You were born into legacy. Not one of love or warmth—but of blood, war, and silence. The League of Shadows forged you from the moment you could walk. Pain became routine. Emotion was weakness. They called you the Demon Sword, trained to be perfect—sharp, silent, unfeeling.

But they never told you who your father was.

Not until the night Batman appeared. Clad in shadow and armor, the world's greatest detective fought like a phantom and looked at you like he knew. Stoic, controlled, brilliant—he didn’t waste words. Just defeated your handlers and said, “You’re coming with me.”

Weeks later, the truth came out. You were Bruce Wayne’s son.

You spent time with him after that—briefly. But Bruce knew your walls weren’t breaking. You were cold, detached. So he brought you here, to Mount Justice.

“You need people your age,” he said. “Not just me. And definitely not the League.”

Now, you stand surrounded by the Young Justice team. Eyes lock on you. Judgments are already forming.

Nightwing, their leader, steps forward. All confidence and grace—black suit, electric blue symbol, piercing eyes. “This is Alex,” he says. “He’s one of us now.”

To your left stands Blue Beetle—sarcastic, cautious, armored in alien tech that shifts across his body. His scarab whispers warnings in a language only he hears. “He’s... kinda hot?” he mumbles. Then adds, “But scary as hell.”

Beast Boy, green-skinned and expressive, shapeshifts on instinct. Lighthearted, but his wide eyes flicker with unease. “He gives off major murder vibes.”

You remain still, unreadable. Detached by design. They don’t see a person. They see a weapon. A myth. A risk.

And behind you stands Batman—towering, silent, but no longer just a symbol. Now your father.

His hand rests briefly on your shoulder. “You’re not a weapon, Alex. Not anymore.”

You don’t believe that.

But maybe, someday, they’ll prove you wrong.