The faint hum of the infirmary light above his head was the first thing Alex heard when his consciousness returned. His body felt like it was made of lead, every muscle sore, his ribs stiff like they'd been wrapped in steel bands. For a moment, he didn't even want to move—just to lie there and breathe, feeling the dull ache wash through him like waves.
His eyes finally fluttered open, and the white ceiling came into view. The faint scent of disinfectant mixed with sweat and leather—unmistakably the smell of the Diamond Gym's infirmary.
Damn it… I lost again.
The thought cut through him sharper than any pain in his body. Slowly, Alex lifted his head just enough to see the bandages wrapped around his arms and torso. He let out a sigh and sank back into the pillow.
I shouldn't have fought under Russian rules… fifteen minutes a round? That's suicide for someone my size. My body just couldn't keep up.
His fists clenched against the sheets. The memory of the fight burned in his mind—five brutal rounds against Ted. He'd pushed harder than ever before, tasting victory in fleeting moments, only to collapse when his body betrayed him.
He rolled his head to the side, staring at the wall.
If I'd just paced myself… if I hadn't tried to match him head-on every second… I wouldn't have gone down like that.
Then a voice cut through his spiral.
"How you doing, kid?"
Alex turned his head and saw Ted sitting on a chair beside the bed, arms crossed, his old-school boxer's physique still massive even at rest. His expression was unreadable at first—but when Alex muttered:
"Horrible."
Ted barked out a laugh. Alex cracked a smile despite himself, and the heaviness in his chest loosened just a little.
"Yeah, well, horrible ain't bad. Means you're still breathing." Ted leaned back in the chair, folding his arms behind his head. "Trust me, kid, I've felt way worse after a fight."
Alex chuckled weakly. "I should've had you this time. I swear, if I hadn't kept pushing after round three or four…"
"Uh-uh," Ted cut in, shaking his head. "Don't give me that. You did good, real good. But if you kept pushing past round three? You'd be in the morgue, not the infirmary. Your body was screaming for you to quit, and you ignored it. You're stubborn, and I like that. But there's a fine line between grit and stupidity."
Alex scowled. "I'm telling you, I could've—"
"No," Ted interrupted firmly, his tone sharp enough to stop Alex cold. "Listen, kid. I was using sixty-five percent of my strength in there. Sixty-five. And I was sweating bullets. You made me work, and that ain't something I say lightly. But don't twist it into some fantasy where you had me beat. You're talented, but you're not there yet. Got it?"
Alex let the words sink in. They stung, but deep down, he knew Ted was right. He exhaled slowly, nodding. "Got it."
Silence lingered between them for a moment. The faint sound of bags being punched outside the infirmary filtered in. Ted finally leaned forward, his eyes narrowing slightly.
"You know, we've been grinding in this gym for a long time now," he said quietly.
Alex glanced at him. "Yeah. Two years."
"Two years of sweat, pain, victories, and losses." Ted rubbed his jaw, his tone shifting, losing its usual lightheartedness. "And in those two years, I've taught you everything I know about boxing. Everything. There's nothing left in my tank that'll make you stronger. Not in the ways you need."
Alex frowned. The weight in Ted's voice made his chest tighten.
"What do you mean?"
Before Ted could answer, something changed. His eyes shifted, catching a glint of light in the dim infirmary. They almost seemed to glow, reflecting something Alex couldn't see. Slowly, Ted turned his gaze toward the far left wall.
Alex followed his eyes—and froze.
There, sitting casually in the corner, was a man Alex swore hadn't been there a moment ago. He was older, easily in his eighties, with sharp features weathered by time. A cigar rested between his lips, smoke curling lazily toward the ceiling. He wore a dark trench coat draped over a tailored suit, and his presence radiated an aura so heavy, so dark, that the very air felt heavier.
Alex's heart skipped a beat.
No way…
"Alex," Ted said, his voice calm but serious. "This here is Henri Ducard."
Alex's stomach dropped. His eyes widened, his mind spinning.
Henri Ducard…? No, no, no. That's Ras al Ghul's alias. His mentor, his mask. Is this him? Did Ted just invite a demon into my life?
The man smirked, his cigar glowing as he drew in a breath. "Kid looks like he's seen a ghost."
Alex swallowed hard. His instincts screamed danger.
Ted's voice grounded him again. "Relax. He ain't here to hurt you. He's here because I asked him to be."
Alex whipped his head toward Ted. "You what? Do you know who this guy is? What he's capable of?"
"I know exactly who he is," Ted said evenly. "And I know he's the only one who can take you further. I didn't want this for you at first, kid. I wanted to keep you in the ring, safe, away from the madness out there in Gotham. But after seeing you—what you can do, how fast you heal, how much potential you've got—I realized boxing ain't enough. Gotham ain't kind. If you ain't strong enough to protect yourself, you die. It's that simple."
The words hit Alex like a punch to the gut. He thought of his parents—his new parents. Their warmth, their love. That embrace that made him feel whole again after seven years of holding onto ghosts.
Ted's voice softened. "I can't make you a protector, Alex. I can make you a fighter, sure. But Gotham… Gotham demands more. And Henri here, for all his shadows, for all his history—he's the best I've ever met in this world. He can make you ready for what's out there."
Alex turned back to Henri, his chest tightening. The man had been silent, just watching, smoke curling around his weathered face.
Finally, Henri stood, straightening with a grace that defied his age. His eyes locked onto Alex's, piercing straight through him.
"You're silent," Henri said, his voice low, carrying an accent Alex couldn't quite place. "Looks like you saw a ghost."
Alex clenched his jaw, saying nothing.
Henri continued. "I've seen your results from the tests Ted ran. Impressive. Unbelievable, even. You're wasted in just a boxing ring. And as it happens, I have a son here in Gotham. I was planning to train him, but perhaps… you could benefit as well." He exhaled smoke, his expression unreadable. "Ted's an old friend. If he believes you're worth it, then I'll see what you can do. But know this—I won't force you. The decision is yours."
The room felt suffocatingly silent. Alex's mind raced.
Henri Ducard. Ras al Ghul. Or maybe… maybe he really is just Ducard. Maybe they're not the same man. He feels too real, too grounded. And Ted knows him—that wouldn't be possible if he were Ra's, not unless he'd slipped. But still…
He thought of his parents again. Their faces. Their love. His old family, fading in his memory like mist, replaced by the warmth of his new one.
If I'm going to protect them… if I'm going to make sure nothing ever takes them from me… then I need this. I need more than boxing. I need to be stronger.
Alex finally met Henri's gaze. His fists clenched, his heart steady.
"I accept," he said firmly. "It's time to start a new life."
Henri's lips curled into the faintest smirk. "Then prepare yourself. It'll be hell."
Ted leaned back in his chair, exhaling deeply. There was pride in his eyes, but also worry—a man who had just handed a boy to the fire, knowing it was the only way.
Alex lay back against the bed, his heart pounding, the weight of his choice settling in. For better or worse, there was no turning back.