The digital clock on Matthew's nightstand clicked to 12:30 AM, its red numbers the only light in his darkened bedroom. He lay perfectly still, listening to the sounds of his home. His father's deep, rhythmic breathing from down the hall—the heavy sleep of a man who carried Gotham's burdens on his shoulders. Barbara's occasional page turns as she read late into the night, a habit their father pretended not to notice. The old house settling, pipes pinging as they cooled, the refrigerator's gentle hum.
Every sound accounted for. Every routine predicted.
Matthew slipped from beneath his covers, already dressed in black sweatpants and a dark hoodie. No need for the theatrical costume of his past life—tonight was about movement, freedom, and seeing the Bat in action.
His window opened without a sound, the hinges carefully oiled during weekend "maintenance" he'd claimed was to prevent squeaking that bothered his sensitive hearing. The cool night air rushed in, carrying Gotham's distinct bouquet—pollution, water from the bay, distant food carts, humanity in all its messy glory.
Matthew perched on the windowsill, orienting himself. The trellis beside his window had become his private exit route these past months, sturdy enough to support his weight but innocuous enough that no one questioned its presence. He descended with practiced ease, fingers and toes finding familiar holds.
Once on solid ground, Matthew moved through the shadows of his neighborhood with silent efficiency. No white cane, no hesitant steps—just fluid motion that would have seemed impossible for a blind thirteen-year-old. But Matthew Gordon was more than just a blind teenager, and tonight he wasn't pretending otherwise.
He'd spent weeks planning this excursion, studying police band chatter and criminal movements to predict where Batman would appear. The pattern suggested Crime Alley, where rumors of a major weapons deal had been circulating. By Matthew's calculation, the Dark Knight would arrive around 1 AM.
Gotham's architecture was a climber's paradise—fire escapes, decorative stonework, maintenance ladders—all creating vertical pathways for those with the skill to use them. Matthew scaled a five-story apartment building with methodical precision, his body remembering techniques from a lifetime of rooftop traversal.
The physical exertion felt glorious after months of restraint. His training regimen had maintained his strength and flexibility, but nothing compared to the real thing—moving across the urban landscape as it was meant to be experienced, without limitations or pretense.
At the building's edge, Matthew paused, extending his senses outward. The city spread before him in a tapestry of sound, smell, and air pressure. He could perceive the dimensions of structures around him, the movements of people below, the distant rumble of the elevated train.
For ten minutes, he simply existed in this moment of freedom, reminding himself who he had been—and perhaps who he might become again.
Then he moved, leaping the narrow gap to the next building with practiced ease. His body flowed across the rooftops, muscle memory compensating for his smaller frame. This wasn't the Hell's Kitchen skyline, but Gotham's architecture had its own rhythm, its own personality that he was quickly learning to navigate.
Three blocks east, then two north. Matthew settled into position on a water tower, perfectly situated to observe the warehouse where the weapons deal would take place. Below, men with elevated heart rates and the metallic scent of gun oil moved crates from a truck to the building. The distinctive click of automatic weapons being checked echoed in the still night.
He was right about the location. Now to see if Batman would arrive as predicted.
Matthew didn't wait long. A subtle displacement of air, the soft creak of grapnel wire under tension, a heartbeat so controlled it barely registered—Batman had arrived on the adjacent rooftop.
The vigilante moved with impressive stealth, even to Matthew's enhanced senses. There was economy in every motion, no wasted energy.
This guy was the real deal.
Matthew found himself analyzing the man's technique, comparing it to his own style from his previous life.
Batman was heavier, more grounded. Where Daredevil had emphasized acrobatics and momentum, Batman used his weight and strength. Both effective approaches, but suited to different physiques and environments.
For fifteen minutes, Batman conducted surveillance, motionless except for the occasional adjustment of some device on his belt. Then, with startling suddenness, he moved, descending to street level in one fluid motion.
What followed was a master class in controlled violence. Batman entered through a skylight, and the sounds of combat erupted inside the warehouse. Matthew tracked the fight through his enhanced hearing—the whistling of air as punches were thrown, the distinct sound of body armor absorbing impacts, the crack of bones that weren't Batman's.
Eight armed men, neutralized in under two minutes. Efficient. Clinical. Effective.
Matthew found himself leaning forward, completely absorbed in the battle. So absorbed that he nearly missed the shift in Batman's attention after the last opponent fell.
The Dark Knight had paused, head tilted slightly upward—toward Matthew's position.
Heart suddenly pounding, Matthew froze. Had Batman somehow sensed him watching? Impossible—he was three buildings away, making no sound, completely still.
Yet Batman's focus remained fixed in his direction. Then came the soft pneumatic hiss of the grapnel gun being fired.
Matthew didn't wait to confirm his suspicions. He rolled backward off the water tower, landing silently on the rooftop, and sprinted across the gravel surface. Years of training prevented his footfalls from making detectable sound, but he knew Batman would have equipment that might compensate for that advantage.
At the building's edge, Matthew launched himself across the gap to the next structure, tucking into a roll upon landing. Two more rooftops, then down a fire escape. He moved with controlled urgency, not panic—panic made mistakes, and mistakes got you caught.
Only when he was six blocks away, concealed in the shadow of a gargoyle on Gotham Cathedral, did Matthew pause to assess. No pursuit detected. No sound of cape or boots on stone. He had evaded Batman, this time.....
The close call sent adrenaline spiking through his system. Batman was more perceptive than he'd anticipated. Some combination of training and technology had allowed him to detect an observer that most wouldn't have noticed.
Despite the danger, he couldn't suppress a smile. The thrill of movement, of testing himself against the best, of being his true self without constraints—it was intoxicating after so long pretending to be less than he was.
For a moment, Matthew allowed himself to imagine returning to vigilantism.
But the rational part of his mind quickly reasserted control. He was thirteen, physically speaking. His body, while trained beyond what most adults could achieve, still lacked the mass and strength of his adult self. And any vigilante activity would risk exposure, endangering not only himself but his father and Barbara.
But perhaps these nighttime excursions could become regular training exercises—preparation for whatever future awaited him.
The cathedral bell tolled one-thirty, reminding Matthew of the time. Home was fifteen minutes away at his best pace. If he wanted to return before anyone noticed his absence, he needed to move now.
The journey back was less hurried but no less exhilarating. Matthew took a different route, practicing his mental mapping of Gotham's ever-changing skyline.
He reached his neighborhood just after 1:45 AM, approaching his house from the rear to avoid the street lights. The trellis welcomed him back, sturdy handholds guiding him to his still-open window.
Once inside, Matthew paused, extending his senses through the house. Nothing had changed—his father still slept, Barbara had finally set aside her book, and the house continued its nocturnal symphony.
He changed quickly, hiding his dark clothes beneath the floorboard he'd loosened months ago. By the time he slipped beneath his covers, heart rate deliberately slowed through meditation techniques, there was no evidence of his nighttime adventure.
Except, perhaps, for the lingering smile he couldn't quite suppress.