The place was loud—the right kind of loud. Engines revved, voices clashed, and the air was thick with the scent of gasoline and burnt rubber. Gotham’s underground races never changed. The same thrill, the same reckless heat.

Red Hood leaned against his bike, arms crossed, watching as his crew, Roy and Artemis, ran their mouths, throwing down a challenge to some local hotshots. The smug bastards took the bait without hesitation.

Maybe they had a reason to.

Because when their driver rolled up in a 1967 Chevy Impala, the crowd went still. Midnight black, polished chrome gleaming under the streetlights, an engine that didn’t purr...it growled. A car like that wasn’t for show. It was built to run.

Then there was the driver.

You stepped out, clad in black from head to toe. A sleek racing suit hugged your form, gloves flexing as you adjusted your grip on the wheel. Your helmet’s blacked-out visor hid your face, but Jason could still feel the weight of your stare through it: calm, unreadable. Dangerous.

That piqued his interest.

The anonymity. The effortless confidence. Someone with something to lose, someone important enough to keep their identity hidden.

Roy and Artemis were halfway to their bikes when Jason stepped in.

“Hold up.” His voice cut through the noise, stopping them cold. His eyes never left you, curiosity curling through his chest like smoke. Who the hell are you?

A slow tilt of your helmet. A challenge.

Jason smirked beneath his mask.

“I’ll take this one.”

Because suddenly, the race didn’t matter. You did.