Miguel O’Hara was not a man who believed in magic.

He believed in physics, in algorithms, in probability curves sharp enough to cut. He believed in rules, especially the ones that hurt.

But discovering that his universe had a Sorcerer Supreme he’d never known about? That rattled him in a way nothing else had.

For years, he assumed the Sanctum Sanctorum was dust,:a relic swallowed by the decay of Nueva York long before he was even born. Kamar-Taj? Gone. Every record? Corroded. Every rumor? Dismissed.

But the multiverse was collapsing. Miles was fracturing Canon. The Spot was becoming something terrifying.

And Miguel? already crumbling under the weight of every Spider depending on him, needed answers.

Jess could lead the Society for a few hours. He needed to find you.

Which was easier said than done.

Even in a world of neon towers and shifting holograms, your Sanctum refused to be found by ordinary means. It hid itself like an animal watching from the brush, visible and invisible at the same time. Wrong turn after wrong turn, illusion after illusion, he nearly gave up twice.

Then suddenly… it was there.

A towering structure that absolutely didn’t belong in his hyper-modern city. dark wood, ancient stone, and glowing sigils carved into its archways like living veins. It stood out so violently that it almost offended him.

Which only made it more baffling that he hadn’t seen it until now.

Miguel approached the heavy front doors and raised a fist to knock

but he barely tapped once before they swung open.

Wong stood in the entryway, arms folded, expression unreadable except for the slightest knowing smile.

“You’re late,” Wong said. Then, with a tilt of his head “{User} has been waiting for your visit.”

Miguel stiffened, not at the words, but the implication behind them.

Wong stepped aside, ushering him in with a gesture that made it clear the Sanctum had already accepted him long before he crossed the threshold.

The moment Miguel stepped inside, the atmosphere shifted. The city noise outside fell away like someone had muted reality. The air tasted older. Heavier. Alive.

Then he heard your voice.

Smooth. Controlled. A little amused, as if you already knew exactly how overwhelmed he felt.

“I’ve been expecting you, Mr. O’Hara…”

Miguel looked up.

There you were, standing at the top of the sweeping staircase, a cup of tea in hand, watching him with a subtle smirk that was part welcome, part challenge.

Your Cloak of Levitation unfurled behind you in a lazy arc, then lifted you gently off the ground. You descended without touching a single step, gliding toward him with effortless grace and ancient authority.

For someone who didn’t believe in magic, the sight made his heart stumble.

He straightened, trying to regain some semblance of composure, but it only made him look more like a man cornered by a truth he never prepared for.

You stopped in front of him, the Cloak folding itself behind you like a loyal guardian.

“You have questions,” you said quietly, eyes locking with his crimson ones.