Five years. Five winters, five summers, five seasons of bruises and sweat carved into his bones. Gotham had not grown kinder in that time, and neither had Henri Ducard. The city outside the gym rotted by the day, but in here, time was measured not in minutes or hours but in blows received, lessons burned into muscle and marrow.
Alex had changed. The boy that once stumbled into this world, scared and reckless, was now something sharper, forged in long silence and harder truths. His body carried scars, but his eyes—his eyes carried something else. Resolve. A quiet, cutting will.
Henri stood across from him, hands folded loosely behind his back. He looked ageless and old all at once. The kind of old that carried the weight of centuries. His voice still carried that dry rasp, the voice of a man who had seen too much and chosen to remember all of it.
"Again," Henri said, the single word cutting through the heavy air of the gym.
Alex moved in, fists up, shoulders tight. They had sparred more times than he could count, each fight a small death, each session a burial of pride. Yet each loss had sharpened him, pulled him further from the reckless child he once was.
Their feet whispered across the mat. Alex swung, sharp and fast, but Henri wasn't there. He never seemed to be. Every strike met air, every step found shadow. Henri slipped around his guard like smoke, always a breath out of reach, always waiting for the moment Alex's rhythm cracked.
"You've improved," Henri murmured, sidestepping a left hook that would have broken a normal man's jaw. His eyes glittered, amused, merciless. "But still…"
The words hung as his hand flicked forward—just a tap against Alex's chest, but the force behind it sent him staggering. Henri could have crushed him. Could have killed him. And that was the point.
As the spar dragged, Henri's words grew sharper, not just teaching but cutting, digging beneath skin.
"You still hesitate. Still cling to control." His voice was low, mocking. "Five years, and I've counted 33,569 moments you could have died under my hand. Do you understand? In that span, I could have ended you in more ways than you can imagine. Slit your throat. Broken your spine. Put you in the ground before you ever had a chance to blink."
Alex tightened his guard, jaw clenched. Henri circled him like a predator, voice steady, piercing.
"And do you know why you're still alive?" Henri asked. He feinted, then struck—lightning-fast, stopping just before Alex's temple. "Because I let you live. Because you are still a student. Not yet a warrior."
The words burned, but Alex kept silent, kept his stance. Henri hated silence more than excuses, and Alex had learned that.
So Henri pressed harder, voice dripping venom. "Tell me, boy—what would you do if I walked into your parents' home tonight? What if I slit their throats while they slept? What if I carved your mother's scream into your memory and left your father broken on the floor?"
The words cracked something in Alex.
He had heard Henri say cruel things before. Henri tested everyone, prodded wounds to see where the weakness bled out. But this—this was different. His parents were not pawns in some lesson. They were his anchor, his light.
The rage came before he even realized it. Henri's hand lashed forward, quick as a striking viper, fingers angled to seize Alex by the hair. He expected the boy to flinch, to falter, to lash out blindly. He expected victory.
But his hand closed on air.
Henri's eyes widened the faintest fraction before he felt it—a coil of pressure around his throat, an arm locking him in place, muscles tightening with fury. Alex had slipped past his strike, faster than Henri had judged possible, twisting behind him in one fluid motion.
The chokehold was merciless, his forearm biting against Henri's windpipe. Alex's voice was low, quiet, but it burned with restrained fire.
"Don't overstep your boundaries."
For a heartbeat, silence filled the gym. The air thickened. Alex's pulse thundered in his ears, but his grip did not waver. He meant it.
And then—Henri laughed. A deep, grating sound, equal parts approval and mockery.
In the next instant, Henri twisted. His body moved with that same unearthly precision, like a man whose bones knew violence better than breath. He rolled, caught Alex's weight, and slammed him hard onto the mat.
The impact cracked through Alex's ribs, the air rushing from his lungs in a painful burst. He coughed, spit flecking the floor as his body curled.
Henri loomed over him, eyes cold, voice steady as iron.
"You don't have the ability to decide that."
Alex wheezed, chest heaving, vision swimming in pain and fury. For a moment, he wanted nothing more than to lunge again, to throw himself back into the fight. To prove something—anything.
But he stopped. His pride screamed, but his instincts told him the truth. He had been baited. Rage had pulled him off balance, made him reckless. Henri had dragged him into his rhythm, then torn it apart.
The mat tasted of sweat and dust. Alex's fists curled, nails biting into his palms. His chest rose and fell, ragged, the weight of Henri's words echoing inside him.
That was when a voice—smug, amused—cut through the silence.
"Rage-baited you like a motherfucker, huh?"
Alex turned his head, eyes narrowing at the speaker. Morgan leaned casually against the ropes, a grin plastered across his face.
"Shut up," Alex muttered, though his voice carried more bite than usual. He tried to push himself up, every muscle screaming.
Morgan chuckled. "Nah, nah, I'm serious. You walked right into it. He had you by the throat the moment you let that temper flare." He tilted his head, smirk never fading. "Also, you landed funny. Did you just take a hit to the—"
Alex glared. "Morgan. Where's your mom? Maybe she can help patch me up. Pretty sure I got hurt in the crotch."
Morgan's grin widened, laughter spilling out. "Ha! Ha! Very funny, little miss petty. You're limping like a grandpa and that's your comeback? Pathetic."
Henri's voice cut across the banter, sharp and commanding. "Stop stalling, Morgan. Get in."
Morgan groaned dramatically, throwing his hands up. "Yeah, yeah, I'm coming." He shot Alex a wink as he slid through the ropes. "Try not to cry too loud while you're watching."
Alex sank against the corner post, chest still burning. Yet as he watched Morgan move, a thought pressed quietly against his mind—how strange it all was. Henri Ducard, the cold, calculating specter of a man, had a son. A son who was his opposite in almost every way: loud, joking, warm in a way Henri had never been.
And yet, despite everything, Morgan had become Alex's closest friend.