The bag was heavier than usual.
My right shoulder ached with each step, the weight of last night's fight throbbing in the bruises underneath the bandages. The gauze under my hoodie clung to the slow bleed on my ribs, where that last punk had managed to slip a knife in. CVS was a quick stop — sports wraps, peroxide, a pack of frozen peas, and two protein bars. All the necessities of an old man still playing hero long past his prime.
I winced as I stepped out onto the sidewalk, the cold night air cutting through the warmth like a blade. My boots hit the cracked pavement of Gotham with the same dull weight they always had — steady, but tired. I'd been at this game too long. Too many scars. Too many regrets.
But you don't stop being a fighter just because the bell rang twenty years ago.
The streets were mostly empty, the wind slicing between buildings like it was in a rush to get somewhere. Gotham never slept, but it did sulk. I turned a corner near Robinson Avenue — shortcut back to my apartment. My back popped as I rolled my neck. And then I heard it.
Not a shout. Not a scream. Just the sharp crack of skin on skin — a hit.
Another one followed. And another.
I stopped mid-step.
It came from the alley to my left. Deep in the dark where shadows bled into each other. Normally I would've rushed in, instincts kicking like they always did, but something told me to pause. I leaned against the edge of the building, keeping low, peering just enough to see.
What I saw froze me in place.
A kid. No older than thirteen. Maybe fourteen. Fighting a man at least twice his size, and thrice his strength. And fighting hard. It wasn't clumsy or desperate — not entirely. The boy was adapting, moving like someone who shouldn't know how, but somehow did. Every blow the man threw that didn't land clean taught the boy something. And even the ones that did — well, he used the pain to adjust.
It was like watching instinct learn to speak.
But he was still losing.
The kid's arms were scraped up. His cheek was swollen and glistening with blood. His breathing was jagged — winded, exhausted. And the man — some lowlife with a sick glint in his eyes — kept talking through the strikes.
"You know what I'd do to you if we were alone longer?" the man growled. "What I'd make you feel, just to hear you cry like the little mutt you are?"
My jaw clenched. Bastard had a knife. Thin, jagged, fast. He'd already cut the boy once — across the forearm. Then the ribs. Then the side of the leg. None of them were deep enough to kill. But enough to wear him down. Enough to break him.
And the kid — he still wasn't quitting.
Eight minutes passed.
I counted.
Eight minutes of a child giving everything he had just to survive. Learning on the fly, moving quicker, reacting sharper — and still falling short. His stamina was shot. His punches didn't have weight. His footwork was all memory and no power now.
And then the man grabbed him by the collar and slammed him into the wall.
The boy didn't cry. But his eyes — those wide, golden eyes — screamed everything.
"If I survive… I'll train until I drop."
It was written all over his face.
That was when I moved.
I stepped into the alley. Calm. Quiet. Controlled.
I wasn't dressed like Wildcat. Just an old man in a black V-neck, blue jeans, and worn leather boots. No gloves. No mask. Just the man underneath.
The man turned to me.
"What the hell do you want, old man?" he barked, spinning the knife between his fingers. "You don't wanna see what happens next."
I gave a slow smile, cracked my neck, and said:
"Boy, I've been beating creeps like you since your mama was still skipping curfew."
Corny. Real old-school. But it landed.
He looked confused. Maybe a little amused. And that was enough.
Before he could react, I stepped forward and squared up.
But I didn't throw a punch.
Not yet.
Instead, I looked at the kid on the ground. Bloodied. Bruised. Still trying to push himself up.
"You know how to fight, kid?"
He shook his head weakly. "No."
Didn't even ask who I was. Just answered. Honest. Direct.
"Alright," I said, turning back to the bastard. "Lesson one."
And I threw a jab.
Clean. Snapped his head back. A perfect example of straight-line punching. The man stumbled, blinking away blood as his lip split open.
"That's how you throw a proper jab."
I moved again. Duck. Uppercut.
"That's how you find the chin."
The man slashed at me with the knife. I sidestepped, let it pass, caught his wrist, and slammed it into my knee.
"That's how you disarm a blade."
He howled, but I didn't stop.
"Footwork, kid — always pivot. Don't give 'em your center. Keep your hands up."
Another hit. Right hook to the temple.
He staggered, knife clattering on the concrete.
"You see that, kid? That's a cross. Simple, fast, heavy."
The kid was watching, chest still rising like a drumbeat, blood still leaking from his ribs — but his eyes were wide with something else now.
Hope.
The man lunged again, desperate and wild, but I caught him clean in the gut, turned, and planted my elbow on the back of his neck as he dropped to his knees.
"You wanna hurt kids?" I whispered. "Try hell."
And with one final strike — a sharp right to the jaw — he was out cold.
Dead weight.
I let the silence breathe.
Only the wind spoke for a moment, slipping between trash cans and broken windows. The kid was still on his knees, staring like I'd just descended from the clouds.
I turned to him, extending a hand.
"You wanna learn?"
He looked up at me. For a second, I thought he'd cry. But instead, he just nodded.
Not with desperation.
With conviction.
"Yes," he said.
I saw it then. The fire. The reason fate had dragged me into that alleyway tonight. Why the world hadn't let me die last night when I'd been shot up in a back alley by gang punks twice my size.
He was the reason.
"Alright then," I said with a smile. "First, let's get you patched up. Where's your family?"
He stood, wobbled, then leaned on me. Not fully. Just enough.
"I can show you," he said, voice soft but steady.
I threw his arm over my shoulder and walked him out of the alley, past the blood, past the broken man on the ground, and into the cold Gotham night.
And as we walked, I couldn't help but think:
Maybe I wasn't done yet.
Maybe I still had one more fight left in me — one more lesson to pass on.
Maybe… just maybe…
The bell hadn't rung yet.