The rooftops of Paris stretched out before him like a maze of stone and shadow. The city was alive with light and music, but Bruce Wayne didn't come for the beauty. He came for knowledge.
He came to steal from the best.
For weeks, he had heard whispers of a man known only as "Le Fantôme" (The Phantom).
A master thief. A legend in the Parisian underworld. He had stolen from billionaires, crime lords, and even corrupt politicians—slipping in and out of fortified mansions, high-security banks, and guarded museums without leaving a trace.
No alarms. No clues.
Bruce had spent his life learning how to fight, how to break men, how to destroy empires from the shadows. But tonight, he wasn't here to break anything.
Tonight, he was here to become a ghost.
---
Bruce had followed the rumors, tracking them like prey. A name here. A whisper there. And eventually, he found him.
The man was older, lean, and impossibly fast. Dressed in black, he moved like water, slipping through Paris as if the streets were his own personal hunting ground. Bruce had spent days watching him—seeing how he moved, how he avoided the police, how he left no sign of his presence.
Then Bruce made his move.
He found Le Fantôme one night in a dimly lit café, sipping a glass of wine, watching the world as if it were a game only he understood. Bruce took a seat across from him.
"You've been following me," the man said without looking up. His French was smooth, effortless.
Bruce wasn't surprised. A man like him would notice a tail.
"I want to learn," Bruce said.
Le Fantôme finally looked at him, his dark eyes sharp. Judging. Measuring.
"Learn what?"
Bruce leaned forward. "How to disappear."
There was a pause. Then, the old thief laughed, shaking his head. "You don't ask a man like me for lessons, boy. You steal them."
He tossed a small silver coin onto the table, watching it spin before settling.
"Steal that from me before the sun rises," he said, standing up. "Then we talk."
And just like that, he was gone.
Bruce smirked.
A test.
---
Bruce followed him through the narrow streets and twisting alleys of Paris, moving in silence, keeping to the shadows. He had tracked animals in the Hindu Kush. He had followed Russian agents through the brutal winters of Moscow.
But this was different.
Le Fantôme wasn't just walking—he was playing with Bruce, testing him.
He would turn a corner and vanish. Bruce would scan the rooftops and find him already three stories above, balancing on a thin beam, walking as if gravity didn't apply to him.
Bruce climbed.
He leapt.
He chased.
But the old thief was faster.
Bruce was stronger, more skilled in combat—but this wasn't a fight. This was a game of ghosts.
And he was losing.
---
Hours passed. The sky turned as dawn approached. Bruce still hadn't touched the coin.
He finally caught sight of Le Fantôme perched on a church rooftop, watching the city below.
Bruce climbed up, panting slightly.
The thief smirked. "No luck?"
Bruce clenched his jaw.
"I should've waited until you slept," he admitted. "Or ambushed you."
Le Fantôme chuckled. "A brute's solution." He stood up, flicking the coin in his hand. "You've been chasing me all night, trying to keep up. But you never stopped to think—"
Then, in a blur, he flipped the coin straight at Bruce's face.
Bruce caught it on reflex.
Le Fantôme grinned.
"—sometimes, you don't have to steal. You just have to make them give it to you."
Bruce looked at the coin in his palm, realization sinking in.
A lesson in deception. In manipulation.
The old thief turned, looking toward the rising sun. "I see it in your eyes, boy. You're not just looking to steal. You're looking to become something."
He glanced back at Bruce.
"I'll teach you."
---
For the next few months, Bruce trained under Le Fantôme, mastering the art of the thief.
He learned how to pick locks faster than most men could blink.
He learned how to slip through a building unseen, moving through security systems without triggering a single alarm.
He learned how to vanish, how to blend into a crowd so well that even someone watching wouldn't realize he had been there.
It wasn't just about skill.
It was about thinking differently.
"Fear is useful," Le Fantôme had said one night, as they crouched on a rooftop, watching the Paris police scramble below. "But fear makes men look for shadows. A true ghost doesn't scare them—he makes them forget he was ever there."
That stuck with Bruce.
Because one day, he wouldn't just need to scare criminals.
He would need to become a myth.
And myths don't leave footprints.
---
One night, Le Fantôme led Bruce to the Louvre Museum, the most secure building in Paris.
"Inside," the old thief whispered, "is a priceless diamond. It belongs to a man who stole it from others. I want you to take it."
Bruce nodded. No questions.
It wasn't about the diamond.
It was about proving he could do it.
He scaled the walls, weaving through security lasers, dodging infrared cameras, and picking locks in complete silence.
It took two hours, but when he returned to the rooftop, the diamond was in his hand.
Le Fantôme smirked. "You're ready."
Bruce nodded. He could feel it.
He was one step closer to becoming what he needed to be.
---
Before Bruce left, he asked Le Fantôme one last question.
"Why did you teach me?"
The old thief exhaled, looking out over the city. "Because you remind me of something I lost."
He turned to Bruce.
"Just don't lose yourself in the shadows, boy."
Bruce didn't say anything.
Maybe it was too late for that.
With that, he vanished into the Paris night, heading toward his next destination.
Because his training wasn't over yet.