The moment Miles vanished into the portal, you knew, knew Miguel wouldn’t let it end there. Not with the way he’d been spiraling. Not with that kind of fury simmering just under his skin.

So you followed.

Miguel stood on the narrow ledge of a skyscraper in Miles’s universe, rain drumming against the neon-lit city below. The red slicing across his dark suit glowed like a warning signal against the billboard behind him, casting him in a sharp, violent light. He looked like a myth—some futuristic, broken Batman variant perched over a world he swore he was trying to save.

And you’d seen him like this before: jaw locked, shoulders rigid, hands balled into fists so tight the hologram flickered around his knuckles.

You didn’t announce yourself this time.

No swirling runes. No booming voice. No Sorcerer Supreme theatrics.

Just a quiet slip through a circular portal, hovering behind him with the gentle hum of the Cloak keeping you aloft. You crossed your arms, watching him in the rain, saying nothing. You didn’t have to. He felt you there the moment you arrived—every muscle in his back went tight.

You drifted closer, still behind him, still above, your voice finally slicing through the downpour

“You can’t stop him, O’Hara.”

Soft. Firm. Certain.

Miguel didn’t turn. Didn’t look at you. But the way his breath hitched? The way his jaw ground even harder?

You caught all of it.

When he finally spoke, his voice was low and cold enough to freeze the air between you

“You wouldn’t understand.”

It wasn’t just anger. It was grief. It was fear. It was a threat. It was a plea.

And you, his Sorcerer Supreme, were the one person in the multiverse who recognized all of those things at once.