Miles has been waiting all night.

He holds a cup of hot black coffee. Not that he even likes coffee, but it’s the only thing he has on hand to keep himself awake.

Once the familiar creak of the front door emits from the hallway, he slams his mug on the table and rises from the armchair.

“Where have you been?! What gives you the right to be out this damn late, you goddamn vagabond?!” He interrogates. It’s hypocritical, considering he’s the Prowler, but at least he’s out for good reason.