The school day had dragged on, each tick of the clock feeling like it was stretching the moments between him and what awaited after. As soon as the final bell rang, Alex was already outside, the cool Gotham wind brushing against his face. His hands were buried in his pockets as he scanned the street, phone in hand, searching for the address of the Diamond Gym. Ted had told him where to meet, but Gotham wasn't the kind of city you could wander around in aimlessly—not unless you wanted trouble to find you.
He stood on the cracked pavement, the buildings looming over him, their bricks darkened by years of grime. The sound of distant sirens echoed through the streets. As he waited for the Uber, his thoughts began to drift—back to yesterday. Back to the fight in the alley. Back to the moment Ted Grant had stepped in. And more than that… back to his parents.
Seven years. Seven years in this new life, and he hadn't forgotten his old parents—not entirely. Their faces were still there, somewhere in the corners of his mind. But lately, those memories had started to fade, like old photographs left out in the sun. And after yesterday—after that embrace—he realized something that made his chest feel heavy. His new parents… they were becoming his parents. Truly.
He could still feel his mother's arms around him, the way her voice trembled as she asked where he had been, the way his father's grip lingered on his shoulder. Even in his previous life, where hugs had been rare, he'd never felt something like that. Comfort. Warmth. Safety. He wasn't sure if that made him happy or guilty.
A sharp honk snapped him from his thoughts.
"Uber for Alex Blade?" the driver called out through the rolled-down window.
Alex blinked, pulling himself out of his stupor. "Yeah, that's me."
He slid into the backseat, the faint smell of fast food and air freshener filling his nose. The driver pulled off quickly, making his way through Gotham's twisting streets. The ride was quiet at first, the only sound being the hum of the engine and the occasional screech of tires. But as they neared the area where Diamond Gym was located, the driver's grip on the wheel seemed to tighten.
The streets here were different. Buildings boarded up, graffiti covering every inch of exposed brick, groups of men lingering on corners with eyes that followed every passing car. The closer they got, the faster the driver went—until Alex swore they were pushing 120 miles per hour just to get out of there.
When the car skidded to a stop in front of the gym, Alex barely had time to thank the man before the driver sped off like the devil was chasing him.
The gym's front door was heavy steel, scuffed and dented from years of use. As soon as Alex stepped inside, the world shifted. The air smelled of sweat, leather, and determination. The sound of fists pounding against heavy bags filled the room, the rhythm of bodies training echoing like war drums. Over thirty people moved around the gym—sparring, shadowboxing, skipping rope.
Alex's eyes widened as he took it all in. He was so focused on the scene before him that he didn't notice Ted until the man's voice cut through the noise.
"'Sup, kid. Better close your mouth before something enters it."
Alex slowly turned, staring at him with a deadpan expression. "That's… disgusting," he said flatly, already thinking about turning around and walking out.
Ted smirked sheepishly. "Alright, alright, bad joke. My bad."
He closed the distance between them and gave Alex a quick once-over. "How're the injuries?"
"I'm fine."
Ted narrowed his eyes, not buying it. "Yeah, sure. Humor me—show me your palm."
Alex hesitated but extended his hand. That had been where his biggest cut was, a long gash from the knife. Now, the skin was completely smooth.
Ted's eyes widened slightly. He had seen that cut. Seen the blood. And yet… it was gone.
"…The hell?" he muttered under his breath.
"I heal fast," Alex said, shrugging. "Always have. Doesn't matter how bad I get hurt, I'm fine after a bit."
Ted stared at him for a moment, as if trying to decide whether the kid was joking. Then, without another word, he gestured for Alex to follow.
They left the main training floor and walked into another building connected to the gym. This one was filled with equipment—not weights, but machines that looked like they were designed for testing every part of the human body. Ted walked over to a massive brass bell mounted on the wall and struck it hard. The sound rang out like a cannon blast.
Instantly, voices erupted from the main gym.
"Somebody's getting tested!"
"Who is it?"
"Hope they can handle it!"
Within minutes, the room was filled. Every fighter, trainer, and staff member crowded in, their curiosity pulling them toward the new face standing beside Ted Grant.
Ted gestured toward Alex. "Alright, listen up! This here is Alex. He's gonna run through the full pro evaluation—just like any of you did when you first walked in here. I don't wanna hear no whining when he embarrasses you."
The testing began.
First: Grip strength. Alex squeezed the dynamometer, the needle pushing past the range most adults could hit. Murmurs rippled through the crowd.
Second: Reaction speed. Sensors lit up randomly, and Alex's hands blurred as he smacked each one almost instantly. The machine's reading was better than most seasoned fighters.
Third: Punch power. Alex wrapped his hands and hit the padded sensor. The first hit was strong. The second was stronger. By the fifth, the number flashing on the monitor was enough to make a few of the fighters whistle.
Fourth: Agility. They set up a footwork drill, cones and markers forcing Alex to weave, pivot, and shift. He glided through it faster than expected, though still clearly unpolished.
Fifth: Endurance. A timed run on the treadmill, pace increasing every minute. Alex lasted far longer than most expected, but by the end, his lack of formal conditioning showed.
By the time it was over, the results were printed out and handed to Ted. He stared at them for a long moment, lips pressed into a thin line.
He'd trained dozens of fighters. Seen kids with promise. Seen freak athletes. But a seven-year-old pulling these kinds of numbers? It wasn't normal. It wasn't even close. In raw physical potential, Alex was right under where Bruce Wayne had been as a kid—and Bruce had been trained since birth.
The crowd erupted into cheers. Hands grabbed Alex, lifting him into the air, tossing him up and catching him like he had just won a championship. Some of the older fighters looked on with envy, muttering about how a kid was showing better physical stats than them.
Ted didn't join the cheering. He was writing something down—a training routine, a path forward.
As Alex was hoisted into the air again, his mind was clear. This is it. This is my new beginning.
And somewhere in the crowd, a few gym members clenched their fists, vowing to work harder. Because if a kid like him was walking in at this level, then they needed to be ready for whatever came next.