Y/N has been racing since she was twelve.

Not because she wanted to. Because her mom's addiction wasn't exactly cheap, and the bills weren't gonna pay themselves. So she did what any desperate kid with a lead foot and zero options would do.

She got good. Really good.

Four years later, she's the best damn street racer Gotham's ever seen. No name. No face. Just a blur of headlights and a trail of smoke that leaves her competition eating asphalt.

And tonight? Tonight she just won another bag.

The meet's in an abandoned parking structure on the edge of the industrial district. Graffiti covers every wall, the air smells like gasoline and bad decisions, and the crowd's still buzzing from her last race. Someone's blasting shitty trap music from a speaker in the trunk of a Civic. It's grimy. It's loud. It's home.

She's counting her cash—a fat stack of hundreds that's gonna cover rent and then some—when the crowd goes quiet.

Not the good kind of quiet.

The kind that makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up.

Y/N looks at the stack of cash in her hand. Then at the stranger. Then back at the cash.