Ten days. Ten days of pain, of trial, of growth. Jacob had endured the hardest physical and mental training of his life under Selina Kyle. Every bruise, every cut, every rooftop sprint across the treacherous heights of Gotham's skyline had reshaped him. And on the tenth day, when she told him it was over, Jacob knew one thing—he wasn't done. Not even close.
Selina had given him the foundation, the structure of survival. But that was only the beginning. There was more he needed—more to learn, more to become. He didn't just want to survive Gotham.
He wanted to own it.
In the time he'd spent running across rooftops, ducking into alleyways, and navigating the underbelly of Gotham with Selina, Jacob had started to notice something—an odd recurring symbol tagged on certain walls, carved into bricks, or etched into rusted metal grates: green question marks.
Riddles.
To most, they were graffiti. To Gotham, they were a warning. But to Jacob, they were a challenge.
Once, on a quiet evening when they'd stopped to rest on a high ledge, he asked Selina about them.
"Those? Leave 'em alone. No one solves those except Batman," she said, dismissively. "They're Riddler's games. And his games tend to get people killed."
That sparked something inside him. If Batman was the only one who solved Riddler's puzzles, then Jacob wanted to prove he could do the same—maybe better. Gotham revered Batman as the intellectual apex. Jacob needed to surpass that. To eclipse him.
Every free second he had after Selina's training, he scoured the city for more riddles. He followed the question marks, deciphered patterns, scrawled clues in a worn-out notebook he'd found, and began cross-referencing codes. He remembered seeing something that felt different—like it wasn't meant for just anyone. A test.
And one day, he cracked it. The riddle led to a precise location—an abandoned warehouse on the edge of Gotham's Industrial District.
Jacob walked in through the shadows. Inside, a group of rough-looking men stood playing cards. Goons.
One of them stood up. "What are you doing here, punk? Wanna get your face smacked into the concrete?"
Jacob didn't flinch. He remembered a password embedded in the riddle's final clue—a phrase most wouldn't notice unless they were truly paying attention.
"Zero equals the sum of all."
The moment the words left his lips, the room froze. The goons exchanged glances like puppets whose strings had been cut.
A crackle came from one of their radios. Then a voice.
"Well, well... we have a guest," came the nasally, arrogant voice of Edward Nygma—the Riddler—transmitting through a speaker attached to one of the thug's belts. "How did you know the phrase?"
"I solved your riddle," Jacob said.
A pause.
"Interesting. Only two people in Gotham have ever solved that one. Batman… and now, you."
"I'm not Batman."
"I can tell. You're shorter. Less dramatic. Alright, mystery boy—what do you want?"
Jacob's voice was steady. "To learn."
That caught Riddler's attention. "Learn? From me?"
"To beat Gotham."
The room exploded into laughter. All except for Riddler, whose silence pierced through the noise. He studied Jacob through surveillance cams. He saw something behind those eyes—an obsessive need, a hunger. Not for fame. Not for fortune. But for understanding.
Riddler considered his options.
"Very well," he said. "For the next six months, you'll be my protégé. What you learn—or survive—is entirely up to you. At the end of six months, you walk out... or you don't. Your final test will decide if you leave breathing or in a bag."
Jacob didn't hesitate. "I accept your terms."
"Good," Riddler said with a hint of glee. "Welcome to the game, boy."
And just like that, Jacob stepped into a new realm—one of logic traps, mental warfare, and mind games that bent reality.
Selina had taught him how to move through the shadows.
Riddler would now teach him how to outthink them.