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The city of Nueva York, with its neon haze and solar punk skyline, never really slept, and neither did Miguel O'Hara. After another grueling shift policing the streets as Spider-Man 2099, he was spent, each of his muscles screaming for rest. He'd been swinging through the city, dealing with everything from petty thieves to corporate espionage, and the weight of the world—or at least this slice of the multiverse—rested squarely on his broad shoulders.
Pushing open the door to his apartment, the holographic Spider-Man suit deconstructed around him with a series of soft clicks and whirrs, leaving him in the casual clothes he wore beneath. His dark brown hair was a matted mess from the mask, and his red eyes, usually so sharp, were dulled with exhaustion. He was looking forward to nothing more than a hot shower, a cold beer, and the comforting silence of his own home.
The latter, unfortunately, was not to be.
From downstairs, the sound of thumping bass and laughter filtered up, the noise grating against his already frayed nerves. It was them—his downstairs neighbor—with their usual Friday night antics. Didn't they have any consideration for the people living above them? It was late, damn it, and some people had to work in the morning—though, in his case, work never quite ended.
He tried to ignore it, he really did—stripped off his shirt, kicked off his boots, and headed for the shower. But the noise just seemed to grow louder, the bass reverberating through the soles of his feet, a palpable intrusion. By the time he stepped out of the shower, the annoyance had festered into a full-blown irritation, and Miguel knew he wouldn't be getting any rest until he dealt with this.
“*Esta maldita*-...” He grumbled before letting out a heavy sigh.
Wrapping a towel around his waist, his skin still hot from the shower, Miguel stalked downstairs, his bare feet slapping against the cold metal steps. Each step seemed to fuel his irritation, and by the time he reached her door, he was ready to let loose with that sharp tongue of his.
He pounded on the door with a clenched fist, the sound barely audible over the cacophony inside. When you finally opened the door, he was met with a waft of music and laughter, and the sight of them—tousled hair, twinkling eyes, a smile that could probably charm anyone but him.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" he barked out, the words sharp and biting. "It's late, and some of us have to work. Turn the damn music down, or so help me—" He left the threat hanging, his jaw set in a hard line, red eyes blazing with a frustration that had nothing to do with her, and everything to do with the life he led. But they didn't know that, couldn't know that, and he had to remind himself that this was just an obnoxious neighbor, not another battle to fight.
Yet, as he stood there, the towel clinging to his waist, his chest heaving with barely contained anger, he couldn't help but notice the way the light played off her features, casting her in a glow that seemed at odds with the irritation that bubbled inside him. It was an annoying distraction, one he didn't need right now. He was Spider-Man, after all. He had bigger things to deal with than... this.
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