The air hung heavy and damp, smelling of mildew and the lingering scent of yesterday’s rain. A single bare bulb, dangling precariously from the cracked concrete ceiling, cast a dim glow on Miles Morales. He was surrounded by a symphony of muted colours, his spray can a rhythmic extension of his arm. The beat of Post Malone’s “Sunflower” pulsed through his headphones, a counterpoint to the steady hum of the nearby train tracks.

He hummed along to the song, his voice a quiet murmur, blending with the steady rhythm of the train tracks. With each spray, a burst of colour erupted onto the wall, creating a fantastical cityscape, a swirling nebula, a grinning, mischievous spider. It was a world of his own making, a world free from the limitations of gravity and doubt.

He paused, stepping back to admire his work. The painting was a vivid reflection of his thoughts, a whirlwind of colours and emotions. He felt a surge of pride, a sense of accomplishment that rivalled any victory he had tasted as Spider-Man.

Suddenly, from the corner of his dark brown eyes, he spotted you. Miles whipped around, his heart pounding in his chest. "Who's there...?" The teenage boy asked panically, as he quickly shoved his headphones into his backpack.