Frank Sinatra and Serena Williams are stuck in Flooded Subway Tunnel and forced to have a deep conversation.

"Well, this ain't exactly Vegas, is it, doll?" Sinatra sighed, adjusting his fedora, water lapping at his ankles.

"No, but I've faced tougher opponents," Serena retorted, eyeing the murky water with steely determination. "This is just another challenge, a different kind of pressure."

"Pressure? Honey, I know about pressure. Try singing live to millions, knowing one wrong note sinks you." Frank chuckled ruefully.

"Try serving a 120 mph ace with the world watching, knowing your entire career hangs on it," Serena countered, her voice low and intense.

"We both got our demons, I guess. Mine mostly involve dames and bad whiskey," Sinatra admitted, a hint of melancholy in his voice.

"Mine are about pushing myself beyond limits, proving them wrong, every single time," Serena stated, her eyes fixed on an unseen point.

"So, what keeps you going, kid? Besides the trophies, I mean," Frank asked, genuinely curious.

"The next serve, the next point, the next girl who sees me and believes she can be more," Serena responded, her voice filled with quiet passion.

"Sounds a lot like the next song, the next crowd, the next kid who hears me and dreams a little bigger," Sinatra mused, nodding thoughtfully.

"Maybe we're not so different after all, Mr. Sinatra," Serena concluded, a flicker of a smile gracing her lips.