A few days later, the Batcave echoed with controlled impact.
Dick Grayson flipped backward off a training post, landing light on his feet.
Batman advanced without hesitation.
Strike. Counter. Sweep.
Dick blocked high, pivoted, attempted a leg hook. Bruce shifted weight, neutralized the maneuver, and redirected him into a padded column.
They reset without commentary.
Weekend meant no Gotham Academy.
Which meant no excuses.
They sparred hard.
Dick was faster than most. Agile. Creative. Adaptive.
Bruce was still inevitable.
After an hour, Bruce disengaged.
"Hydrate," he said simply.
Dick rolled his shoulders. "You're distracted."
Bruce didn't answer immediately.
Instead, he crossed toward the central computer bank.
Screens flickered alive.
Red claw insignias filled the display.
Wild Claw.
Incident reports compiled over weeks.
Penthouse thefts.
Museum extractions.
High-end jewelry lifts.
Altercations with Falcone remnants, Maroni associates, Black Mask's offshoot crews.
Not random.
Calculated.
And disturbingly effective.
Bruce zoomed in on footage of a dockside fight.
Wild Claw baited the confrontation. Allowed himself to be surrounded. Let the aggression build.
Then dismantled them.
Efficient.
Not sloppy.
Not enraged.
Disciplined.
Dick stepped closer. "He doesn't fight like Catwoman."
"No," Bruce agreed quietly. "He doesn't."
Selina was fluid. Evasive. Playful even in combat.
Wild Claw was heavier. Direct. Almost predatory in a different way.
Bruce replayed a slowed clip of the figure absorbing blunt force trauma that should have fractured ribs.
No sign of impairment.
Regenerative capacity suspected.
"Meta?" Dick asked.
"Likely."
Bruce leaned back slightly, thinking.
Selina had mentioned her son.
Ryker.
Gotham Academy.
Age aligned.
The timing of Wild Claw's emergence aligned with the boy's reappearance in public schooling.
He considered patterns.
Wild Claw antagonized powerful gangs intentionally.
Thrill-seeking behavior.
Yet his training discipline was evident. Movement economy. Reaction speed. Tactical retreat awareness.
He didn't rely solely on durability.
He trained.
Even with enhanced abilities, he trained.
Bruce's jaw tightened slightly.
If the boy was Selina's…
Who was the father?
Meta genes were unpredictable. They didn't require enhanced lineage. A normal heritage could awaken it.
Still.
He saw something else.
The way Ryker held eye contact at the gala.
Measured.
Controlled.
Observant.
A flicker of himself in the boy's demeanor.
He exhaled slowly.
If Selina had a son…
And if that son was operating in Gotham's grey-to-black spectrum…
Bruce couldn't ignore it.
"I'm stepping out," he told Dick.
Dick raised a brow. "Personal?"
Bruce didn't answer.
Which meant yes.
—
The next morning, after Ryker left for school, Bruce stood inside Selina's penthouse.
Sunlight filtered through the tall windows.
Selina sat across from him at the kitchen island, wrapped in a loose robe, hair slightly tousled from sleep.
She smirked lazily.
"This is early even for you, Bruce."
He didn't smirk back.
"I need a direct answer."
Her eyes sharpened immediately.
"That sounds serious."
"Is Ryker my son?"
Silence.
For once, Selina didn't respond immediately.
She blinked.
Then laughed.
He didn't.
"What if he is?" she teased, studying his face.
Bruce paused.
Really thought.
Then straightened slightly.
"If he is, I would take responsibility. Financially. Personally. I would ensure he had structure. Guidance."
"And?"
"I don't want him operating as Wild Claw."
There it was.
No soft entry.
Straight to it.
She sighed softly.
"Of course you figured it out."
"You left patterns."
"He's not careless."
"No. He's not."
Bruce's gaze didn't waver.
She studied him a moment longer, then shook her head lightly.
"I'm messing with you."
He blinked once.
"He's not yours," she clarified. "If he were, I would have told you a long time ago."
Bruce's shoulders relaxed almost imperceptibly.
"That would complicate things," he admitted.
She snorted softly.
"You think?"
A brief flicker of memory crossed her expression.
The facility.
The screams.
She pushed it away.
"I'm not discussing his father," she added calmly. "That's personal."
Bruce didn't push.
He nodded once.
"I had to ask."
"And now?"
"I'll handle Wild Claw as I would any other variable."
Her eyes narrowed slightly at that wording.
"He's not one of your projects."
"I'm aware."
They held eye contact.
Complicated history hovering between them.
Unspoken affection.
Unresolved timing.
She leaned back slightly, exhaling.
"Well," she said lightly, tone shifting, "now that we've cleared paternity tests out of the way…"
Her fingers slid along the edge of the wine glass.
"Ryker's at school."
Bruce's brow lifted faintly.
"And?"
She stood, stepping around the island slowly.
Loose robe slipping just enough at the shoulder to suggest more than it revealed.
"You came here very serious."
She stopped in front of him.
"Maybe you need help relaxing."
He watched her carefully.
Then a small, rare smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"You're deflecting."
"Am I?"
She leaned in closer.
He stood.
Jacket removed.
Set aside.
She pressed closer, fingers grazing his chest lightly.
"You worry too much," she murmured.
"And you don't worry enough."
She kissed him.
It wasn't soft.
It wasn't hesitant.
It was familiar.
Years of tension compressed into heat.
He responded in kind.
Hands firm at her waist.
Her fingers threading into his shirt collar.
The kitchen island became incidental.
The wine glasses forgotten.
The conversation about Wild Claw dissolved into something far less strategic.
Upstairs, bedroom doors closed.
Curtains half drawn.
The kind of scene that, had Ryker walked in, would have had him turning around so fast he'd have considered relocating to another city.
Downstairs, Bruce Wayne and Selina Kyle forgot about variables.
At least for a while.
And somewhere across Gotham, in a classroom at Gotham Academy, Ryker leaned back in his chair, completely unaware that two of the most complicated adults in his life were currently making far more complicated decisions.