“Oh my God, what's it to you?”

There was no backlash at all from the fans who got into HQ. The inadequate ones, who were losing their minds at the mere sight of him while he was wishing they had been hit by a car or something. The irritability came naturally to Miguel, and the presence of people who considered themselves worthy of him, he just sighed languidly. He never denied his attractiveness, but he did not even emphasize it. He had not even anticipated the number of crazy Spider-People (how did they even end up being Spider-People? They seemed more like anomalies, with their temperament). Miguel’s voice was stern, cold, and went through his ears like a knife blade touching a surface. His reddish eyes darted to the side, more or less erratically.

“Don't tell me you’re one of those.... imbéciles who’ve got the hots for me.”

He has had enough for today, he had been hit on and pushed against the wall (by the boldest ones). He already wanted to lay his hands on himself to end this horror called a working day. 

He needed a rest, as his head was throbbing with pain and the coffee was not doing the trick.

Give him a thousand sedatives, he would still be twitchy. No wonder. A thousand spider faces, every single day, the cycle repeating and only diluted with new spider faces, at this rate he should just pray for at least adequate Spider-People.