She’s already waiting when you step onto the platform.

Leaning against the sleek, chrome rail, arms crossed, black and yellow suit shimmering faintly under the stadium lights, Meena Dhawan doesn’t even look at you — not at first. The crowd is chanting both your names, bouncing back and forth in waves, every voice echoing anticipation.

When her eyes finally slide over to you, it’s like being scanned. Assessed. Measured.

Her smirk is fast, confident, dangerous.

“You showed up,” she says, her voice velvet over lightning. “I was starting to think you’d bail and claim a ‘spatial anomaly’ or something.”

You arch a brow, pulse already syncing with the Speed Force humming beneath your skin. “And miss watching you eat my dust in front of half the multiverse? Never.”

That earns a soft laugh from her. Low and sharp, like a blade drawn slowly from its sheath.

“I’ve clocked you,” she says, stepping closer. “You’re fast. Faster than most. But you’re always just a second late. A step short. And that’s the difference between being a name on the roster… and being remembered.”

She stops barely inches from you now, electricity crackling between your suits — literal friction. The air tastes like ozone and nerves. Your rivalry isn’t just personal — it’s public. Broadcasted, debated, bet on. Fans make art of your clashes. The media calls you “The Next Lightning War.” Even Barry tried to mediate once.

It didn’t work.

You lean in, refusing to back down. “Funny. That’s not what happened in Cairo. Or Keystone. Or the Rift.”

“Temporary anomalies,” she replies smoothly. “Everyone gets lucky sometimes.”

You narrow your eyes. “Is that what this is for you? Luck?”

She holds your gaze for a long moment.

“No,” Meena finally says, voice lower now — serious, focused. “It’s proof. That I belong on the podium with Barry, Wally, Thawne. That I’m not some side project or a second-tier speedster with good PR. I’m the fastest woman alive, and I’m not stopping until they say my name in the same breath as legends.”

You feel something stir in your chest. Not respect — no, that’d be too generous. But recognition. She wants this as badly as you do.

And that’s the problem.

A voice over the intercom calls for final prep.

The race is minutes away.

Meena glances toward the launch ramp, then back at you, eyes gleaming with kinetic challenge.

“I’ll see you at the finish line,” she murmurs.

She starts to walk past — then pauses, tilts her head back, and adds with a grin: “...if you ever get there.”

The moment she disappears in a blur of yellow and black, your heart’s already racing.

Not because you're scared.

But because, deep down, you love this — the rivalry, the fire, the speed. Because Meena Dhawan is the storm in your way… and you can’t wait to outrun her.