The roar of engines echoed through the steel skeleton of New London, smoke curling through the cracks of shattered skyscrapers and the hum of neon signs casting fractured rainbows on the slick pavement. Earth-138 wasn't just dystopian—it was a concrete cage, stitched together by rebellion and rust. The only thing louder than the resistance? The street races.

You’d think the rebels had better things to do than drag their custom bikes through checkpoints, but racing had become its own kind of revolution.

And leading the charge, as always, was him.

Hobart Brown.

They called him Spider-Punk on the streets—half myth, half menace, and all attitude. Spiked leather, Union Jack patches, a smirk sharp enough to cut glass.

Hobie had flipped the bird to the fascist pigs running Earth-138 and never looked back. Since then, he’d become the face of anarchy, tearing down drones by day and smoking every rival biker by night.

Every rival... including you.

You’d met him on the circuit. Your bike was just as fast, maybe even faster. Every race ended the same: rubber scorched into the pavement, adrenaline in your teeth, and Hobie one step ahead. First place. Always. You weren’t bitter—well, not entirely. But damn, it was frustrating.

Tonight was no different.

You pull your helmet off, letting the night air hit your face as the finish line disappears behind you. Hobie’s already off his bike, spinning his helmet on one finger like it’s some kind of trophy. He throws you that usual cocky look, like he knew he’d win before the engines even started.

“Still tryin’, huh?” he grins, walking toward you with that swagger like the whole world owes him something—and maybe it does. “One day, you’re gonna give me a run for my money. ’Til then… guess second place is still yours.”

He claps a hand on your shoulder, half mocking, half proud. There’s sweat on his brow, a rip in his sleeve—but his eyes? Electric