The cap pulled low over his eyes, Matthew Gordon looked like any other twelve-year-old boy wandering Gotham's streets after school. No white cane, no dark glasses—just jeans, sneakers, and a blue baseball cap that shadowed his face. To passersby, he was invisible, just another kid headed home or to a friend's house. No one would suspect this particular boy was blind, let alone that he was the commissioner's son conducting surveillance on his own father.
The deception wasn't difficult. Years of training and enhanced senses allowed Matthew to navigate without visible aids. He could "see" through sound, air pressure, and temperature variations better than most people could with their eyes. Keeping his head tilted down and movements confident was enough to avoid scrutiny.
Today's target was Precinct 13, where his father was overseeing a major drug investigation. Matthew had caught fragments of phone conversations, pieced together mentions of surveillance operations, and tracked the rhythm of his father's late nights. Something big was happening, and he intended to learn what.
He took position in a coffee shop across the street, ordering a hot chocolate and claiming a window seat where he could monitor the precinct entrance. The waitress didn't look twice at him—just another kid waiting for a parent, perhaps.
The police radio in his backpack was tuned to the precinct frequency, volume barely audible to normal ears but crystal clear to Matthew's enhanced hearing. He'd "borrowed" the radio from a storage closet during a school tour of GCPD headquarters, replacing it with a broken one from a pawn shop so the theft wouldn't be immediately noticed.
"Delta team in position on Morrison Street," crackled a voice through the radio. "No movement at the warehouse yet."
"Copy that," responded the dispatcher. "Alpha team reports supply truck approaching from the east. All units maintain position until Commissioner Gordon gives the green light."
Matthew sipped his hot chocolate, mentally mapping the operation. Morrison Street was in the industrial district, likely the Harbor View Chemical Storage facility based on previous chatter. A suspected drug lab hidden inside a legitimate business. Classic Gotham.
He had to give it to criminals in this world, they were generally smarter than the average shithead in his world. But the dumb ones, are REALLY dumb.
He pulled out a notebook, beginning what appeared to be homework but was actually detailed documentation of the operation—personnel involved, positions, command structure. Each page would later be transcribed into braille and added to his growing collection of case files hidden in a compartment he'd built into his bedroom wall behind his bookshelf.
The intelligence gathering had a purpose beyond curiosity. By understanding GCPD operations, Matthew could better position his anonymous tips, ensuring they integrated seamlessly with existing investigations. The Ghost's credibility depended on timing and relevance.
"All units standby," his father's voice suddenly came through the radio. "Execute in three minutes."
Matthew checked his watch, noting the time. If patterns held, arrests would begin within twenty minutes, booking within an hour. The rhythm of law enforcement was as predictable as a heartbeat once you learned to listen for it.
The bell above the coffee shop door jingled. Matthew froze, recognizing the footsteps immediately—Barbara. What was she doing here? Her school was across town, and she rarely ventured to this neighborhood.
Matthew turned his face away, heart pounding. He should have anticipated this; Barbara occasionally brought their father dinner when cases ran long. A critical oversight.
She approached the counter, still not noticing him. Matthew had seconds to decide—attempt to leave and risk being spotted, or stay and hope she didn't recognize him. Neither option seemed viable with her between him and the only exit.
"Large black coffee and a turkey sandwich to go, please," Barbara told the cashier.
Matthew slouched lower in his seat, pulling the cap down further. His mind raced through options until he settled on a risky but potentially effective strategy.
Please, please, please, please....
He coughed—not his normal cough, but a deeper, rougher sound than his usual voice would make. Then he muttered something unintelligible in a lower pitch than his normal speaking voice.
Barbara glanced over briefly, then returned her attention to her order. She hadn't recognized him.
While she waited for her coffee, Matthew activated his contingency plan. He pulled out his phone and called his home number, letting it ring until the answering machine picked up.
"Hey Mom, it's Alex," he said in that same rough voice, loud enough for Barbara to hear. "I'm at Mott Street Coffee. Jason bailed on our study group. Want me to wait or head home?"
He paused as if listening to a response, then continued: "Okay, I'll be home in twenty. Later."
Hanging up, Matthew gathered his things slowly, watching Barbara from his peripheral awareness. She collected her order and left without a second glance in his direction. Only when she was halfway across the street did Matthew exhale.
God damn...
That had been too close. He needed better protocols for these surveillance operations.
Fifteen minutes later, Matthew was positioned on a rooftop two blocks from Harbor View Chemical Storage, listening as the GCPD raid unfolded. Officers shouted commands, suspects protested innocence, evidence was catalogued. The operation was textbook, almost boring in its efficiency. His father ran a tight ship.
But something caught his attention—a conversation between two men in an alley behind the building, well outside the police perimeter.
"Daggett's gonna be pissed," the first man muttered. "That's the third lab this month."
"Relax," his companion replied. "He's already moving the main operation to Robinson Park tomorrow night. Underground tunnel system. Cops won't find it for months."
Matthew's body tensed. This was exactly the kind of intelligence 'the Ghost' specialized in providing—advance warning of criminal operations the police had missed. But the timing was tricky. If he called it in too quickly after today's raid, suspicion might fall on someone inside the department.
He'd need to create separation, make the tip seem unrelated to today's operation. Perhaps information that appeared to come from the street level, a low-level dealer looking to reduce charges.
The men continued walking, discussing drop points and schedules. Matthew committed every detail to memory, already formulating his strategy. A note to Detective Montoya, perhaps. She'd been receptive to the Ghost's tips before, treating them seriously without asking too many questions.
By the time Matthew made his way home, taking a circuitous route to avoid being followed, he'd crafted his approach. A note slipped into Montoya's jacket at the coffee shop she frequented each morning. Just enough information to point them in the right direction without revealing his full knowledge. Let them believe they'd made the connections themselves.
He slipped in through his bedroom window—a maneuver that had become second nature despite his supposed blindness. Inside, he quickly changed into his normal clothes, replaced his dark glasses, and positioned himself at his desk with braille homework as if he'd been there for hours.
Right on cue, Barbara knocked on his door.
"Hey squirt," she said, poking her head in. "Dad's working late. I brought dinner."
"Thanks, Babs," Matthew replied, turning toward her voice with practiced precision. "What's the case today?"
"Big drug bust," she said, dropping onto his bed. "I brought him dinner at the precinct. He's doing booking paperwork, said not to wait up."
Matthew nodded, fighting to keep his expression neutral. "Good bust?"
"Apparently. He seemed pleased." She paused, studying him. "What did you do today?"
"Just homework," he replied, gesturing to his desk. "Essay for Father Callahan's class."
Barbara seemed satisfied with the answer, but as she left, she paused in the doorway. "Weird thing—I thought I saw you at Mott Street Coffee today. Some kid with your build, same color hair. For a second I could have sworn..."
Dude...
Matthew's heart raced, but he kept his voice steady. "Huh?wasn't me. You do know that I need my walking stick, right? Or the fact that I'm blind..."
She laughed. "Right. Of course not. Must have been that guy on the phone—Alex, I think his name was."
"Probably," Matthew agreed, relieved his deception had worked.
After Barbara left, Matthew retrieved his braille notebook from its hiding place and transcribed the day's intelligence. The Robinson Park operation would be shut down before it began, but he needed to be careful. Direct intervention risked exposure, but remaining passive meant criminals might escape justice.
It was a balancing act he was still learning to perfect. In his last life, he had been passive at one point. But also overly-aggressive to the point of evil.
The questions were becoming more pressing as he grew older. At twelve, his capabilities were already beyond what most adults could imagine.
Matt wanted a normal life, but don't mistake the desire for a normal life as a complete lack of preparation. He trained, trained, and trained ever since he'd woken up in this world.
By sixteen, he would be physically capable of returning to vigilante activities if he chose that path. The thought both thrilled and terrified him. Matt had even decided that he would participate in the infamous Meta-Brawl,a cage-fighting club run by Roulette.
That's right, he knew about it. And at first wanted no part of it, but deep down in his soul, that was unacceptable.
He would use such an event to his advantage. Matt was confident in his ability, no question. But he needed to be better. More skilled, refined, exceptional, lethal, and formidable.