The air in Grant's Gym smelled like ghosts of sweat, old leather, and yesterday's pain. Punching bags hung like sleeping giants, their canvas stained and scuffed from a hundred fists. The lights overhead flickered now and then, buzzing like tired hornets. The ring, patched and re-roped over the years, creaked with every shift of weight.
Ted stood inside it, rolling his shoulders, arms already taped and ready. His frame was stocky and scarred, but solid. His eyes, sharp and steel-colored, never left the kid across from him.
Terry bounced on the balls of his feet. His hoodie sleeves were pushed up to his elbows, and the bruising on his cheek from earlier was already darkening, but he moved like it didn't hurt—like none of it ever did.
"You sure you're ready for this?" Ted asked, flexing his neck side to side. "I'm not pulling punches just because your mom used to make me cry at Monopoly."
Terry grinned, sliding in his mouthguard. "Yeah? You still cry when someone mentions Boardwalk."
Ted snorted. "That was a tactical retreat."
The bell rang. And Terry came in fast.
He jabbed with the kind of speed that came from instinct, not training. The kind born from surviving too many street fights, not classroom drills. Ted caught the first, deflected the second, but the third tagged his shoulder clean.
"Not bad," Ted muttered, circling. "Been sparring with those East End punks again?"
"Only when they try to jump me."
Terry ducked a left cross, feinted low, and threw a right hook that cracked against Ted's jaw with surprising force. Ted blinked and smiled.
"Alright, alright," he said, squaring his stance. "You wanna come at Uncle Ted like a pro? Let's see if you've got more than speed."
He moved faster than a man his age should, stepping inside Terry's guard and throwing an elbow right into his gut. The breath left Terry in a grunt, and he stumbled back, nearly dropping to a knee.
"Cheap shot," he wheezed, spitting his mouthguard out for a moment.
Ted laughed. "Lesson one: there's no cheap in the ring. Just slow."
Terry came back swinging. He ducked another hook, twisted under Ted's arm, and launched a spinning back kick that slammed into Ted's ribs. The old man stumbled into the ropes, grunting.
"You been watching kung fu movies again?" he asked, rubbing his side.
Terry grinned, panting. "Nightwing. Dude's got moves."
Ted's eyes narrowed. "Yeah? Shame he never beat me either."
He surged forward, fists flying in a flurry of jabs and crosses. Terry blocked the first, dodged the second, but the third clipped his chin. The fourth sent him sprawling.
For a moment, Terry just lay there. Lights spinning above him. He tasted sweat and blood and something close to regret.
Then Ted was standing over him, a hand extended.
"Get up, slugger. You almost had me."
Terry grabbed his hand, but instead of standing, he yanked hard, trying to sweep Ted's legs out from under him. It almost worked. Ted stumbled, but caught himself with a boot planted firm and flipped Terry back down with a shoulder toss.
"Dirty!" Terry groaned.
"You started it," Ted grinned, wiping sweat from his brow. "And slick move. You're getting sharper."
They sat against opposite ropes, breathing hard. The gym buzzed around them, quiet except for the hum of old lights and distant traffic through fogged windows.
Ted tossed Terry a water bottle. "You keep fighting like that, and in a year or two, you might actually beat me."
"Or you'll be too old to stand," Terry said between gulps.
Ted chuckled. "Kid, I was breaking noses when your mom was still hiding your baby teeth in jars."
Terry smiled, but then glanced at the clock. "Alright, I gotta bounce. School tomorrow."
Ted nodded, pulling Terry into a quick hug. "Take care of yourself, kid. World doesn't fight fair."
"I never do either," Terry said with a grin as he grabbed his bag and slipped out the door.
The night had gone from drizzle to downpour.
Terry jogged down the cracked sidewalk, hoodie pulled over his head, but the rain still managed to soak him through. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a wrinkled receipt, and cursed under his breath.
Rent money. He forgot to grab the cash from his mom's old account.
He changed course, making his way to the 24-hour Gotham City Bank. It was mostly empty, save for an old woman at the far ATM and a security guard sipping coffee by the doors.
Terry waited in line, head down, tapping at his phone when the glass doors burst open with a bang.
"EVERYBODY ON THE GROUND!" a voice roared.
Gunfire cracked up into the ceiling tiles. The guard didn't even get his weapon out before he was tackled and beaten down.
Terry hit the floor, heart hammering.
Eight men. All in black. Balaclavas. Gloves. Assault rifles. They moved like they'd done this before and they were tight formation, brutal efficiency. Terry counted them all. AKs. One had a sawed-off. One was already working on the teller's vault keypad.
He scowled. If he moved now, he'd get cut in half. No angles. No cover. No chance.
Then the lights went out.
Darkness swallowed the bank whole.
Screams erupted in the dark. Someone fired blindly. Glass shattered. Sparks flew.
Shadows moved like things with minds of their own.
Then came the sound.
Thud.
Crack.
A scream. A snap. A body hitting the floor with a sound that didn't belong in a place with hope.
Terry's eyes adjusted just enough to catch a blur of movement darting across the far wall. Not a man. A shadow in motion. Controlled chaos.
Someone flicked on a flashlight.
A gloved hand shot from the dark, yanked the robber into the black, and the light vanished with him.
"WHAT THE HELL IS THAT?!" someone screamed.
Another was hurled into the bulletproof glass behind the tellers, hitting it with a force that left a bloody smear and a spiderweb crack. Terry flinched.
This wasn't a rescue.
It was a reckoning.
The leader tried to rally them. "Stay tight! Eyes on every corner!"
Too late.
A Batarang whistled through the dark, striking one man's rifle and disarming him. He barely screamed before a black gauntlet caved his ribs in with a crunch.
Another tried to run.
A cape snaked around his neck from above. He was yanked into the rafters with a choked gasp, his rifle clattering to the tile.
Terry didn't move. Couldn't.
A body was flung across the room, smashing into a marble counter with enough force to split it down the middle. Blood pooled beneath the man's twitching legs.
"He's just a man!" one robber whimpered.
"No."
The voice came from the dark.
Cold. Brutal. Mechanical. Inhuman.
"I'm not."
Terry's blood turned to ice. He'd heard stories. Myths. Whispers in East End corners and over cracked phones passed between dealers and muscle.
But nothing ,nothing prepared him for this.
From the smoke, from the shadows, from the nightmare, he emerged.
Batman.
Armor black as midnight. Cape torn at the edges. Gauntlets slick with blood. Eyes burning white in the dark like judgment itself. He didn't move like a man. He stalked like a predator.
The last robber turned to flee. He got two steps before a Batarang sank into his calf and he went down screaming.
Then it was quiet.
Only the sounds of groans and gasping pain. Shattered glass and pounding rain.
Terry slowly pushed himself up. Every one of the robbers was still alive but just barely. One was out cold. Two looked like they might never walk again.
Batman stood in the center of it all.
He turned his head, scanning the room. His gaze found Terry who was just a kid, crouched near the ATM, frozen.
Their eyes met.
And for a moment, Terry thought he saw… nothing.
No comfort. No heroism. Just cold, relentless efficiency.
Then Batman was gone. He vanished into the shadows, like a ghost that never wanted to be seen again.
Terry stood.
His legs trembled. His breath was ragged.
He looked at the wreckage at the broken bodies, the blood, the fear still hanging in the air.
"What the hell just happened…" he whispered.
But deep down, he already knew.
Gotham's devil had come out to play.