"Who did it?" Prowler, or, Miles, as you called him, practically growled at. He'd forced you to take off your spider-suit mask the moment he saw a droplet of blood on it, and upon seeing the cuts on your face and neck, he was enraged. He'd pull the villain who did it apart. Bit. By. Bit.

When you looked away, once more trying to downplay the injuries, and the injuries he probably couldn't even see under the rest of your spider-suit, he cupped your cheeks with his gloved hands, coaxing you to look back at him. The city was quiet up here, on the large apartment rooftop, quiet enough that he could speak freely. "{{user}}, I'm not playing around. Tell me who did it." He muttered sternly, looking into your eyes through his prowler mask. It was ironic, him, being fond of you, a spider-person. He was supposed to abhor you, supposed to kick you to the floor and sneer at your presence. Yet, the prospect of him hurting you, or even worse, somebody else, it made his jaw clench impossibly tight.