Morgan rolled his shoulders as he stepped into the ring. His grin hadn't faded, but Alex knew the look in his friend's eyes—a hidden seriousness beneath the banter. For all his jokes, Morgan wasn't careless. Henri had raised him differently.
"You ready, Dad?" Morgan asked, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet.
Henri tilted his head, expression unreadable. "If that is what you wish to call it."
Morgan smirked. "Cool. Just don't cry when I land one."
The two clashed. Morgan's style was a strange mixture—Henri's precision blended with his own flair, as if rebellion had stitched itself into his movements. He moved like water, smooth and unpredictable, where Henri was stone, unshakable and exact.
Alex sat slumped against the ropes, every bruise screaming. Yet he watched with hungry eyes, memorizing each shift, each counter, each feint.
Henri struck first—a low kick, sharp and direct. Morgan blocked, spun, answered with a jab. Henri brushed it aside like swatting a fly, then came forward, relentless.
The sound of blows filled the gym, sharp cracks of fist against forearm, foot against shin. Sweat shone on Morgan's brow, but he never stopped smiling.
"You're slow today, old man," he teased, ducking a hook and sliding in close. His fist clipped Henri's jaw—not a full hit, but enough to prove he'd found a gap.
Henri's eyes narrowed. He shifted, adjusted, and then his pace changed. Faster. Sharper. His hands blurred, forcing Morgan onto the back foot.
Morgan blocked one strike, two, then grunted as a third slammed into his ribs. He hissed, teeth clenched, but refused to falter.
Alex's fingers twitched against the mat. He wanted to yell something—warning, encouragement, anything—but the air was still burning in his chest.
Henri pressed, a storm of precise violence. Morgan ducked under a hook, pivoted, and kicked low. Henri checked it with his shin, then countered with a backhand that would have dropped most fighters. Morgan absorbed it, staggering but refusing to fall.
And then, somehow, he found an opening. Henri lunged, overcommitted by the smallest margin, and Morgan slipped aside, ramming his shoulder into his father's chest. Henri stumbled back half a step.
"Ha!" Morgan barked, grinning through blood at his lip. "That's one."
Henri's face did not change. But his eyes… they gleamed faintly.
The spar continued. Minutes stretched like hours. Alex watched as Morgan endured, every strike he absorbed weighing heavy, every counterstrike thrown with grit. He wasn't flawless. He wasn't Henri's equal. But he was relentless.
And when the round finally ended—when Henri raised his hand, calling the match—Morgan was still standing. Battered, bruised, but standing.
Alex managed a rasp of a laugh, even as his ribs burned. "Not bad… for a clown."
Morgan flopped down beside him, sweat dripping. "Please. I looked great out there. Way better than your choke-and-choke routine."
Alex rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth tugged upward. Even broken, even humiliated, Morgan had a way of pulling the sting out of it.
Henri left them no such comfort. He only gestured, curt, toward the side room. "Infirmary. Now."
The infirmary was a cramped little space in the back of the gym—half storage, half medical bay. The cot squeaked under Alex's weight as he lay back, breath still ragged. Morgan sprawled in the chair beside him, humming some off-key tune.
The sting of antiseptic bit into Alex's side as he dabbed at a split in his skin. His reflection in the cracked mirror above the counter showed more than bruises—it showed exhaustion, the weight of years training under a man who treated pain as language.
Alex stared at himself, thoughts running heavy. Five years. And still I can't match him. Still I fall short. But… I'm closer. Today, I made him move. Today, I forced him to adjust. I'm not the same child anymore. I can't be.
His mind drifted to Morgan. How easily he laughed, how he bore Henri's cruelty with a grin, how he somehow made the darkness of this training less suffocating. Alex envied him, in some ways. Envied his ability to endure without carrying the same weight in his chest.
And Henri himself… Alex hated him, feared him, respected him all at once. The man was a blade, forged and honed to the sharpest edge. And yet, he was also a wall Alex could not climb. Not yet.
The silence pressed heavy until Morgan broke it, as always.
"You were good today," he said simply. "Scary good. When you got him in that chokehold? I thought for a second you might actually—" he whistled. "Man, I almost cheered."
Alex snorted, though his ribs protested. "Didn't last."
"Doesn't matter. You made him feel it." Morgan leaned back, hands laced behind his head. "That's what training is, dude. Little victories. You keep stacking 'em until one day he's the one on the floor."
Alex considered the words. He wanted to believe them.
Later, when the bruises were bound and the sweat washed off, Henri gathered them once more on the mat. His gaze swept over both boys—calm, unreadable.
"You lasted," he said at last. His tone carried no warmth, but neither did it carry disdain. "You endured. You struck back. You forced me to adjust."
Alex blinked. Was that… praise?
Henri's eyes locked on him. "Five years ago, you were nothing. A frightened child. Today, you forced my hand. You made me use more than routine. That is not victory. But it is progress."
The words sank into Alex like water into parched soil. They weren't soft. They weren't gentle. But they meant more than anything else Henri could have said.
Henri turned to Morgan next. "And you—"
Morgan smirked before Henri even finished. "Yeah, yeah, I know. Best son ever. Amazing fighter. Totally your favorite. Got it."
Henri's lips twitched. Just barely. Almost a smile.
Then his gaze returned to them both. His voice, cold as steel, filled the gym.
"You are not warriors yet. But today… you began to resemble them."
Silence followed, thick, electric.
Alex's chest swelled, not with pride, but with something deeper. Gratitude. Resolve. For five years, Henri's approval had been a phantom, always out of reach. And now—now he had touched it, however briefly.
He bowed his head, fists clenched at his sides. I won't stop here. I can't. Gotham won't forgive weakness. Henri won't forgive weakness. I'll become stronger, no matter how many times I fall.
Morgan leaned close, whispering with that same irreverent grin. "Told you, dude. One day. One day we'll floor him."
Alex allowed himself the faintest smile. "Yeah. One day."
And for the first time in five years, hope didn't feel like a dream. It felt like a promise.