Thirteen felt older than it should have.
Ryker stood in the reinforced training room barefoot, palms pressed against the cool mat, breath steady. The scars were gone. They always vanished. His body erased evidence like it resented weakness.
But his mind remembered.
The chair.The restraints.The heat inside his bones.
Promethium had fused fully by now. What had once been bone claws were no longer pale ivory. When he extended them, three gleaming metallic blades slid from each hand with a smooth, surgical whisper. Dark silver, faintly reflective. Stronger than before. Heavier.
He felt them even when they were retracted.
A constant awareness.
"I wasn't strong enough," he said quietly.
Selina Kyle leaned against the wall, arms crossed. "You were ten."
"I was weak."
Her jaw tightened. That word cut deeper than any blade.
He didn't look at her when he spoke. He stared at the far wall, eyes calculating, distant.
"If I had reacted faster… if I had broken their armor… if I—"
"Enough." Her voice cracked like a whip, but not cruelly. Firm.
Silence.
He finally met her gaze.
The difference hurt her.
At seven he had been bright and wild, showing off landings and grinning too wide. At ten he had been terrified and shaking in her arms.
At thirteen, he was quiet.
Measured.
Still.
He carried himself like someone older than the number attached to him.
He had asked for more training.
Not out of ambition.
Out of fear.
"I need to be stronger," he said again.
Selina exhaled slowly.
She saw it. The way trauma had carved new lines into him. The way he flinched at sudden loud noises even though his body could tank explosions.
She nodded once.
"Then we train."
Homeschooling had become routine. Structured curriculum in the mornings. Physical discipline in the afternoons. Meditation at night.
And every now and then, a knock would echo through the penthouse balcony doors.
Slade Wilson never stayed long.
He would arrive unannounced. Speak little. Assess much.
"You're slower on your left rotation," Slade remarked once during a spar.
Ryker corrected mid-combo.
Slade adjusted instantly and swept his leg out.
Ryker recovered without falling.
A flicker of approval.
"Again."
Their sessions were brutal but controlled. Slade did not coddle. He did not comfort. He sharpened.
Selina watched every time.
And hated how useful he was.
By fourteen, Ryker's frame had lengthened. Lean muscle layered efficiently across his body. His reflexes were frightening. His durability beyond most enhanced humans.
He tested it privately once.
Dropped a dumbbell on his forearm from shoulder height.
The bruise faded in minutes.
The pain lingered longer.
He flexed his hand.
Claws extended.
Metal, not bone.
Promethium fused seamlessly through his skeleton. They were no longer just weapons. They were structural.
He felt… grounded by them.
Heavy.
Unbreakable.
At fifteen, something softened again.
Not completely.
But enough.
He laughed more. Teased his mother occasionally. The old cocky grin resurfaced in flashes.
He was still mature beyond his years. Calculated in speech. Observant in ways adults found unsettling.
But he wasn't hollow anymore.
He trained on his own now. Early mornings before Selina woke. Timed sprint drills across rooftops. Weighted resistance routines. Precision claw control exercises.
He wanted control and speed to be instinct.
He refused to ever feel helpless again.
Then one night, scrolling through videos on his tablet, he stumbled onto something unexpected.
Motocross.
Engines screaming across dirt tracks. Riders airborne against sunsets. Precision timing over jumps. Risk balanced with control.
He leaned forward.
It wasn't just reckless.
It was skill.
Balance. Speed. Reaction time.
He watched dozens of videos. Analyzed body positioning mid-air. Studied throttle timing.
He felt something stir.
Excitement.
The old spark.
The next morning, he approached Selina casually.
"Hypothetically," he began, leaning against the kitchen counter.
Her eyes narrowed immediately. "Dangerous word."
"There's a motocross track outside Gotham."
She blinked.
"That's specific."
"I did research."
Of course he did.
He expected resistance.
Instead, she saw it.
That light in his eyes.
Curiosity.
Interest that wasn't fueled by trauma or training or revenge.
Just… joy.
She didn't hesitate.
"Let's go shopping."
They visited high-end extreme sports retailers. Helmet with reinforced composite shell. Impact-rated body armor. Gloves. Boots. Goggles.
Selina didn't cut corners.
Then the bike.
She bought him the best machine money could legally justify. Sleek. Responsive. Powerful.
Ryker ran his hand over the frame like it was something sacred.
Back home, he tweaked it.
Not illegally.
Not recklessly.
Precision tuning. Adjusted suspension ratios. Calibrated throttle sensitivity. Optimized for his weight and reaction timing.
He was very, very smart. Instructors had long noted it. High pattern recognition. Mechanical aptitude. Advanced problem solving.
He applied all of it.
Two weeks later, he rolled onto a Gotham dirt track.
The first lap was rough.
He misjudged a berm. Overcorrected. Wiped out.
The crash hurt.
He stood up almost immediately.
The pain faded quickly. The embarrassment lasted longer.
He didn't complain.
He watched other riders. Studied their posture. Observed throttle control before jumps.
Then he emulated.
Gradually, rhythm formed.
Throttle. Shift. Lean. Launch.
Airborne.
Landing smoother.
After two weeks, he wasn't just surviving the track.
He was carving it.
For a newcomer, he was unnervingly good.
He focused on fundamentals. Speed control. Clean laps. Timed runs.
He recorded his lap times meticulously.
Control first.
Flash later.
Selina watched from the sidelines sometimes, sunglasses hiding her expression.
He looked normal out there.
Just a teenage boy chasing dirt and adrenaline.
It healed something inside her.
One evening, curiosity got the better of him.
He had always suspected.
Selina moved too fluidly. Knew too much. Had too many "business meetings" that aligned with Gotham's crime reports.
He followed her once.
Quiet.
Patient.
He saw her unlock a hidden compartment.
Saw the leather.
The goggles.
The whip.
Catwoman.
He waited until she returned.
"Want to tell me something?" he asked casually.
She paused.
Studied him.
Then sighed.
"I stopped when you were younger," she admitted. "After what happened. I needed to focus on you."
"And now?"
"You're stronger. More stable."
He nodded slowly.
He wasn't angry.
If anything, he understood too well.
"It looks fun," he admitted.
She smirked faintly. "It is."
He went to his room afterward without another word.
Closed the door.
Sat at his desk.
And pulled out a notebook.
He opened to a blank page.
Then began sketching.
Helmet shapes.
Visor angles.
Glove designs.
Armor layouts.
Different silhouettes.
Nothing finalized.
Nothing chosen.
Just possibilities.
His pencil moved steadily across the page.
Not for revenge.
Not for fear.
But for identity.
Something of his own.
Outside, Gotham glowed.
Inside, a fifteen-year-old with promethium laced bones and sharpened instincts quietly began designing the future.
He hadn't picked a suit yet.
But he was thinking.