The heavy bag snapped backward under the impact of Alex's fist, chains above rattling with each blow. Sweat glistened along his shoulders, rolling down the braids tied neatly against his scalp—thick chrome hearts woven into his hair. Two years of training, two years of discipline, two years of never giving himself an excuse… and every strike that landed on that bag carried the weight of those years.
When he stopped, his chest rose and fell like a war drum. He pulled the wraps from his hands and walked toward the sauna, steam wrapping around his body like ghosts. Sitting in the suffocating heat, Alex leaned his head back, eyes closed.
He thought about growth—literal growth. Fifteen now, his height stretched to 5'5, towering above classmates who once looked down on him. His body was no longer soft with boyish fat; muscle stacked dense on his frame, carved lean from thousands of hours in Wildcat's gym. Small, yes, but mighty. His record among the gym's fighters was undeniable—fifteen matches, fifteen knockouts. Nobody lasted more than three rounds with him.
Nobody except Ted.
Wildcat.
The only wall Alex couldn't break. The man's sheer size, veteran instincts, and scars carved from both rings and alleys made him untouchable. Still, Alex never stopped climbing. Each defeat just sharpened his blade.
He thought of his parents, his real ones, gone in another life. And of the two who took him in now. Their embrace still lived inside him—warm, heavy with worry, filled with love he hadn't thought he'd feel again. That was what he trained for now. To protect them. To protect this world that had been cruel, but also merciful enough to give him another chance.
The wood of the sauna door groaned—then slammed open.
"Yo, kid!" Ted's gravelly voice boomed, dripping with that cocky humor he always carried. "What the hell were you doing in here? Thought you either keeled over or chickened out."
Alex blinked at the clock. Fifteen minutes had vanished. He hadn't even noticed.
Ted leaned against the frame, arms crossed, bandages wrapped over his knuckles like always. His shadow loomed heavy. "Come on. We got business."
The words jolted Alex's memory—the fight. His heart pounded, adrenaline already beginning to leak into his veins.
He stood, stretched, and followed.
The ring was lit under harsh gym lights. Fighters crowded around, sweat-damp towels slung over their shoulders, voices buzzing like a swarm. They knew what was coming. The boy prodigy against Gotham's iron-fisted champion.
Alex climbed through the ropes, his braids dripping from the sauna's steam, body slick with heat. Across from him, Ted cracked his neck, bouncing lightly on his toes like a man half his age.
"You ready, kid?" Ted asked, eyes sharp but not unkind.
Alex clenched his fists. "Yeah."
The bell rang.
Round One
Alex exploded forward, jabs snapping like bullets. His speed stunned even seasoned gym members watching ringside. Ted blocked, rolled, parried—but for the first thirty seconds, Alex was the storm. A hook nearly grazed Ted's jaw, forcing him to tighten his guard.
The gym roared.
But Ted wasn't champion for nothing. The moment Alex overextended, Ted punished him with a thudding body shot. The sound echoed. Alex staggered, lungs rattling, but he didn't fall. He absorbed it, adapted, shifted his stance.
Too reckless. Tighten up.
He came back sharper. Right cross, pivot, left hook. Ted blocked again, but his brows furrowed slightly. The kid wasn't just fast. He was reading, learning mid-exchange.
Ted caught him with a jab to the nose, snapping his head back. Alex's eyes watered—but he reset instantly.
"Not bad, brat," Ted muttered under his breath.
Round Two
The pace ramped. Ted pressed forward, heavy hands cutting angles. Alex ducked, weaving beneath hooks, slipping jabs with growing precision. His fists slammed into Ted's ribs, countering every mistake with animal sharpness.
But the difference was clear—Ted's power dwarfed his. Every time the veteran landed, it shook Alex's entire frame. A right uppercut rattled his jaw, sending him reeling into the ropes.
The crowd shouted.
Ted stepped in to finish, but Alex's fist fired like lightning, slamming into Ted's cheekbone. The older man grunted, momentarily surprised.
Then another. Then another. Alex unleashed a storm, fists fueled by desperation and determination.
The bell rang.
Alex collapsed onto the stool, chest heaving. Saved. Just barely.
Round Three
Ted narrowed his eyes now. No holding back. He came at Alex with cleaner precision, every punch a lesson. Jabs that measured distance, hooks that punished lapses, footwork that dictated the rhythm.
Alex bled from his lip, his side screamed where body shots dug deep. But he kept coming. His counters sharper, his defense tighter. He even slipped a right cross that earned a surprised grunt from Ted.
For the first time, Wildcat thought—This kid's pushing me. I'm using sixty… no, sixty-five percent. And he's not breaking.
The gym fell into a strange silence as if they too realized something. This wasn't just a spar. This was history being written in sweat and blood.
Round Four
Alex's legs trembled. His lungs burned. His fists felt like lead. Yet his eyes—his eyes burned hotter than ever.
Ted drove him backward, testing his endurance. Alex slipped, blocked, countered—each motion slower now, but fueled by grit. A brutal exchange left them chest to chest, sweat and blood mixing between them.
"You don't quit, huh?" Ted growled, shoving him off.
"Never," Alex spat, staggering back into stance.
Then, a wild surge—Alex unleashed a flurry. Ten punches. Fifteen. All aimed with precision, all backed by pure will. The gym erupted, men banging against the apron, shouting.
Ted blocked most, a few slipped through, but the effort drained Alex dry. His arms sagged. His body screamed betrayal.
Ted's right hook crashed against his ribs. Alex wheezed, knees buckling. Another jab snapped his head back.
Still, he stood.
Round Five
The final round.
Alex's vision blurred. Every heartbeat was a drum of agony. His fists shook as he raised them one last time.
Ted exhaled slowly, studying him. A part of him wanted to stop it. To say enough. But another part—the fighter—respected the kid too much to rob him of this round.
They collided.
Ted's combinations came heavier now, sharper, honed by years of combat. Alex dodged what he could, ate what he couldn't. His counters slowed, but the will behind them remained terrifyingly alive.
A left hook clipped Ted's chin. The gym gasped. For a heartbeat, Wildcat had been touched.
But Alex's body was breaking. Knees wobbled, lungs screamed, arms numb. Ted pressed in, one final barrage. A cross, a hook, a crushing uppercut.
Alex staggered. Tried to lift his fists. Tried to will his legs steady.
But the body had limits.
He fell.
The bell rang, though it was unnecessary. The fight was over.
Ted stood above him, chest rising, bruised and sweating. He wiped blood from his lip—blood drawn by a child.
"Good fight, kid," he muttered softly. And there was pride in his voice.
Alex's body was carried to the infirmary, his consciousness swimming. Even as pain gnawed at every nerve, a smile lingered at the corner of his mouth.
Because he knew this wasn't the end. It was only the beginning.
And Ted, watching him carried away, thought the same. Most talent I've ever seen… maybe more than anyone, even greater than that of the bat.
The gym was silent for a moment, then erupted. Cheers, disbelief, vows of harder work.
But Ted's eyes stayed on Alex. He wasn't looking at a kid anymore.
He was looking at Gotham's future.