Nightwing: The Ultimate SI

[Tomato]

Why on Earth does he think they believe literally any of his lies? He's ridiculously suspicious even to people who aren't at the level of Bat people.

Just go for memory loss.

 

[MoonyNightShade]

Selina's parting words in the cave had done more than just give me dating advice; they'd given me a mission plan: to win, you couldn't just be better than your opponents, you had to be willing to play a dirtier game.

The penthouse had been transformed into a war room over the past week. Holographic displays flickered across every available surface, casting blue-white light across walls that had once been pristine and minimal. Financial charts, shipping manifests, and architectural blueprints covered my dining table like the battle plans of a general preparing for a two-front war.

Which, in a way, they were.

I stood in the center of it all, my expression cold and focused as I studied the data streams flowing across my laptop screen.

One variable at a time. LexCorp first – silent, surgical, undetectable. Get the intelligence I need about Project Prometheus, confirm the timeline, verify the performance specs. Then Penguin – loud, chaotic, devastating. Cripple his shipping operations just before the quarterly reports come out. Create the market conditions I need.

The plan was elegant in its simplicity. Lex Luthor's Gotham R&D facility had been developing advanced drone technology for the past eighteen months – technology that would revolutionize urban logistics and make early investors very, very wealthy. The Penguin's smuggling operations, meanwhile, controlled a significant chunk of Gotham's import/export business through a network of legitimate shell companies.

What the financial markets didn't know yet was that LexCorp was about to announce a breakthrough that would make traditional shipping methods obsolete virtually overnight. What they also didn't know was that one of the largest shipping consortiums in the city was about to suffer a series of catastrophic "accidents" that would tank their stock price right before the announcement.

Information asymmetry. The oldest game in the book. Buy low on the companies that are about to soar, short the companies that are about to crash, and retire to a private island with enough money to impress ancient Egyptian warrior goddesses.

I pulled up the LexCorp building schematics one more time, tracing the route I'd memorized through the ventilation system to the sub-level server room. Security was good – excellent, even – but it was designed to keep out corporate spies and curious journalists, not someone with Dick Grayson's particular skill set.

Twenty minutes to get in, five minutes to download the files, fifteen minutes to get out. Plenty of margin for error.

The Penguin's warehouse would be different. Messier. Oswald Cobblepot was paranoid, violent, and surrounded himself with people who shot first and asked questions of the corpses. But he was also old-school in his approach to security – lots of guns, not enough technology. He'd never see me coming.

And when I'm done with both of them, I'll have everything I need to make my first fortune in this new life.

I closed the laptop and began suiting up, my movements precise and methodical. Tonight wasn't about heroics or justice or protecting the innocent. Tonight was about taking what I needed from people who could afford to lose it.

Time to get to work.

The LexCorp building rose into the Gotham night like a chrome and glass monument to corporate ambition. Forty-seven stories of cutting-edge architecture and bleeding-edge paranoia, all of it designed to project an image of unstoppable forward momentum.

Perfect. The higher they built their towers, the more places there were for someone like me to hide.

I crouched on the edge of a neighboring building's rooftop, rain pattering against my suit as I studied the target through high-powered binoculars. Security patrols moved in predictable patterns around the building's perimeter. Camera placements were textbook standard. Motion sensors covered the obvious approach routes.

All of which meant they were expecting someone to come through the front door, or maybe try to scale the building from street level like an ambitious cat burglar.

They weren't expecting someone to drop in from above.

Thirty-seventh floor. Maintenance access to the ventilation system. From there, it's a straight shot down to sub-level three.

I holstered the binoculars and activated the grappling gun built into my gauntlet, feeling the familiar weight of Wayne-tech engineering in my palm. The line shot across the gap between buildings with a whisper-quiet thrum, magnetic clamp finding purchase on LexCorp's external maintenance platform.

The swing across the gap was pure poetry – that perfect moment of weightlessness followed by the controlled impact against the building's outer wall. My magnetic grips engaged automatically, and within seconds I was scaling the rain-slicked glass toward my entry point.

Movement is life. Hesitation is death. Bruce's first lesson, and still the most important one.

The maintenance hatch yielded to my lockpicks with barely a whisper of resistance. Corporate security focused on the obvious threats – armed intrusion, cyber attacks, industrial espionage through conventional channels. They didn't plan for someone who could pick a lock while hanging upside down forty stories above the street.

Amateur hour. Luthor's paying for premium security and getting mall-cop thinking.

The ventilation shaft was a maze of brushed steel and humming machinery, but I'd memorized every twist and turn from the stolen blueprints. Left at the first junction, straight for thirty meters, then down through the vertical shaft that connected to the sub-levels.

The real challenges began when I reached the secured zones.

The first obstacle was an electronic lock on the access panel leading to sub-level three – a quantum-encrypted system that would have stopped any conventional hacker cold. But Dick Grayson's toolkit included a few items that weren't available at the local electronics store.

Wayne-tech cipher device. Good thing Bruce believes in giving his kids the best toys.

The device attached to the lock's housing with magnetic clamps, its processors working through encryption algorithms faster than any human brain could follow. Thirty seconds later, the lock disengaged with a soft chime that sounded almost apologetic.

One down.

The corridor beyond was a sterile white hallway lined with biometric scanners and pressure-sensitive floor panels. Motion detectors tracked heat signatures from multiple angles, creating overlapping fields of coverage that would detect anything larger than a mouse.

Anything that moved like a normal person, anyway.

I pressed myself against the ceiling, using magnetic grips and sheer upper body strength to navigate the hallway like a human spider. My movements were slow, controlled, designed to avoid the motion sensors' tracking algorithms. What looked like an impossible security system became just another acrobatic routine.

Twelve point seven second cycle on the laser grid. Pressure plates calibrated for anything over eighty kilograms. Child's play. The real challenge is going to be the server room's quantum encryption.

The final barrier was a thermal sensor guarding the server room entrance – a system designed to detect the body heat of anyone trying to gain unauthorized access. I reached into my utility belt and withdrew a small cylindrical device, one of Bruce's more exotic gadgets.

The cryogenic pellet detonated silently against the sensor housing, flash-freezing the detection array and creating a localized dead zone in its coverage. I had maybe ninety seconds before the system's self-diagnostics detected the malfunction.

More than enough time.

The server room was a cathedral of humming processors and fiber-optic cables, racks of quantum storage devices that contained more computational power than most countries possessed. And somewhere in that digital maze was the information I needed.

Project Prometheus. Advanced autonomous logistics systems. Urban delivery drones with AI navigation and adaptive cargo management. Market disruption potential: total.

I connected my portable drive to one of the primary terminals, watching as progress bars crawled across the screen. Five terabytes of technical specifications, performance data, and projected deployment schedules. Everything I needed to time my investments perfectly.

Seventy percent complete. Come on, come on.

A soft chime echoed through the server room – the sound of a silent alarm engaging as the building's security system finally detected my presence. Automated countermeasures would be initializing, security teams would be converging on my position, and my window of opportunity was rapidly closing.

Ninety percent. Almost there.

The download completed just as I heard the first sounds of footsteps in the corridor outside. I pocketed the drive, activated a signal jammer to cover my electronic tracks, and moved toward the ventilation grate I'd entered through.

Clean extraction. No evidence, no confrontation, no complications.

By the time LexCorp security reached the server room, I was already three floors up and moving toward my exit point. They'd find traces of the intrusion eventually – frozen thermal sensors, bypassed locks, accessed terminals – but they'd never find the intruder.

Mission one complete. Time for the loud part.

The Penguin's warehouse squatted on the Gotham docks like a malignant tumor, all rusted metal and peeling paint that reeked of fish and corruption. Even from my vantage point on a nearby crane, I could smell the distinctive cocktail of rotting seafood, diesel fuel, and human desperation that characterized Oswald Cobblepot's business empire.

Target acquired. Time to make some noise.

This wasn't going to be subtle. Stealth had served its purpose at LexCorp, but here I needed chaos. I needed to create the kind of highly visible disaster that would make financial journalists write breathless articles about the risks of investing in traditional shipping infrastructure.

I studied the warehouse through my binoculars, cataloging guard positions and identifying critical systems. Two sentries at the main entrance, three more patrolling the perimeter. Light security for a criminal operation, but then again, Penguin's reputation for brutality usually discouraged casual interference.

Main power conduit on the north wall. Accounting office on the second floor, southwest corner. Refrigeration units for the legitimate seafood business on the east side. Perfect.

The first explosive charge was a thing of beauty – a Wayne-tech charge designed to disable rather than destroy, small enough to fit in my palm but powerful enough to take out a city block's worth of electrical infrastructure.

Target the systems first. Break their operations, then break them.

I dropped from the crane in free fall, deploying my hidden cape at the last second to control my descent onto the warehouse roof. The impact was soft, controlled, invisible to the guards below.

Phase one: darkness.

The charge attached to the main power conduit with a satisfying magnetic click. I armed the timer, gave myself thirty seconds to clear the blast radius, and moved toward the next target.

The explosion was perfectly calculated – loud enough to be heard for blocks, bright enough to temporarily blind anyone looking in its direction, but focused enough to avoid actual structural damage. The warehouse plunged into darkness as every electrical system died simultaneously.

Chaos theory in action. Remove one critical component, watch the entire system collapse.

The ventilation system was next. I dropped a smoke pellet into the main intake duct and listened with satisfaction as the building's circulation fans distributed a cloud of dense, disorienting vapor throughout the interior.

Disorientation is the goal. Break their systems, then break everything else.

The screaming started almost immediately – panicked voices of Penguin's thugs as they stumbled through smoke-filled darkness, their night vision ruined by the electrical explosion, their communication systems dead.

Time to go to work.

I descended into the warehouse through a skylight, my night vision lenses turning the chaotic scene below into a perfectly clear tactical situation. Men stumbled through the smoke, calling out to each other, trying to organize some kind of coherent response to an attack they couldn't understand.

Seven targets. Standard criminal muscle. Predictable movement patterns. This is going to be therapeutic.

The first thug never saw me coming. I dropped behind him like a shadow, escrima stick finding the base of his skull with surgical precision. He went down without a sound, his weapon clattering uselessly across the concrete floor.

One down. Six to go.

The second target was trying to reach what looked like an emergency radio. I dealt with him using environmental assets – a swift kick to a stack of fish crates that collapsed on top of him, burying him under fifty pounds of rotting seafood and ice.

Two down. And he's going to smell like that for weeks.

The third and fourth came as a pair, moving back-to-back through the smoke with their weapons raised. Professional technique, military training. Too bad they were dealing with someone who'd been trained by the Batman.

I used their caution against them, tossing a batarang into the opposite corner of the warehouse to draw their attention. When they turned to investigate the sound, I was already behind them, escrima sticks moving in a blur of precisely applied violence.

Four down. This is almost too easy.

The fifth thug actually managed to get a shot off – a wild spray of automatic fire that came nowhere close to hitting me but did excellent work ventilating a stack of shipping containers. I responded by introducing him to the concrete pillar he'd been using for cover, at velocity.

Five down. Basic physics: force equals mass times acceleration.

Numbers six and seven had found each other in the chaos and were trying to coordinate a sweep of the warehouse floor. Good tactics, solid execution. They might have even been effective against a normal intruder.

Unfortunately for them, I'm not normal.

I used the warehouse's overhead crane system to my advantage, swinging through the girders above them like some kind of urban Tarzan. They never thought to look up until I was already dropping into their midst, escrima sticks spinning.

Seven down. Time for the main event.

The stairs to the second-floor office were metal and concrete, designed to channel anyone approaching the Penguin's inner sanctum into a narrow kill zone. Under normal circumstances, it would have been a death trap.

Good thing these aren't normal circumstances.

I bypassed the stairs entirely, using my grappling gun to swing directly onto the office's external fire escape. Through the windows, I could see Oswald Cobblepot himself – shorter than I'd expected, but radiating the kind of dangerous intelligence that had kept him alive and powerful in Gotham's criminal underworld for decades.

He was barking orders into a dead radio, trying to coordinate a defense against an enemy he couldn't locate or understand. His umbrella – the infamous weapon that had killed more people than anyone could count – was propped against his desk within easy reach.

Time to introduce myself.

I came through the window in an explosion of glass and smoke, moving fast enough that Penguin's first shot went wide by three feet. His umbrella gun was impressive – definitely custom work, probably lethal to anyone without superhuman reflexes.

Too bad I have superhuman reflexes.

The bola caught him before he could chamber a second round, synthetic fibers wrapping around his expensive coat and binding his arms to his sides. A calculated application of force sent him spinning into the filing cabinets, where he ended up tangled in his own coat like an expensive, profanity-spewing burrito.

One bird down. Time to clip his wings.

I moved to his desk, where stacks of shipping ledgers and financial records represented the administrative heart of his legitimate businesses. The incendiary device was small, controlled, designed to destroy documents without starting a building-consuming fire.

Can't have the insurance companies getting suspicious about arson. This has to look like an electrical fire caused by the power surge.

"You have any idea who you're messing with, you freak?" Penguin sputtered from his position on the floor, trying to work himself free of the bola. "I got connections all over this city! You're gonna pay for this!"

Threats. How predictable.

I set the timer on the incendiary device and turned to face him, letting him get a good look at the Nightwing costume. He needed to know exactly who had just dismantled his operation.

"Heard the shipping business is tough, Ozzy," I said, allowing myself a small, cold smile. "Might be a bear market for birds."

And that's the sound bite that'll end up in tomorrow's newspapers. Perfect.

The incendiary device went off as I was leaving, controlled flames consuming months of carefully kept shipping records. Nothing that couldn't be reconstructed eventually, but the disruption to Penguin's quarterly reports would be devastating.

Phase two complete. Time to go home and count my future profits.

I perched on a rooftop overlooking the chaos at the docks, watching as the first police sirens wailed in the distance. Smoke was rising from multiple locations – the warehouse, the office, the scattered shipping containers where my smoke pellets were still creating atmospheric effects.

Beautiful. Absolutely beautiful.

The operation had been flawless. LexCorp's Project Prometheus data was safely secured in my encrypted drives, ready to be analyzed and leveraged. Penguin's shipping empire was in shambles, his stock prices guaranteed to crater when the markets opened tomorrow morning.

Information asymmetry. Market manipulation. Corporate espionage. And I haven't technically broken any laws that matter.

I looked from the chaos at the docks towards the distant, glittering towers of the financial district, a cold, predatory smile touching my lips for the first time all night. "Phase one complete."

——————————

Author's note:

Sorry been busy, but our boy's gonna make so much dough– it's gonna be crazy.

 

[MoonyNightShade]

The morning news was a symphony of my own secret composition: one anchor was reporting on a mysterious electrical fire that had crippled Gotham's largest shipping import-export business, while another was breathlessly announcing a surprise, paradigm-shifting tech reveal from LexCorp later in the week.

I sipped my coffee – some ridiculously expensive Ethiopian blend that Dick Grayson's kitchen had been stocked with – and watched the chaos unfold from the comfort of my silk robe. The penthouse's massive screen displayed three different news channels simultaneously, each one confirming that my nocturnal activities had achieved exactly the market disruption I'd been aiming for.

Beautiful. Absolutely beautiful. It's like watching dominoes fall, except each domino is worth about fifty million dollars.

The financial ticker running along the bottom of one screen showed Cobblepot Shipping & Logistics down eighteen percent in pre-market trading. Meanwhile, its smaller competitor, Orion Shipping, was holding steady – for now. But I knew that once investors started looking for alternatives to Penguin's suddenly unreliable network, those numbers would change dramatically.

Phase two of the plan is about to begin. Time to traumatize a Swiss banker.

I pulled up my tablet and checked the real-time market data, feeling a thrill of anticipation as I watched the numbers shift in exactly the patterns I'd predicted. Everything was falling into place with the precision of a Swiss watch – which was appropriate, considering I was about to make a very specific Swiss gentleman question his entire approach to wealth management.

11:30 AM in Geneva. Perfect timing. Mr. Klaus should just be finishing his morning tea and settling in for what he thinks is going to be a nice, boring day of conservative portfolio management.

I opened the secure communications app that connected directly to Rothschild & Richter, the venerable financial institution that had been managing the Grayson family's considerable wealth for the better part of three decades. The encryption protocols alone probably cost more than most people's annual salaries, which made sense when you were discussing the kind of money that could buy small countries.

The call connected after two rings.

"Guten Morgen, Rothschild & Richter, this is Klaus Richter speaking." The voice on the other end was crisp, professional, and carried the faint accent of someone who had spent his entire career managing the wealth of some ultra-super-super-rich people.

"Klaus, my man!" I said, injecting as much casual American enthusiasm into my voice as possible. "How's the weather in Geneva? Still all mountains and chocolate and fiscal responsibility?"

There was a brief pause. "Master Grayson," Klaus replied, his tone shifting to the carefully modulated professionalism he used when dealing with clients who might be having what he diplomatically referred to as "episodes." "Good morning. I trust you are well?"

He already sounds nervous. This is going to be even more fun than I thought.

"Never better, Klaus. Absolutely fantastic. In fact, I'm feeling so good that I want to make some changes to the portfolio. Big changes."

Another pause, longer this time. I could practically hear him pulling up my account information, checking the last time we'd spoken, probably wondering if I'd been drinking.

"Of course, Master Grayson. What sort of... adjustments did you have in mind?"

Here we go. Time to drop the first bomb.

"I need you to liquidate ninety percent of the discretionary portfolio," I said, keeping my voice casual, like I was ordering coffee. "All of it. The blue-chip stocks, the municipal bonds, the tech diversification package, even the shares in Wayne Enterprises… actually no, let's keep those."

The silence that followed was so profound I wondered if the call had dropped. When Klaus finally spoke, his voice had a slightly strangled quality that suggested he was trying very hard not to have a professional breakdown.

"I... I beg your pardon, Master Grayson? Did you say... ninety percent?"

"That's right. Liquidate it all. Turn it into cash. Beautiful, liquid, ready-to-invest cash."

Come on, Klaus. Ask me why. I've got such a good non-answer prepared.

"Master Grayson," Klaus said carefully, "the current portfolio is performing exceptionally well. The Wayne Enterprises holdings alone have appreciated nearly twelve percent this quarter. The municipal bonds are providing stable income, and the diversified tech package is hedged against market volatility. Liquidating these assets would represent... well, it would represent the systematic destruction of a carefully balanced investment strategy that has been refined over decades."

Poor guy. He sounds like I just asked him to burn down the Sistine Chapel.

"Klaus, Klaus, Klaus," I said, leaning back in my chair and grinning at the ceiling. "You're thinking like an accountant. I need you to think like a visionary."

"A... visionary, sir?"

"We're not playing for dividends anymore, Klaus. We're playing for a kingdom."

The sound Klaus made could have been a cough, or a sob, or possibly the noise someone makes when their entire worldview collapses.

"Master Grayson, with all due respect, what you are proposing is not an investment strategy. It is a kamikaze attack on your own net worth. The board would have my license for this!"

The board. Right. Because in the world of Swiss banking, there's always a board of stern old men in expensive suits who sit around judging other people's financial decisions.

"Relax, Klaus," I said, taking another sip of coffee. "I'm not asking you to explain it to the board. I'm asking you to do it. You work for me, remember? Not the other way around."

"But sir, the risk assessment alone–"

"Klaus." I let a note of steel enter my voice, the tone that Bruce Wayne probably used when he wanted something done without questions. "Execute the liquidation. Today."

There was a long pause, filled with what sounded suspiciously like weeping. Finally, Klaus spoke in the hollow voice of a man who was prepared to watch his professional reputation die in real-time.

"Very well, Master Grayson. The liquidation will be completed by market close. Might I ask... what you intend to do with the resulting liquidity?"

And now for the second bomb. This one's going to be nuclear.

"I'm glad you asked," I said cheerfully. "Once the funds are liquid, I want you to put every single dollar into one company: Orion Shipping. Yes, the little one from the Blüdhaven docks. All of it."

The silence this time was different. Not shocked silence, but the silence of a man whose brain has simply stopped processing information because the input has become too absurd to parse.

"Master Grayson," Klaus said eventually, his voice barely above a whisper, "are you... are you under duress? Are you being coerced? Should I contact the authorities?"

He thinks I've been kidnapped by financial terrorists. This is amazing.

"I'm fine, Klaus. Better than fine. I'm about to be rich in ways that would make King Midas weep with envy."

"But sir... Orion Shipping is..." I could hear papers rustling in the background, probably Klaus frantically looking up information about my chosen investment. "Mein Gott... it's a penny stock! Their entire market capitalization is less than what you spend on wine in a year! Their main competitor just suffered a catastrophic industrial accident! Investing now would look incredibly suspicious!"

He's not wrong about the suspicious part. Good thing I don't care.

"Klaus, my man, listen to me," I said, putting on my most reasonable, reassuring voice. "Don't think of it as liquidating a portfolio. Think of it as upgrading from a station wagon to a rocket ship. Trust me."

"A rocket ship," Klaus repeated faintly. "To where, exactly?"

"To the moon, Klaus. To the goddamn moon."

Another long pause.

"Very well, Master Grayson. I will... I will execute the trade. Though I feel compelled to note that this decision will likely be studied in business schools as an example of what not to do with inherited wealth."

If only he knew. In ten years, this trade is going to be studied as the most brilliant investment decision of the 21st century.

"You're a professional, Klaus. I trust your execution, even if you don't trust my judgment."

"Thank you, sir. Will there be... anything else?"

Oh, Klaus. Sweet, innocent Klaus. You have no idea.

"Actually, yes. One more thing. In three days, precisely at 11:45 AM Eastern Standard Time, I want you to execute a massive buy order for LexCorp shares. Use the initial profits from the Orion trade."

The sound Klaus made this time was definitely not a cough.

"Did you say... 11:45 AM? Precisely?"

"To the minute, Klaus. Not 11:44, not 11:46. 11:45 exactly."

"Master Grayson..." Klaus's voice had taken on the tone of a man speaking to someone who had clearly lost their mind. "The specificity of that timing suggests... well, it suggests insider trading. Which is a federal crime. Multiple federal crimes, actually."

Technically, it's not insider trading if the information comes from an alternate dimension. I'm pretty sure that's not covered under SEC regulations.

"Klaus, has anyone ever told you that you worry too much?"

"Yes, sir. Every day. It's what keeps my clients from ending up in federal prison."

"Well, today you can stop worrying. I'm not asking you to break any laws. I'm asking you to execute a perfectly legal trade at a perfectly legal time."

"But why that specific time? What happens at 11:45?"

What happens at 11:45 is that LexCorp is going to announce that their Project Prometheus drones just completed a successful test flight that revolutionizes urban logistics forever. But I can't exactly tell him that.

"Let's call it a hunch."

"A hunch." Klaus's voice was completely flat now. "You want me to risk millions of dollars on a hunch."

"The best investments always are, Klaus."

There was once again a very long pause. I could hear Klaus breathing heavily on the other end of the line, probably contemplating early retirement and a quiet life raising sheep in the Alps.

"Very well," he said finally. "Though I want it noted for the record that I advised against this course of action in the strongest possible terms."

"Noted and ignored," I said cheerfully. "Oh, and Klaus? One more thing."

"Dear God, what now?"

And now for the final touch. The cherry on top of my financial sundae.

"I want you to establish a new shell corporation to channel all these assets and future profits. Something clean, something professional, something that sounds like it could buy and sell countries."

"A shell corporation," Klaus repeated. "Of course. Because this day couldn't possibly get any more irregular."

"I want you to call it 'Hall Holdings.'"

"Hall Holdings," he said mechanically. "Any particular reason for that name?"

"Personal reasons," I said. "Very personal reasons."

"I see. Well, Master Grayson, I believe that concludes our... conversation. I shall begin executing these instructions immediately, though I feel compelled to mention that my cardiologist is going to be very unhappy about the stress this will cause."

Poor Klaus. He has no idea that in six months he's going to be managing one of the largest private fortunes in the world. He's going to be a legend in the Swiss banking community.

"You're a professional, Klaus. I have complete faith in your abilities."

"Thank you, sir. That is... surprisingly comforting, given the circumstances."

"And Klaus?"

"Yes, Master Grayson?"

"When this all works out exactly the way I said it would, I want you to remember this conversation. Because I'm going to need you to trust me on the next crazy scheme."

The sound Klaus made might have been laughter, or it might have been the noise a man makes when his sanity finally snaps completely.

"I shall... I shall keep that in mind, sir. Good day."

The line went dead, leaving me alone with my coffee and the glorious satisfaction of a plan in motion. I could picture Klaus sitting in his Geneva office, staring at his phone and wondering how his quiet, conservative morning had turned into a masterclass in financial terrorism.

Sorry, Klaus. But fortune favors the bold, and I'm about to be the boldest investor in human history.

I opened my laptop and pulled up a design program, spending the next hour creating a simple, elegant logo for my new company. Clean lines, professional typography, the kind of corporate branding that suggested serious money and serious people.

I leaned back in my chair, the logo for Hall Holdings' glowing on the screen, and for the first time since I'd woken up in this world, I felt the glorious, intoxicating freedom of my very own money.

——————————

Author's note:

Next chapter will have Robin!!!

 

[Tomato]

The LexCorp bit is extremely suspicious for insider trading, but the Orion Shipping thing is just blatant insider trading. And it's also not how stocks work. It's literally impossible to spend millions on penny stocks. At that point just buy the company.

Stocks aren't just a number that goes up and down.

And I don't even understand why he cares about money in the first place. The attack on Penguin is meaningless (other than taking down criminals).

I'm out, this story doesn't have enough basic logic for me.

 

[Lillie Jones]

Which Dick Grayson SI makes his own personal investment by insider trading Stealthy Superhero style, one unseen by Lex Corp and another by loud chaos in the Peguins Oswald Cobblepotts disrupting shipping company planning.
Besides, Klaus is going to be a rich financial investor in history of the largest private fortune after following Master Grayson plan of Hall Holdings.
Continue on
Cheers!