Ryker Kyle did not move like other children.
At three, he climbed the bookshelves and hung upside down just to see if the world felt different inverted.
At four, he asked his martial arts instructor why adults telegraphed their punches before throwing them.
At five, he corrected a gymnastics coach on balance distribution because he "felt the weight shifting wrong."
Selina never called him special.
She called him observant.
But she noticed.
Selina Kyle raised him like he was hers alone. Because he was. She did not track down Slade Wilson. She did not inform him. She did not care whether he knew.
Whatever Slade was, whatever reputation he carried across the underworld, that belonged to him.
Ryker belonged to her.
She built his childhood carefully.
Private schooling. Structured activities. Boundaries.
Martial arts at five. Not to make him a weapon, but to teach him stillness inside motion.
Gymnastics and acrobatics at six. He excelled immediately. His body adapted to physical instruction unnaturally fast. Muscle memory locked in almost instantly. Balance was instinctive. Reaction time sharp.
Parkour soon after.
He flowed over obstacles like gravity had signed a truce.
Selina noticed something else, though.
He didn't tire.
Not like other children.
He could train for hours and still have energy to burn. Bruises faded faster than expected. Scrapes sealed clean within a day. His stamina bordered on absurd.
Slade's blood.
It wasn't speculation. She knew what Slade was rumored to be. Enhanced beyond baseline human limits. Strength. Reflexes. Processing speed. Tactical cognition.
Ryker showed hints of all of it.
At seven, he was already stronger than boys twice his size. Not bulky. Not obvious. Just dense. Efficient. Controlled.
And his mind…
He watched people.
Analyzed them.
He once asked Selina, "Why does Mr. Grant always stand with his right side closer to the wall?"
She blinked.
"He carries a weapon on his left," Ryker answered before she could respond. "He's protecting it."
He wasn't guessing.
He was observing.
Selina didn't discourage it.
She refined it.
"Observation is power," she told him one night while they watched Gotham from the balcony. "But power without discipline gets sloppy."
He grinned at that. "Sloppy gets caught."
She smirked. "Exactly."
Everything changed the night he fell.
It was simple.
Stupid.
Seven year olds and midnight hunger.
The penthouse was dark, city lights bleeding faintly through the glass. Ryker crept from his room with exaggerated stealth, convinced he was invisible.
He wasn't.
But he was quiet enough.
He padded toward the staircase, aiming for the kitchen below. He wanted chocolate. Specifically the expensive kind Selina kept out of reach.
He stepped down.
Sock met polished marble.
Friction failed.
The world tilted.
He fell.
Not gracefully.
Not controlled.
He hit hard. Shoulder. Back. Hip. The sound echoed through the open space.
Pain flared white hot.
Something cracked.
His arm bent wrong.
For a split second, his enhanced biology kicked in first. Muscles tightened. Heart rate surged. Adrenaline flooded his system with unnatural efficiency.
He could feel it.
His body reacting.
Repair beginning.
Then he saw movement at the top of the staircase.
A tall silhouette.
Still.
Watching.
In the dark, half conscious from impact, his brain didn't register mother.
It registered threat.
Fear detonated inside him.
His heartbeat spiked violently.
And something deeper answered.
There was a tearing sensation in his hands.
Not metal.
Not artificial.
Three pale bone claws punched through the skin between the knuckles of each fist with a visceral, organic snap.
Six blades.
White. Curved. Natural.
Ryker screamed.
Not in rage.
In terror.
He stared at his hands as blood dotted the marble beneath him.
"What—what is that?" he choked.
Selina moved instantly, descending the stairs in controlled speed.
When she reached him, she did not panic.
She assessed.
Claws. Bone structure extended beyond the metacarpals. Biological. Not external augmentation.
Interesting.
Very interesting.
"Ryker," she said calmly.
He looked at her like she might disappear.
"They came out of me," he whispered.
"Yes."
His breathing was erratic. Adrenaline flooding. Muscles coiled instinctively.
She noticed something else.
His arm.
The one that had bent wrong seconds ago.
It was already straightening.
The bone sliding back into place beneath the skin with subtle, sickening shifts. The bruising fading in real time.
Healing accelerated.
Not instant.
But rapid.
Slade's physical enhancements were there. Strength. Density. Reflexive muscle control.
But this regeneration?
This was something else layered on top.
"Breathe," Selina instructed.
He tried.
The claws trembled.
"I don't want them," he said, eyes glassy.
"Yes, you do," she corrected softly. "You're just scared of them."
She crouched, deliberately placing her hand around one of his wrists despite the exposed bone blades inches from her skin.
"You're not in danger," she said evenly. "You're not broken. You're powerful."
He swallowed.
"How do I make them stop?"
"You decide."
He squeezed his eyes shut.
Focused.
The claws resisted for a moment, muscles unsure how to reverse the extension.
Then slowly, they slid back beneath his skin with a wet, retracting sound.
The wounds sealed almost immediately. Skin knitting closed. Blood vanishing like it had been erased.
Ryker stared at his hands.
"No scars," he whispered.
Selina exhaled quietly.
Her son had inherited Slade Wilson's enhanced physiology.
Strength beyond baseline human.
Reflexes that outpaced most adults.
Accelerated processing speed.
And on top of that…
A meta-gene mutation granting regenerative healing and retractable bone weapons.
Combined.
That was why he had felt denser than other children.
Why he learned movements too quickly.
Why fatigue barely touched him.
He wasn't just enhanced.
He was layered.
Forged from two extremes.
She pulled him into her arms despite the blood on the marble.
"You're still you," she murmured into his hair.
He clutched her tightly.
"I thought you were a monster," he admitted shakily.
She huffed softly. "Please. I'd wear better boots."
He laughed through tears.
The next morning, the staircase was spotless.
But everything had changed.
Selina didn't call doctors.
Didn't contact Slade.
Didn't inform anyone.
Instead, she adjusted.
Training shifted from casual discipline to intentional control.
Breathing exercises every morning.
Strength regulation drills.
Controlled claw extension and retraction practice in a reinforced spare room.
He hated it at first. The frustration. The unpredictability.
"I don't like them," he said one evening after they refused to retract smoothly.
"You will," she replied. "Because they're yours."
He inherited Slade's physical power.
He inherited Selina's agility and instinct.
But these claws?
This regeneration?
That was Ryker.
Entirely his own.
By the end of that month, he could summon the claws without panic.
By the end of the next, he could hold them steady without shaking.
And somewhere across Gotham, Batman paused mid patrol, sensing subtle patterns in crime analytics. A new anomaly forming in the city's future.
He didn't know it yet.
But Gotham had just grown something rare.
A predator raised by a cat.
With the blood of Deathstroke in his veins.
And claws no one had ever seen before.
Seven years old.
And already evolving.