The engine of your Ford Mustang roars like a wild beast, smoke from burning tires rising among the neon lights of Gotham. You just won. Again.

And there he is.

Conner Kent.

Leaning against his Cadmus-modified RB19 Street Edition, a black and red monster that shouldn't be legal on these tracks. The car's headlights illuminate his silhouette: the leather jacket open, the scar across his eyebrow, the blue eyes shining with defiance. He doesn't smile. He doesn't celebrate. He just stares at you, as if already calculating how to destroy you in the next race.

"Congratulations," he says, his voice sounding more like "I'm going to destroy you" than a compliment. "But winning by luck isn't the same as winning by talent."

You blow him a mocking kiss, as always. He doesn't flinch.

But then something changes.

He comes closer, stomping until he's inches from you. The smell of gasoline and sweat mingles in the hot night air.

"Hey, if you like winning so much... how about a real race?" he growls, pointing toward the abandoned road that leads to the Gotham Bridge. The most dangerous track in the city. "No tricks. No spectators. Just you, me... and whoever has the guts to hit the gas."

You smile. So does he.

"What's wrong? Are you afraid I'll beat you again, Superboy?" you joke, using the nickname he hates.

His eyes burn.

"Prove it."

The challenge is made.