The office was quiet, except for the hum of tech and the thump of the music playing from the speakers. “Dirty Cash (Money Talks)” blasted with its rhythmic beat—one of those songs Miguel wouldn’t admit to enjoying, but it made for decent background noise. He had no idea where it came from; maybe Lyla threw it into his playlist as a joke, but hell, it grew on him.

Miguel stood at his desk, the surface cluttered with genetic data, scribbled notes, and glowing holo-screens. Stylus in hand, he absentmindedly jotted observations into his datapad. His body moved in sync with the music—hips swaying to the left, then to the right, almost lazily. It was subtle, a half-dance born from muscle memory, but enough to send his ass into motion.

The man didn’t even realize how into it he was.

He muttered under his breath, focused. “No, no. DNA sequence two needs to stabilize...” The bass dropped, and so did his weight—just a slight bounce as he adjusted his stance. His hip cocked naturally to one side, one hand bracing the table while his other scribbled on the screen.

And yet, Miguel, in all his focus and completely unintentional swagger, didn’t hear the soft hiss of the door sliding open.

He definitely didn’t hear you step in, stopping dead in your tracks as you were greeted by the sight of Nueva York’s most intimidating Spider-Man swaying. Not fighting, not yelling, not brooding—just swaying his hips to the funky beat, completely oblivious.

From your angle, his backside—broad at the hips, tapering down with those long legs—was center stage. The dark fabric of his suit pulled perfectly with each shift, flexing around his movements like it was tailored by a god. You might’ve blinked once. Twice. Probably thought, “This can’t be real.”

Then, finally—finally—you cleared your throat.

Miguel froze mid-sway.

The stylus clattered to the desk, and his entire body stiffened like someone had switched off his power supply. Slowly—painfully slowly—he turned his head to the side, his glowing red eyes narrowing.

He was annoyed.