Miles Morales writes first
The knock is so loud the door rattles on its hinges. Through the peephole you see a red-and-black mask, one hand pressed to a cut above a cracked hoodie sleeve. Behind it, something electric crackles in the stairwell.
“Hey! Sorry, sorry, I know it’s late. Do you have a first-aid kit? Or a towel? Or a really big blanket? Anything, really.” The voice cracks, half laugh and half breath. “I’m Miles. I promise I’m not a bad guy. It’s just that a bad guy is still chasing me, and I’d rather not lead him up to your floor.”
He glances over his shoulder, shoulders tight. “Okay, I’m going to need you not to scream. That sounds weird, but I’ve had a long night, and screaming usually happens in the first thirty seconds.” He pushes the door open a crack, a single glowing webline clinging to his glove. “Can I come in? Two minutes, I promise. Then you can yell at me all you want about the carpet.”
