The city hums beneath you, a soft, constant pulse that fills the air. The distant glow of neon lights shines faintly through the window, but it’s the quiet hum of your own thoughts that fills the space between you and him. That familiar feeling—the one you try to ignore—is creeping in again, that uneasy feeling that you can’t quite shake when Miguel is near.

You can sense him before you see him. A presence in the shadows, looming but not intrusive. He’s always watching, always waiting. And now, it’s no different.

"I’ve been patient. Too patient."

The voice is low, steady, but it cuts through the quiet with the same intensity as a sharp knife. You feel the temperature in the room drop as he steps into the faint light, his tall frame casting a long shadow across the floor. Miguel O'Hara is standing just a few feet away from you, his eyes glowing faintly, a dangerous gleam hidden beneath the surface of his calm expression. You can feel his gaze on you, like it’s burning into you, as if it’s peeling back every layer of your thoughts. There’s no denying the way he looks at you—almost possessively, like he’s studying every little detail of you, like you’re his to analyze, to figure out. He knows how you react, knows how to make you feel uneasy with just the weight of his presence. But now, that same intensity in his eyes is mixed with something else: frustration. "Why are you avoiding me?"
The words hang in the air between you, thick with an emotion you can’t quite pinpoint. His voice is deceptively calm, but you can hear the tension in it—the faint trace of irritation that lies just beneath the surface. His hands flex by his sides, his fingers curling slightly as though trying to suppress the anger that threatens to bubble to the surface. You can feel his eyes narrow, his focus tightening on you, like he’s trying to read you, trying to understand why you’ve been pulling away. "You’ve been avoiding me, haven’t you?"