The meditation room was silent except for Bruce's breathing. Five grains of salt hovered above the box, trembling. Six. Seven. They spun in a tight spiral, catching the afternoon light like diamond dust.
The alarm screamed.
Red light flooded the room. A voice — Alfred's, but synthesized through the Eye's interface — cut through the quiet.
"Code Red. Metahuman activity detected. Multiple incidents across the city. Pattern match: energy absorption, matter theft, property destruction. Subject is male, approximately thirteen to fifteen years of age."
The salt grains dropped.
Bruce was already moving.
---
The Batcave hummed with cold blue light. Screens flickered across the central array, each one showing a different angle of chaos.
A convenience store on the East End. Security footage. A teenage boy pressed his hand to the cash register and the machine died, lights flickering out, drawer popping open with a sad mechanical wheeze. He grabbed cash. Candy bars. Left through the broken front door. Hadn't bothered to open it. Had walked through.
Another screen. A vending machine near the train station. The boy touched it and the metal warped, flowed into his palm like water into a sponge. His arm turned grey. Stone. Then steel. Then skin again.
Bruce watched the footage without blinking.
The boy wasn't subtle. He broke machines open. Smashed locks. Tore doors from hinges. When a shopkeeper tried to stop him, the boy turned, and his face shifted — skin to rock, eyes burning with unstable energy. The shopkeeper backed away. Hands up. Didn't try again.
"Mystic Eye, compile behavioral analysis."
The AI responded in clipped tones. "Pattern indicates impulsive theft. No long-term planning. Targets are opportunistic: food, cash, small valuables. Subject relies on intimidation and destructive entry. Powers include energy absorption — primarily electrical — and matter absorption, allowing temporary physical transformation into metal or stone."
Bruce stared at the boy's face. Frozen on screen. Gangly. Scared underneath the bravado. Hair unwashed. Clothes too big.
Something flickered at the edge of memory. A recognition that didn't belong to this life. A comic book panel. A minor character. A boy with absorption powers who could turn his body into whatever he touched.
He couldn't place the name. But the feeling was there.
"Keep tracking him. I'm suiting up."
---
The black armor sealed around him with a low hiss. Carbon composite plating. Tactical weave underneath. The cowl slid into place and the HUD flickered to life — thermal overlay, motion tracking, comms link to the Eye.
Bruce flexed his fingers. The gauntlets moved like skin.
The suit wasn't just protection. It was a tool. A symbol. In Gotham, symbols mattered more than bullets.
He took the black sedan. Not the Batmobile — too loud for daylight, too recognizable. The sedan was anonymous. Dark grey. Tinted windows. Engine tuned to near silence.
The Eye fed him coordinates. The boy had moved to the financial district. A bank. Not a big one. A local credit union with old wiring and no armed security.
By the time Bruce arrived, the commotion was already spilling onto the street.
---
The bank's front window was shattered. Not broken inward — melted. The glass had bubbled and warped, leaving a hole the size of a door.
Bruce stepped through.
Inside, the boy stood behind the teller counter, both hands pressed to a metal safe. His arms were solid steel up to the elbows. The safe's door was softening, dripping in slow metal tears. Alarms blared. Ceiling sprinklers had kicked on, dousing the room in thin chemical-smelling water.
The boy hadn't noticed him yet.
"Boy."
The kid whipped around. Steel arms came up. His chest was already shifting, ribs turning to stone, veins of grey spreading across his neck.
He saw Bruce. Stopped. Blinked.
The black armor. The cowl. The silhouette filling the doorway with cold blue light from the HUD eyes. The kid's mouth opened.
"What—whoa. Who are you?"
His voice cracked. Thirteen. Maybe fourteen. The steel in his arms wavered, destabilizing.
"It's not good to steal," Bruce said.
The boy's eyes narrowed. The fear flickered, replaced by something harder. Desperation. His hand came up, palm out, and electricity arced between his fingers — blue-white, crackling, hungry.
Bruce moved.
Not fast. Precise. He sidestepped the arc of lightning, felt the heat pass his shoulder, and reached out with his mind. Telekinesis wrapped around the boy like water closing over stone.
The kid's feet left the ground.
"What—hey! What is this? What are you doing?"
He floated. Arms pinned. Legs kicking at empty air. The electricity in his palm fizzled and died. His steel arms flickered back to flesh.
Bruce stepped closer. "What's your name?"
The boy's breathing was fast. Shallow. His eyes darted to the exits, the broken window, the safe still dripping metal. No escape. He went limp.
"Kevin." A swallow. "My name is Kevin."
Kevin.
Bruce's mind stilled.
Kevin. The absorption power. Matter transformation. Energy drain. The name and the ability lined up with something he'd seen in another life. A comic. A minor character — a teenager who'd been experimented on, hunted, used as a weapon. Not a villain. Just a kid who'd never had a chance.
He'd forgotten the name until now.
"Is your ability absorbing matter?" Bruce asked.
Kevin's face went pale. The floating didn't scare him. The question did.
"What? How do you know that? Are you from that place? The lab? The people who—" He thrashed against the invisible grip. "Let me go! I'm not going back!"
Bruce lowered him gently to the ground. Released the telekinetic hold.
"I'm not with any lab," he said.
Kevin scrambled backward until his back hit the melting safe. His chest heaved. His eyes were wet. The stone in his skin had receded completely. He was just a boy now. Dirty. Hungry. Terrified.
"Then how do you know about my powers?"
Bruce didn't answer. He pulled a small device from his belt. A sedative injector. Gentle. Safe.
"I'm going to help you."
Kevin's eyes widened. "Wait—"
Bruce caught him as the sedative hit. The boy's body went slack. Light. Too light. He hadn't been eating enough.
Bruce lifted him and walked out of the bank.
---
The Batcave was quiet except for the drip of water on stone and the low hum of the mainframe. Bruce laid Kevin on the medical cot in the corner of the analysis bay.
The boy's vitals were stable. Heart rate slow. Breathing steady. The sedative would wear off in two hours.
Bruce removed the cowl. Stood over the cot. Looked at the kid's face.
Young. Unwashed. A bruise on his jaw that hadn't come from tonight.
The Eye ran a full scan. "Subject: Kevin. Age estimated 13-15. No identification on file. No missing persons match. Cellular analysis confirms metahuman genetic marker. Primary ability: matter-energy absorption. Secondary ability: physical transformation based on absorbed material. Tertiary: electrical disruption field."
"Any sign of the lab he mentioned?"
"Insufficient data. However, burn scars on the subject's back are consistent with restraint marks. Some are older. Some are recent."
Bruce looked away from the screen