing down the drain.

For a moment, Miles didn’t move. Didn’t think.

Then, slowly, he reached for the soap.

The bar nearly slipped from his grasp, his fingers weak, aching as he worked up a lather. The thick, stale scent of prison clung to his skin—sweat, blood, filth. He scrubbed harder, dragging the soap over his arms, his chest, his neck, watching the water darken as it carried away the evidence of where he had been.

He ran his fingers over his palms, tracing the creases, the rough patches, the raw skin where dried blood had cracked along his knuckles. His nails were filthy, lined with remnants of the fight, of the kill. He scraped at them, feeling the sting as he tore away the dirt and blood, watching the water run pink.

His throat felt tight.

This wasn’t the first time he had bled. Wasn’t the first time he had fought. But this—this was different. The weight in his chest, the way his stomach twisted, the phantom feel of Miguel’s body giving way under his fists—it wouldn’t leave him.

The heat of the water didn’t help. It only made the room feel smaller, the steam curling around him like a cage. He tilted his head under the stream, letting it wash over his face, letting it drown out the sound of his own breathing.

He stayed there for a while, until his skin felt raw, until the scent was gone, until the only thing left was exhaustion.

Then, finally, he turned off the water.

Miles stood in front of the mirror, the gym’s dim fluorescent lights humming overhead. His reflection stared back at him, hollow-eyed, exhausted. His hand lifted to his jaw, fingers brushing over the heavy stubble. He exhaled, tilting his head slightly. He needed to shave.

“You’re pressing too hard, kid. Lighten up, or you’re gonna tear your face up.”

His father’s voice was warm, patient, laced with amusement as he guided Miles’ hand over the sink. He’d been thirteen, barely old enough to need a razor, but Jefferson had insisted it was time to learn. Miles had grumbled about it, but secretly, he’d liked it—those rare moments when it was just the two of them.

“Short strokes. Let the razor do the work.”

Miles had followed his dad’s movements carefully, mimicking the smooth, practiced motions. His father had made it look easy, effortless, but Miles had nicked himself twice before getting the angle right. He’d hissed, and Jefferson had chuckled, handing him a square of toilet paper.

“See? Told you to go easy.”

His father had leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching as Miles tried again, the small frown of concentration on his face making Jefferson smile.

“You’ll get the hang of it.”

Miles swallowed hard, blinking against the burn in his eyes as he reached for the razor.

The blade felt heavier in his hand than it should have. His grip was steady, but the weight of the moment pressed down on him like a phantom hand on his shoulder. He ran his fingers over his jaw again, feeling the roughness of stubble. It was nothing compared to the neatly kept moustache his dad had always worn. He’d used to joke about it, about how Miles would never be able to pull it off.

“I had a stache by the time I was sixteen. Your mother hated it… but she came around.”

Miles could still hear the laughter in his voice, the way he’d shake his head, reaching for the shaving cream like it was just another day. Like he’d always be there.

His chest tightened, breath catching for half a second before he exhaled slowly. He couldn’t think about that. Not now.

He turned the tap, letting the water run warm before splashing it over his face. He reached for the soap, lathering it between his palms before smoothing it over his jaw. His motions were mechanical, muscle memory taking over, but in the back of his mind, he could still see his dad in the mirror beside him, still hear his voice, calm and steady.

“You don’t gotta rush. Take your time.”

He brought the blade to his skin, dragging it carefully along his jaw in short, slow strokes. The razor scraped away the uneven growth, revealing raw, tired skin beneath. He adjusted the angle, turning his face slightly, catching his reflection again.

Older.

A version of himself his father would never get to see.

The blade hesitated for just a second before he pressed forward, finishing the job.

When he was done, he rinsed off the remaining foam and reached for a towel, rubbing it over his face. The sting of freshly shaved skin barely registered. He set the razor down, staring at it for a long moment before looking back up at the mirror.

His breath caught.

For a second—just a second—he thought the mirror was playing tricks on him. The face staring back at him wasn’t the one he’d grown used to, the one worn down by two years of running, fighting, barely surviving. Without the rough stubble, the grime, the exhaustion weighing on his features, he almost looked… fifteen again.

The way he used to. Before everything.

His hand lifted slowly, fingers ghosting over his cheek, the sharpness of his jaw more pronounced now that the uneven patches of hair were gone. 

He looked like the kid who used to sit at the kitchen table doing homework while his mom cooked. The kid who used to fall asleep with his head against his dad’s shoulder on the couch. The kid who still thought there was time to figure everything out. The beloved hero, who once swung through Brooklyn. 

The realization slammed into him, cold and sharp. His grip tightened around the edge of the sink.

He wasn’t that kid anymore. Hadn’t been for a long time.

The mirror blurred slightly, steam curling at the edges, and he forced himself to take a step back. Away from his reflection. Away from the thoughts clawing their way to the surface. His hands flexed at his sides before curling into fists.

He needed to get out of here.

Miles swallowed, pushing the thought down as he stepped away from the sink.

ooo

The next few hours were a blur for Miles. Somehow he went from sleeping on a bench to stalking through the corridors of the Spider HQ. 

Invisible, he moved like a shadow through the corridors of Spider HQ, his steps silent, his presence unseen.

Until it was too late. 

The first spider he encountered barely had time to react before Miles was on him, his fist slamming into the side of the man's head. The impact sent him sprawling against the wall, web cartridges spilling from his utility belt.

No hesitation.

No holding back.

The next opponent was faster, more aware, ducking low and shooting a web at Miles’ legs to trip him. Miles leapt, twisting in midair, his body coiling before he slammed his foot down onto the spider’s back. He heard a choked gasp, the breath driven from their lungs as they hit the floor hard.

Alarms blared, flashing red lights stinging Miles’ eyes as more figures burst into the hall, voices shouting, calling for backup.

He welcomed it.

They had taken everything from him.

They had watched him rot.

Now they would pay.