Jacob was dead. That identity — that boy born of Gotham's darkness — had burned away with his mother's corpse and the final chapter of his work with the Riddler. He had walked away from Gotham, not in shame, but in calculated purpose. He knew that if he stayed, the hunger would grow too fast, too uncontrollably. Gotham's hunger was insatiable, and it would eat him alive before he became what he was meant to be. He needed clarity. He needed distance. He needed control.
So, with 480 million dollars quietly tucked into encrypted offshore accounts — access coded to only him, with dead man's triggers and ghost firewalls — he left the city behind.
He crossed state lines in an old, dented black car with a fresh license plate and no digital signature. Every camera he passed either glitched or blacked out — courtesy of a custom script he'd written back when Riddler was testing him. He passed the rusting edges of the Narrows and the steel veins of Blüdhaven and finally emerged onto the sunlight-drenched roads leading into Star City.
Star City was everything Gotham was not. Bright skies. Smiling people. Streets that smelled like coffee and spring instead of smoke and fear. It felt artificial to him, like a dream. But as he walked through the calm suburban streets, he saw a young boy walking hand in hand with his mother. They were laughing, sharing a cup of coffee from a superhero-themed café. A pang hit Jacob's chest like a shard of broken glass. In another life — in a brighter life — that could have been him.
But regret was for those who stayed behind. Jacob was moving forward.
He found a modest apartment in a quiet district of the city — nothing flashy, just obscured enough to keep low. He prepaid the rent for seven months using layered bank accounts and false credentials. He used only small amounts of his fortune, never enough to trigger red flags. He wore simple clothes, walked with his head low, and behaved like a student — quiet, introverted, unremarkable.
The first thing on his checklist was identity. He knew better than to create a new mask without removing every trace of the old one. During his mentorship under the Riddler, Jacob had worked tirelessly to erase all digital and paper trails of his past. From birth records to school files, friends, photos, and even encrypted emergency databases — all purged, overwritten, or corrupted. Even if Batman himself fed the world's most powerful AI the name "Jacob," it would return only fragments, contradictions, or nothing at all.
With that clean slate, he found a contact in Star City's underground — a man known only as "Marshall." A master in crafting false identities that could withstand government audits, facial recognition, and biometric verification. In exchange for an intricate coding program Jacob built for him, Marshall provided him a new identity: Jacob K. Hale, born and raised in Star City.
But Jacob didn't stop there. He wasn't just hiding. He was building.
Year One: Jacob enrolled in Star City University under his new name. Thanks to the impeccable academic credentials he forged — modeled on the best student profiles from Gotham, Metropolis, and Central City — he was granted accelerated entry into a Bachelor's degree in Integrated Sciences.
He spent the year devouring everything: computer science, molecular biology, mechanical engineering, applied physics, and ethical philosophy. He wanted to understand the world not just through circuits and formulas, but through people — their biology, their needs, their flaws.
He kept a small whiteboard in his room where he sketched everything from biological nervous systems to theoretical encryption methods. He also began working on a discreet side project: a small technology startup. Under the name "Kaleidoscope Tech," the company focused on encryption software, surveillance countermeasures, and silent data scrapers. It operated only in the dark web and served clients who paid well and kept silent.
He made his first million legally that year — without touching his 480 million.
Year Two: He transitioned into a Master's program with ease. His professors believed they had discovered a prodigy. He rarely attended social events, opting instead to spend nights in labs, code libraries, or prowling forums under aliases.
This year, he began studying strategic psychology and cognitive science. He wanted to understand not just how to think, but how people think — how they make decisions, how they break, how they lie to themselves.
In parallel, Kaleidoscope Tech expanded. He began hiring anonymous freelance coders to build modules, orchestrated through encrypted chatrooms and VPNs. None of them knew who their employer truly was. One of the systems he developed was a behavioral prediction model based on algorithmic profiling — something that mirrored Batman's own methods.
He also started considering martial arts. Not because he wanted to fight, but because he wanted discipline. A body that obeyed the mind without hesitation. A weapon under control. He began researching different schools in Star City, planning to try them in his third year.
Year Three: He accelerated through a PhD program under the pretext of researching applied neurotechnology. It wasn't a lie. He had already started constructing prototypes for devices that could interface with cognitive patterns — designs that echoed the tech he'd seen glimpses of in the Batcave and Riddler's lairs.
By now, Kaleidoscope Tech had clients in nearly every major city, and was quietly being discussed in underground circles as a "ghost firm" — a mythic company with no traceable CEO.
Jacob's control over his body, mind, and resources had reached a new level. He could disappear in a crowd, erase a camera feed before it was stored, or convince a professor that he had turned in an assignment that never existed.
He had no friends. No distractions. Only goals.
And yet, every so often, he would walk by a coffee shop, see a boy with his mother, and feel a distant ache.
But he didn't dwell on it. He had learned long ago: pain is not an enemy — it's a tool. A reminder of purpose.
Jacob K. Hale was no longer the lost boy from Gotham.
He was something far more dangerous — a ghost with genius, discipline, and 480 million dollars to burn.
And he was just getting started.