Years had passed since the infamous heist that sent Gotham's elite into disarray. The crime was perfect, surgical in precision, brutal in consequence. Five hundred million dollars vanished in a single night, and despite all the alarms, protocols, and security, not one lead remained. Among the underworld, a new legend emerged—"The Question." An enigmatic thief, Riddler's protégé, a ghost in the wires and shadows.
Batman stood before the Batcomputer, eyes scanning data lines that scrolled endlessly. Even his most powerful technology, designed to crack alien algorithms and track metahumans, had failed to pierce the veil Jacob had drawn over himself.
Alfred entered the cave, a cup of tea in hand. "Master Wayne, you've barely left the console in three nights."
"The trail's cold, Alfred," Batman replied. "Too cold."
"Then perhaps it's not a trail anymore," Alfred said, placing the tea beside him. "Perhaps it's become a labyrinth."
Tim Drake—Robin—dropped down from his training session above, wiping sweat from his brow. "Still looking for the Riddler's protégé?"
"He's not just a protégé," Bruce said. "He's someone who learned from Riddler... and surpassed him."
"The guy who hit the elite for half a billion and vanished without a trace?" Tim asked. "He's a ghost."
"No," Batman corrected. "He's a statement. A question without an answer."
Newspapers had dubbed him The Question, and while the name wasn't original, it was fitting. Every piece of intel, every whisper on the street, pointed to someone methodical, cunning, and precise. No flair, no theatrics—just cold, effective execution. It rattled Batman more than he cared to admit.
"Even the criminal underground admires him," Barbara said through the comms. She was Oracle, perched in her own network of screens and surveillance. "They talk about him like he's some kind of modern Robin Hood. But he only stole from the elites. It's clean... poetic even."
"He didn't just steal," Bruce said. "He humiliated them. And he used Riddler as a decoy. Gave him 20 million to draw attention. That's why the Riddler ended up in Arkham. Temporarily."
Within days of his imprisonment, Riddler had been released. Evidence showed the 20 million deposit lasted only hours in his account. Batman knew the manipulation. He recognized it.
When Batman confronted him, Riddler only grinned.
"God, I love a protégé who thinks about his master," Riddler said with a cheshire smile. "So considerate."
"Who is he?" Batman had demanded.
"An individual," Riddler said cryptically. "Beyond what I expected. No flair or glare. But what can I say? He made his master proud."
Now, years later, the elites were still enraged. But they had no target. No criminal to prosecute. Their money gone. Their power mocked.
Rumors spread like wildfire. That the protégé wasn't Riddler's at all. That he was Batman's. Some whispered that Batman himself had orchestrated the heist. The myth grew, and fear followed. Criminals grew bolder, inspired by the mystery.
On a patrol one night, Bruce encountered Selina Kyle—Catwoman—scaling a rooftop.
"Still robbing the rich, Selina?" he said from behind.
She smirked. "Still brooding on rooftops, darling?"
"You're lucky tonight. Gotham's not in a forgiving mood."
"Because of the Question?" she asked. Her pupils dilated at the mention.
Batman noticed. "You know something."
Selina hesitated. "He was just a boy... a broken one."
"What did you do, Selina?"
"He came into my bar. Alone. Hurt. I taught him a few tricks. He picked up the rest."
Batman narrowed his eyes. "He's more than your student."
"He's no one's student anymore," Selina whispered. "He's learning. Evolving. And he's not in Gotham anymore."
Back at the Batcave, Bruce removed his cowl and faced Alfred.
"What did you learn, sir?" Alfred asked.
"He learned from Selina," Bruce said.
Tim stopped his training. "So he's like Catman?"
"He's not like anyone. He's like me. And that's what makes him dangerous."
Oracle chimed in again. "I searched every database. There's almost nothing. One image of a woman. His mother, possibly. Some records point to a GCPD officer killed in action. But all trails end there."
"He erased himself," Bruce said. "He left only fragments behind. Enough to know he existed. Enough to know he wanted us to look."
"What now, sir?" Alfred asked.
Bruce stared at the screen. "Now we wait. And we watch. He's not finished. Not even close."
In the shadows of Gotham, a war was brewing—not one of fists and capes, but of ideas and precision. A silent war. A question waiting for its answer.
And Batman feared the answer might be his own undoing.