Fifteen year olds weren't supposed to know how to build servers that made darknet brokers nervous.
Ryker did.
His PC wasn't store-bought anymore. It was rebuilt from the ground up. Custom cooling. Layered encryption. Off-grid routing nodes piggybacking through abandoned Gotham infrastructure.
He didn't hack recklessly.
He hunted.
Black market armor suppliers. Tactical composite manufacturers. Experimental polymer distributors.
He didn't steal randomly.
He redirected.
Shipments rerouted to abandoned drop points. Dead industrial rooftops. Forgotten subway access tunnels.
Places he could reach.
Places no one would look twice at.
Weeks passed.
Components accumulated.
He assembled everything in sections. Gloves first. Reinforced knuckle plating. Micro-texture adhesive pads embedded in fingertips capable of sticking to vertical surfaces for short bursts.
Boots next. Weighted but responsive. Similar grip tech in the soles. Controlled adhesion, not permanent.
Chest armor molded to his measurements. Light. Durable. Flexible enough not to restrict movement when claws deployed.
He had considered integrating artificial claws into the gloves.
He scrapped the idea.
He didn't need artificial.
He had his own.
The first time he extended his promethium claws inside the gloves, they tore straight through the knuckle seams.
Fabric shredded cleanly.
He stared at the damage.
Then slowly smiled.
No artificial limits.
He redesigned the gloves with reinforced open channels at the knuckles. Hidden until pressure shifted. When his claws extended, the material parted cleanly.
Better.
The helmet was the last piece.
Sleek. Smooth. Featureless black.
No mouth slit. No visible eyes.
Until activated.
When the HUD came online, two red optics glowed faintly beneath the surface like something alive behind glass.
He stood in front of the mirror.
Black hood resting over the helmet.
Red claw insignia across his chest.
Utility belt aligned.
"Project Wild Claw," he muttered.
Edgy.
Dangerous.
Accurate.
He flexed his hands.
Metal claws slid out smoothly through reinforced channels with a low metallic whisper.
No tearing.
No restriction.
Perfect.
He turned off the lights in his room.
Activated the HUD.
The red optics ignited in the dark.
He looked like something Gotham would whisper about.
And for the first time in years—
He felt excited.
Not afraid.
Not training.
Not recovering.
Excited.
He slipped out through the balcony.
Silent.
The city air hit his suit like a baptism.
Gotham at night wasn't quiet. It breathed. It groaned. It invited.
He moved across rooftops with effortless speed. Boots gripping ledges. Gloves adhering briefly as he scaled vertical surfaces.
He laughed once under the mask.
It felt good.
He dropped into a high-end jewelry store's skylight without triggering alarms. Clean entry. Quick hands. In and out in under ninety seconds.
He didn't need the money.
That wasn't the point.
It was control.
The thrill of slipping past security.
He imagined his mother watching.
Would she be impressed?
He smirked beneath the mask.
Probably.
He moved again.
Next target smaller. A known fence operation laundering stolen tech. He disabled their cameras mid-transaction. Cleared their cash reserves. Left a red claw mark carved into the safe.
Signature.
He was enjoying this.
More than he should.
Later, down an industrial stretch of Gotham docks, he spotted a group of thugs unloading crates from a truck.
Big men.
Armed.
Laughing.
He landed twenty feet away in full view.
They froze.
"What the hell are you supposed to be?" one asked.
He tilted his head slightly.
"You look bored," Ryker said through voice modulation in the helmet. Slight distortion. Lower pitch.
They reached for weapons.
He moved first.
The fight wasn't long.
He disarmed one with a wrist snap. Redirected a crowbar swing into its owner. Tanked a shotgun blast at close range that would have shredded a normal person. The pellets stung. The damage sealed within seconds.
He let them see it.
Let them watch as wounds closed.
Fear bloomed.
He enjoyed that too.
One lunged with a knife.
Ryker extended his claws and stopped the blade mid-thrust, promethium slicing steel clean in half.
He headbutted the man with reinforced helmet plating.
Lights out.
Within minutes they were all down.
He stood over them breathing steadily.
He felt alive.
All the years of holding back.
All the silence.
Tonight he wasn't hiding.
He wasn't being studied.
He wasn't restrained.
He was choosing.
He moved across the city for hours.
Petty theft.
Rooftop runs.
Picking fights with men who thought they were predators.
He didn't kill.
But he didn't go easy either.
By dawn, he returned home unseen.
Slipped back into his room.
Removed the helmet.
His hair was damp with sweat.
His pulse steady.
He looked at himself in the mirror.
There was no trauma in his eyes tonight.
Just adrenaline.
Satisfaction.
He finally understood something about his mother.
It wasn't about stealing.
It was about control in a city that tried to take it from you.
He lay back on his bed still half in suit, staring at the ceiling.
He wanted a fight.
A real one.
Something that pushed him.
Something that proved he wasn't that ten year old strapped to a chair anymore.
Outside, Gotham was already stirring.
Somewhere in the city, reports would circulate.
Black figure.
Red eyes.
Claw marks left behind.
And eventually—
Someone very observant, very paranoid, and very territorial might notice.
Batman did not like new variables in his city.
And Ryker had just announced himself.
He didn't know it yet.
But the night had been watching back.