Slade Wilson did not announce his presence.
He observed.
From water towers. From half-constructed high-rises. From the skeletal beams of Gotham buildings that had been abandoned mid-dream.
He watched the boy move.
Wild Claw wasn't sloppy.
That impressed him.
Entry angles calculated. Exit routes pre-planned. Minimal trace signatures. He adapted quickly when security systems changed patterns.
He fought well.
Very well.
Too well for fifteen.
Slade saw his own precision in the way Ryker closed distance. The efficiency of strikes. The refusal to waste movement.
But he also saw something else.
Restraint loosened by youth.
He lingered sometimes.
He toyed with opponents before finishing them.
He took trophies because he liked the symbolism.
He fought for thrill, not necessity.
Slade's visible eye narrowed from the shadows of a rooftop as Ryker vaulted between buildings with athletic ease.
Under Slade's discipline, the boy could become feared.
Not whispered about.
Feared.
He could refine him into something surgical. Something untouchable. Something that didn't dance for adrenaline.
But Slade never stepped in.
Because he knew his own history.
He had other children.
Children who had grown under the weight of his name. Under the shadow of his contracts. Under the consequences of being connected to him.
None of them had easy lives.
None of them had clean childhoods.
He thought of the facility.
The scientists.
The screams.
The data logs he had reviewed before deleting every server.
He had personally ensured no one walked out of that building alive.
No loose ends.
No witnesses.
No resurrection of that nightmare.
Only he and Selina knew the full truth of what had been done to the boy.
And that was enough.
He did not consider himself a father.
He did not play that role.
If Ryker fell into something he couldn't claw his way out of, Slade might intervene.
Maybe.
But he would not hover.
He would not shape him into a weapon.
Selina had chosen a different path.
Slade respected that.
From a distance.
He watched Ryker one final time as the boy left a broker's penthouse with clean timing and a nearly arrogant exit.
Not bad, he thought.
Then he turned, cape-less silhouette blending into darkness.
Gotham was not his city.
And he had no intention of staying.
Ryker didn't know he was being evaluated.
He was too busy flying.
The dirt track outside Gotham had become his second arena.
Engines roared. Tires tore through earth. The air smelled of gasoline and churned soil.
He leaned into a berm perfectly, throttle controlled with surgical precision. The bike responded like an extension of his nervous system.
He hit a jump.
Launched.
Midair, he adjusted posture by instinct, weight shifting with unnatural micro-corrections.
Landing smooth.
No wobble.
Two months ago he'd been crashing.
Now he was carving lines through the track like he owned it.
He pushed harder.
Longer jumps.
Sharper corners.
Then for fun, he popped the throttle and lifted into a controlled wheelie down the straight.
Balanced.
Boots steady.
He laughed inside his helmet.
This was clean.
No blood.
No red optics.
No shadowed rooftops.
Just speed and gravity negotiating terms.
Selina watched from the sidelines occasionally, sunglasses hiding her expression.
He looked like a normal teenager out here.
He needed that.
Back in Gotham, though—
Wild Claw's shadow lengthened.
Underworld chatter spread through encrypted channels.
Red claw marks became warning signs.
Some criminals relocated operations entirely to avoid crossing paths with him.
Others tried to test him.
They didn't try twice.
He wasn't moral.
He wasn't altruistic.
He was efficient, opportunistic, and dangerous.
A thief through and through.
More aggressive than Catwoman.
Less theatrical.
And undeniably harder to hurt.
Down in the Batcave, screens flickered with compiled footage.
Batman stood before a wall of red slash symbols.
Security camera stills.
Witness sketches.
Audio distortions.
"Wild Claw," he muttered.
Reports described a figure similar to Catwoman in agility but more violent in engagements.
Enhanced durability suspected.
Possible regenerative capability.
No confirmed identity.
Yet.
Batman replayed a slowed frame of the figure deflecting a metal baton strike that should have shattered bone.
It didn't.
He zoomed in on the claws.
Metal.
Integrated.
Not artificial attachments.
Interesting.
He leaned back slightly, analyzing gait pattern, shoulder movement, height estimation.
Teenage frame.
Growing.
He had not cracked the identity.
But he would.
Every new variable in Gotham was his responsibility.
And Wild Claw was not subtle.
Not entirely.
Batman turned to another screen.
Selina Kyle.
Recent financial patterns.
Lifestyle shifts.
Enrollment records at Gotham Academy.
His gaze lingered.
A connection formed at the edge of thought.
Not proven.
But suspicious.
He closed the file slowly.
"I'll find you," he said quietly to the empty cave.
Above, Gotham breathed.
On a dirt track miles away, Ryker popped another wheelie and rode into the sunset glow, unaware that the city's most relentless detective had just started pulling at the thread.