The rain came down like broken glass, slicing through the air in cold sheets and striking the cracked Gotham pavement with a rhythmic hiss. Steam rose from the sewer grates, curling into the dim, flickering neon that barely reached this far down the alley. It twisted the shadows into ghosts that were tall and stretched things that moved when no one did. Gotham was a city that knew how to forget people. And this part of town was a graveyard of memory.
A woman staggered backward, her heels slipping on the slick concrete. Her purse had been torn from her shoulder, tossed aside like trash. Five men loomed around her, soaked to the bone and stinking of cheap liquor and cheaper intentions.
"Please," she begged, her voice barely louder than the rain. "I don't have anything else."
The lead man stepped forward, a grin peeling across his stubbled face. A knife glinted in his hand.
"C'mon, sweetheart," he said, voice low and thick with menace. "You don't gotta lie to us. We'll find something worth taking."
The others chuckled. One cracked his knuckles. Another twirled a switchblade like a street magician with a trick he'd done too many times. The alley echoed with the sound of their laughter, as if the city itself were mocking the woman's fear.
Then the laughter stopped.
"Leave her alone."
The voice was calm. Young. Not loud, but it cut through the night like a whisper through silence. The men turned, confused, and saw a figure step into the mouth of the alley.
A teenager. Maybe sixteen or seventeen. Hood up. Rain sliding off the shoulders of his jacket. A backpack slung carelessly over one shoulder like he'd just gotten out of school and wandered into the wrong part of town.
"Are you lost, junior?" one of the men barked, smirking.
"You bring your lunch money for us too?" another chimed in.
But the kid didn't move. Didn't flinch. He dropped his backpack to the ground with care, then took a step forward. Not cocky. Not even confident. Just… certain.
"I said," he repeated, softer this time, "leave her alone."
The thug closest to him snorted, then lunged.
It was over in a blink.
The kid sidestepped, grabbed the man's arm mid-swing, and flipped him hard. The man slammed into the pavement with a wet grunt and didn't get up. A second thug came swinging with brute force. The teen ducked low, jabbed him in the gut, then swept his legs. The man went down like a sack of bricks.
The others stopped laughing.
The third thug, mean-looking and broad-shouldered, came at him with a rusted pipe. The swing caught the teen on the cheek, splitting his lip and snapping his head to the side. He stumbled back, pain flashing in his eyes. He stood still for a moment, breathing hard.
Then he smiled.
Not a cocky smile. A weary one. Like this wasn't his first fight. Like he was tired of it, but knew how it would go.
"Alright," he muttered, wiping blood from his chin. "Guess we're doing this the hard way."
He moved like someone who'd learned to fight not in a dojo or a gym, but in alleys just like this. Someone who'd been hit too many times not to learn what a fist sounded like before it landed. His moves were rough, but efficient. Brutal. Practical. He didn't waste energy. He didn't show off.
One by one, the last three thugs went down. Some groaning. Some unconscious. All beaten.
Rain filled the silence that followed. The alley returned to stillness, broken only by the hiss of steam and the distant hum of traffic.
The teen turned to the woman. She hadn't moved from the wall, her hands pressed to the bricks behind her like she was holding herself up.
"You okay?" he asked.
She stared at him, eyes wide. "You're just a kid…"
He offered his hand. She took it, trembling. He helped her to her feet with care, flinching slightly as the motion tugged at his bruised shoulder. The blood on his lip hadn't stopped, but he didn't seem to notice.
He looked over at the unconscious men, then back at her.
"So were they. Once."
Before she could speak again, he picked up his backpack and turned away, disappearing into the misty dark like something born from it.
"Wait!" she called after him.
He paused.
"Thank you… What's your name?"
The teen looked back over his shoulder. A smirk played across his swollen lip.
"Terry McCoy."
And then he was gone.
The rain hadn't let up by the time Terry reached Grant's Gym—a squat, red-brick building with fogged-up windows and the kind of peeling paint that told you it had survived worse than water. A familiar hum of muffled punches and distant grunts echoed from inside. He pushed the door open.
Inside, the air was thick with sweat, leather, and the sting of disinfectant. A heavy bag thudded with each blow, and in the center ring, a broad-shouldered man in his late fifties was sparring with a younger fighter. The older man's hair was more gray than black now, but his hands were still quick, his feet still nimble. He landed a clean right hook, then gestured for the younger guy to hit the showers.
Terry dropped his backpack by the wall and watched silently, rubbing at the blood on his chin.
The old man spotted him, raised an eyebrow, and stepped out of the ring.
"The hell happened to your face?" he asked, grabbing a towel from the ropes.
Terry smirked through the pain. "You should see the other guys Uncle Ted."
Ted snorted. "That a fact?"
Terry shrugged.
"Woman was getting mugged. Five guys. I couldn't just… stand there."
Ted's expression softened. "Of course you couldn't. You're just like your mother."
Terry's hand went instinctively to the locket around his neck. He clenched it tight. Ted walked over with a first-aid kit, opened it, and gently dabbed at the cut on Terry's lip with antiseptic. Terry winced.
"So how's school?" Ted asked casually.
"Fine. Passed my algebra test."
Ted nodded approvingly. "Good. Use this." He tapped Terry's temple. "More than these." He grabbed Terry's fists and turned them palm-up. "You've got your mother's heart. Big. Brave. But you also got her recklessness."
Terry looked down at the floor, his voice quieter now. "Who is he?"
Ted froze.
"Who?" he asked, though he already knew.
"My father."
Ted's mouth was a thin line. "You've never asked before."
"I've thought about it," Terry admitted. "But sometimes when you look at me, you get this… look. Like you're carrying something."
Ted looked away for a moment. Then he sighed.
"I made your mother a promise. I'd tell you everything when you graduated high school. Two more years."
Terry nodded, swallowing the frustration that burned his throat.
"I get it," he said quietly.
Ted put a hand on his shoulder. "When the time comes, I'll tell you the truth. All of it. I swear to you."
There was silence between them for a few beats, just the sound of rain against the windows and a jump rope thwacking in the background.
Then Terry's lip twitched into a grin.
"Wanna spar, old man?"
Ted chuckled. "Old man, huh? Alright, tough guy. Don't cry when I teach you what a real punch feels like."
They climbed into the ring together, gloves on, bell ringing.