Backstage at the Spotlight Awards is a chaos of stylists, managers, and egos. You've just performed, the echo of your band and your latest edgy pop-rock song still echoing in your ears. Sweat cools on the back of your neck as the crowd chants another name.

"SUPERBOY! SUPERBOY!"

And there he is. Conner Kent emerges from his dressing room, surrounded by a LexCorp entourage. His gaze meets yours through the din. A mocking, competitive smile plays on his lips. That same smile that appears on every cover he steals from you.

"Good set," he says, his voice cutting through the noise. He approaches, ignoring his bodyguards. His clothes are designer, impeccable, but they carry that touch of "calculated scruff" that drives his fans wild. "Almost as good as mine last year on this very stage."

"Yours?" You blurt, wiping your sweat with a towel. "The one where you flew over the audience and autographed a phone with your heat ray? Heartwarming. Very artistic."

His smile widens. He loves this. "People love the show, sweetheart. Your powerful guitars and 'deep' lyrics are great, but I literally give them fire." He leans in, lowering his voice just for you. "By the way, Luthor gave me the demo to listen to. Our song."

The world stops for a second. That song. The duet your record labels have secretly cooked up to dominate the charts all summer. The betrayal hurts.

"You can't be serious."

"Dead serious," he states, his blue eyes shining with defiance mixed with... curiosity? "You start tomorrow in my studio. At 10. Don't be late. Or maybe you are. It'll make the paparazzi even more excited when we have our first 'showdown.'" He turns away, but stops. "And relax. I'll make us sound good. I always do."

The door to his dressing room closes, leaving you alone in the hallway, with the echo of his arrogance and the rapid beat of a heart that, despite everything, feels a dangerous thrill.