The alarm vibrated silently at 4:30 AM, tucked beneath Matthew's pillow where only he would feel it. He silenced it with a practiced movement, his hand finding the small device before it completed its first cycle. The house remained quiet—his father wouldn't stir for another hour, Barbara for thirty minutes after that.
These predawn hours belonged to him alone.
Matthew rolled from bed, bare feet meeting the cool wooden floor. At thirteen, his body was beginning to change in earnest—limbs lengthening, muscles responding differently to familiar exercises. Growing pains were both literal and figurative, requiring constant adjustments to his training regimen.
He moved to the center of his room, settling into a cross-legged position on the mat he'd placed there. Meditation first, as always. Five minutes to center himself, to acknowledge the fragments of dreams still clinging to his consciousness—some from this life, others from before.
The dreams had been more frequent lately. Memories of Hell's Kitchen bleeding into his Gotham reality. Stick's voice merging with Father Callahan's. Foggy Nelson sharing space with.... Eliza Reed. A mind bridging two existences.
Matthew pushed the images aside, focusing on his breath. In. Out. The sound of air filling his lungs, the slight expansion of his ribcage, the steady rhythm of his heart. Centering. Grounding.
Then, movement.
He began with Stick's foundational exercises—the same ones the old man had drilled into him lifetime ago. A sequence designed to awaken every muscle group, to build awareness of each sinew and joint. Matthew had added his own modifications, accommodating his growing frame and the limitations of performing in a bedroom rather than a dojo.
Push-ups, first with both hands, then with one, shifting weight to challenge balance. Core exercises, moving from basic sit-ups to more complex rotational movements. Squats, lunges, burpees—building heat in his muscles, preparing them for more specialized training.
An hour of continuous movement, broken only by water sips from the bottle beside his mat. No wasted motion, no unnecessary pauses. The routine Stick had beaten into him now performed voluntarily, with precision born of understanding rather than fear.
Matthew paused, listening to the house. His father's alarm had just activated. Time for the final phase.
He moved to the closet, sliding aside hanging clothes to reveal a pull-up bar he'd installed months ago, carefully positioned to avoid damaging the door frame. Grip strength had always been essential to his fighting style, and adolescence had temporarily weakened his once-reliable hold.
Three sets, maximum repetitions. His current record was twenty-seven—still far from his peak in his previous life, but improving weekly. Today he managed twenty-nine before his arms began to shake.
Progress. Slow but steady.
As he lowered himself from the final repetition, Matthew heard his father's shuffling footsteps heading toward the shower. Perfect timing. He quickly wiped down the equipment, returned everything to its hiding place, and grabbed his own towel. By the time James Gordon emerged from the bathroom, Matthew would be ready for breakfast, showing no signs of his early morning exertions.
This was his routine now. Training in secret, building a foundation for whatever future awaited him. Not driven by Stick's harsh demands or the desperate need that had fueled Daredevil, but something more balanced.
His previous life had taught him the cost of single-minded focus.
He wanted a normal life. But preparation is non-negotiable....
_________________________________
"You want to do what?" James Gordon looked up from his newspaper, coffee cup frozen halfway to his lips.
"Join a boxing gym," Matthew repeated calmly. "For self-defense."
Barbara snorted from her position at the counter. "Is someone giving you trouble at school? Give me names and I'll end them."
"Nobody's bullying me," Matthew replied, though he appreciated his sister's protective instinct. "I just want to learn how to protect myself. Being blind doesn't mean I have to be helpless."
His father set down his cup, the ceramic clicking against the table. Matthew could sense his concern—heartbeat slightly elevated, muscles tensing in his shoulders.
"This is sudden," Gordon observed. "Why the interest in boxing specifically?"
Matthew had prepared for this question. "I've been reading about blind athletes. There's a whole adaptive boxing program. It helps with spatial awareness, confidence, fitness." He paused. "And honestly, Dad? I'm tired of feeling vulnerable."
It wasn't entirely a lie. While Matthew was far from vulnerable with his enhanced senses and previous training, his current physical limitations were frustrating. His thirteen-year-old body lacked the strength and reach he'd once possessed. Boxing would help get his feet wet.
"Matthew...." Gordon's chair creaked as he leaned back, considering. "I-I'm not opposed to self-defense training. But boxing is pretty aggressive for a starter."
"Ted Grant's gym has a youth program," Matthew pressed. "They focus on discipline and control, not just hitting things."
"Ted Grant?" Gordon's interest sharpened. "Wildcat Grant? The champion?"
Matthew nodded, pretending not to know exactly who Ted Grant was—both his public identity as a former heavyweight champion and his secret one as the vigilante Wildcat, one of the Justice Society's founding members.
"I looked him up," Matthew said. "His gym has good reviews. And it's only fifteen minutes from the precinct. I could go after school on days you work late."
Barbara had stopped pretending not to listen. "Wait, you want to learn from a literal boxing legend? That's actually pretty cool, squirt."
Gordon drummed his fingers on the table. Matthew could practically hear his thoughts racing—weighing safety concerns against his son's independence, protective instinct against developmental needs.
"Let me think about it," he finally said.
Matthew suppressed a smile. Gottem. That wasn't a no.
_____________________________
He thought about it.
Three days later, Detective Harvey Bullock's unmarked police car pulled up outside Ted Grant's Boxing Gymnasium, a converted warehouse in Gotham's Old Port District. The detective cut the engine with a grunt.
"Alright, kid. We're here." Bullock turned in his seat, studying Matthew. "Your dad called ahead. Grant's expecting you for an evaluation session. I'll pick you up at six."
"Thanks, Detective Bullock," Matthew replied, gathering his gym bag.
"Yeah, well, your old man owes me one." There was no real bite to Bullock's words. Despite his gruff exterior, the detective had a soft spot for the commissioner's children. "Still can't believe Jim's letting his blind kid take up boxing. Man's either brave or crazy."
"Probably both," Matthew said with a grin.
Bullock snorted. "You got your dad's sense of humor, that's for sure. Alright, scram. And hey—" His voice softened slightly. "If this Grant character gives you any trouble, you tell him Harvey Bullock's waiting outside with a badge and a bad attitude, got it?"
"Got it." Matthew slid from the car, unfolding his white cane with practiced ease. He'd need to maintain appearances until he was inside.
The gym's entrance was marked by the distinctive smell of sweat, leather, and liniment—a scent profile nearly identical to Fogwell's Gym back in Hell's Kitchen. For a moment, Matthew felt a sharp pang of nostalgia.
"You must be the commissioner's boy," a gravelly voice called from across the room. Footsteps approached—heavy but balanced, belonging to someone who knew how to distribute their weight efficiently. "Ted Grant. Welcome to my gym."
Matthew extended his hand in the voice's direction. "Matthew Gordon. Thank you for having me, sir."
A large, calloused hand enveloped his. The grip was firm but controlled—assessing rather than intimidating. Up close, Grant's heartbeat told a fascinating story. Strong, steady, but with a subtle irregularity that spoke of years of punishment in the ring and on the streets. This was a body that had been pushed to its limits repeatedly and refused to break.
"Your father explained your situation," Grant said, releasing Matthew's hand. "Never trained a blind kid before, but I've worked with wounded vets who lost their sight. Principle's the same—work with what you have, not what you've lost."
Matthew nodded, liking the man immediately. "That's what I'm hoping for."
"First things first—tour of the gym so you can get your bearings." Grant placed a hand lightly on Matthew's shoulder, steering him forward. "Ring's center of the main floor. Speed bags along the west wall, heavy bags to the east. Got a weight room in back, locker rooms downstairs."
As they walked, Matthew catalogued every detail—the dimensions of the space, the location of equipment, the number of people training (seven, including two in the ring). He could navigate the entire gym blindfolded even without his enhanced senses, but he maintained his cover, occasionally letting his cane bump against obstacles.
"How much experience you got?" Grant asked as they completed the circuit.
"None formally," Matthew replied. "Just what I've read about."
Grant made a noncommittal sound. "Well, we'll start with basics. Stance, movement, basic strikes. See how you take to it."
For the next hour, Grant guided Matthew through fundamental boxing positions. To maintain his cover, Matthew deliberately made small mistakes—turning his foot at the wrong angle, dropping his guard too low, telegraphing punches. But he couldn't hide his natural aptitude entirely, and by the session's end, Grant was studying him with unmistakable interest.
"You've got good instincts, kid," the former champion observed. "Most beginners, I gotta repeat everything five times. You adjust after one correction."
Matthew shrugged, cooling down with the stretches Grant had demonstrated. "I pay attention."
"More than that. You've got body awareness most adults don't develop without years of training." Grant paused, then added more casually: "You've trained before... haven't you?"
Matthew's heart skipped—a reaction he couldn't control. Had he been too proficient? Shown too much innate understanding of fighting mechanics?
"No. My dad says I'm a quick study," he replied, forcing his heart rate to steady through controlled breathing.
Grant didn't press further, but Matthew sensed the man's continued assessment. Wildcat hadn't survived decades as a vigilante without developing keen instincts.
"We train Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays," Grant said finally. "Four to six. Fifty bucks a month includes access to all youth classes. Deal?"
"Deal," Matthew agreed, extending his hand again.
This time, Grant's handshake conveyed something different—not just evaluation but acknowledgment. One fighter recognizing another, perhaps. Or simply a teacher accepting a promising student.
"Detective Bullock's outside," Matthew said, hearing the familiar engine idling at the curb.
Grant's eyebrows raised slightly. "Good ears."
"Another benefit of being blind," Matthew replied with a smile. "See you Wednesday, Mr. Grant."
As he made his way toward the exit, cane sweeping unnecessarily before him, Matthew felt a lightness he hadn't experienced in months. Comfortability.
He felt... at home in the gym. Ted Grant might not be Stick, but perhaps that was for the best. Different teacher, different approach, different outcome.
"How'd it go, kid?" Bullock asked as Matthew slid into the passenger seat.
"Pretty good," Matthew replied, unable to keep the satisfaction from his voice. "I think I found my new hobby."
Bullock grunted, pulling away from the curb. "Your dad's gonna have kittens when you come home with your first black eye."
Matthew just smiled. If all went according to plan, he wouldn't be the one getting black eyes.