The hospital room felt smaller by the hour. Three days had passed since Matthew had awakened to darkness and the flood of memories from another life, and he was growing increasingly restless. The constant prodding and testing from medical staff was becoming tiresome, especially when he had to pretend not to know things his enhanced senses told him.
"I'm going to shine this light directly at your eyes now, Matthew," Dr. Reynolds said, his voice carrying the practiced gentleness of someone who delivers bad news for a living. "Tell me if you can perceive any change in brightness."
Matthew knew the doctor was already holding the penlight six inches from his face. He could feel the warmth of it, sense the subtle increase in temperature against his skin. But Matthew Gordon—the nine-year-old boy who had just been blinded in a chemical accident—wouldn't know that.
"Are you doing it now?" he asked, maintaining the façade of complete blindness.
"Yes," the doctor replied, the subtle shift in his breathing suggesting disappointment. "Nothing at all?"
Matthew shook his head, careful to move it too far in the wrong direction, playing up his disorientation. "No, sir. It's all just... dark."
He heard the scratch of pen on paper as Dr. Reynolds made notes in his chart. "That's alright, son. We'll try again tomorrow."
The door opened, bringing with it a new presence—a woman, judging by the lighter footsteps and the faint scent of lavender soap. Matthew didn't recognize her from the hospital staff who had been treating him.
"Dr. Reynolds," the woman said, her voice warm but carrying a crisp professionalism. "I hope I'm not interrupting."
"Dr. Thompkins," the man replied with obvious respect. "Not at all. I was just finishing up with our young patient."
"Leslie?" Matthew's father's voice came from the corner where he'd been silently observing the examination. James Gordon stood up, his chair scraping against the floor. "I didn't expect you until later."
"I had a cancellation," she replied. "Thought I'd come by early, if that's alright."
There was an awkward tension in the room that Matthew could feel as clearly as the hospital sheets against his skin. He remembered Leslie Thompkins from his life as Matthew Gordon—his father's second ex-wife, a brilliant doctor who had remained close to the family even after the divorce. But the memories were disjointed, viewed through the lens of early childhood.
"Matthew," his father said, moving to the bedside. "This is Dr. Leslie Thompkins. She's... she was..."
"I'm an old friend of your father's," Leslie supplied smoothly, stepping closer. "And I'm a specialist in ocular trauma. Your father asked me to consult on your case."
Matthew extended his hand in roughly the right direction, careful not to be too accurate. "Nice to meet you, Dr. Thompkins."
Her hand was cool and steady as it clasped his. "Please, call me Leslie. I've actually met you before, though you probably don't remember. You were very young."
"Four," Matthew said automatically, drawing on Matthew Gordon's memories. "At Dad's precinct Christmas party. You brought me a model police car."
There was a moment of surprised silence before Leslie chuckled. "That's right. You have quite a memory, Matthew."
"Matt has always been observant," his father said, pride evident in his voice. "Even more so now, the doctors say. It's common for the other senses to become more acute when sight is lost."
If only they knew just how acute those senses had become. Matthew could hear Leslie's steady heartbeat, smell the hospital antiseptic that clung to her clothes beneath the lavender, sense the subtle shifts in air temperature as she moved around the room. He could build a mental image of her as clearly as if he were seeing her—medium height, slender build, hair pulled back, lab coat over professional clothing.
"May I take a few minutes to examine Matthew?" Leslie asked, already reaching for his chart.
"Of course," Dr. Reynolds replied. "I'll leave my notes. Commissioner, would you like to step outside while Dr. Thompkins conducts her examination?"
"Actually," Leslie interjected, "I'd prefer if James stayed. It might make Matthew more comfortable, and I'd like to discuss treatment options afterward."
Matthew sensed his father's relief. James Gordon hadn't left his side for more than a few minutes since the accident, as if afraid his son might disappear if he turned his back too long.
As Dr. Reynolds left, Leslie pulled up a chair beside the bed. "Matt, I'm going to be very honest with you, because I think you're a smart boy who deserves the truth. Is that alright?"
Matthew nodded, intrigued by her approach.
"I've reviewed your initial scans and bloodwork," she continued, her voice gentle but not patronizing. "The chemical exposure caused severe damage to your optic nerves and corneas. The team here has done everything by the book, but I want to run a few additional tests. Not because I think we'll find anything different about your prognosis, but because I want to make sure we have the full picture."
"You don't think I'll see again either," Matthew stated flatly.
A brief pause. "No, I don't. But that doesn't mean we stop trying, and it certainly doesn't mean you can't have an extraordinary life, Matthew."
There was something in her tone—a certainty, a personal knowledge—that made Matthew curious. "Do you work with blind people a lot?"
"Yes," she replied. "I run a clinic in Park Row that serves anyone who needs help, including many with disabilities. I've seen firsthand how resilient people can be, especially children."
The examination that followed was more thorough than anything the hospital staff had done. Leslie tested his pupillary responses, checked for any signs of peripheral vision, and analyzed his ability to detect shapes and movement with gentle fingers rather than cold instruments. Throughout it all, she explained what she was doing and why, treating him like a participant in his care rather than just a subject.
Matthew had to concentrate to maintain his act. The Matt Murdock part of him knew exactly how to respond to these tests—how to convincingly show total blindness while preserving dignity. But he had to remind himself to act like a newly-blind child, confused and uncertain about his condition.
"Well," Leslie finally said, making a few notes in his chart, "your father wasn't wrong about your other senses becoming more acute. Your hearing and touch sensitivity are already showing remarkable adaptation."
If she only knew. Matthew smiled faintly.
"Matthew," Leslie continued, her tone shifting subtly, "I'm going to recommend a rehabilitation program that will help you adjust. It includes learning Braille, orientation and mobility training, and other skills that will help you navigate the world. With the right support, you'll be back in school before you know it."
"Will I be able to play baseball again?" he asked, drawing on a memory of Matthew Gordon's passion.
The question hung heavy in the air. His father's breathing hitched slightly.
"Not in the same way," Leslie admitted. She means no. "But there are adapted sports programs for visually impaired children. And you'll discover new interests, new ways to challenge yourself."
Matthew nodded, accepting the answer.
"I'd like to start some of this training while you're still in the hospital," Leslie continued. "If that's alright with you and your father."
"Whatever Matt needs," James Gordon said firmly.
"Good. I'll make the arrangements." Leslie stood up. "James, could I speak with you in the hall for a moment? Matthew, I'll be back tomorrow to start our work together."
As the adults stepped outside, Matthew focused his hearing to follow their conversation. It was an invasion of privacy, but he needed information to understand his new situation fully.
"James," Leslie was saying, her voice hushed, "he's handling this remarkably well for his age."
"He's always been mature," his father replied, pride mixing with concern. "But I'm worried about what happens when it really hits him. When he realizes everything he's lost."
"Children are more adaptable than we give them credit for. But yes, there will be difficult days ahead. For all of you."
"Barbara's taking it hard," Gordon admitted. "She's trying to be strong around Matt, but..."
"It's a major adjustment for siblings too," Leslie assured him. "How is she otherwise?"
"Angry. At the world, at the truck driver, probably at me too for not somehow preventing this." A heavy sigh. "She's coming by after school. Been bringing him treats, reading to him..."
"That's good. Keep those connections strong."
Their voices faded as they moved further down the hall, discussing treatment plans and insurance details. Matthew leaned back against his pillows, processing everything he'd learned.
He already knew Braille, already understood how to navigate without vision, already had mastered the use of his enhanced senses to perceive the world around him.
But he couldn't reveal any of that without raising impossible questions.
And beneath all these practical concerns lay deeper existential ones. Why was he here? Why had Matt Murdock's consciousness been transplanted into Matthew Gordon's body at the moment of blindness? Was it random cosmic chance, or something more purposeful?
The memories of his past life as Daredevil weren't all heroic. There was darkness there too—particularly toward the end. Shadowland. The Hand. The demon possession that may or may not have been real. Matt Murdock had died with blood on his hands and darkness in his soul.
Was this a chance at redemption?
His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of running footsteps approaching his room—lighter than an adult's, slightly uneven in pace. The door flew open with enough force to bang against the wall.
"Matty!"
Barbara. His sister's voice was breathless, as if she'd run all the way from school. Matthew could hear the subtle catches in her breathing that suggested she was fighting back tears.
"Hey, Babs," he said, turning toward her voice and smiling.
She crossed the room quickly and threw her arms around him, careful of the IV lines still attached to his arm. Her body trembled slightly against his.
"You're supposed to be in school," he said, bringing his free hand up to awkwardly pat her back.
"Half day. Teacher conferences." The lie was obvious in the slight elevation of her heartbeat, but Matthew didn't call her on it. "How are you feeling? Dad said you had some tests today."
"I'm okay," he assured her. "Just bored of being in this bed."
Barbara pulled back, and he could sense her studying his face, particularly the bandages still wrapped around his eyes. "Does it hurt?"
"Not much anymore." That, at least, was true. The physical pain had subsided to a dull ache.
"I brought you something." There was a rustle as she dug into her backpack. "Mrs. Wilson made brownies in Home Ec today. I saved you the biggest one."
The smell of chocolate hit his enhanced senses, rich and comforting. "Thanks, Babs."
She pressed the treat into his hand, wrapped in a napkin. As he took a bite, he heard her sink into the chair beside his bed, her heartbeat still slightly elevated, her breathing carefully controlled.
"You don't have to pretend not to cry," he said quietly between bites. "I can hear it in your voice."
Barbara was silent for a long moment. Then, barely audible: "I should have been there. I should have walked you home from school like Dad asked me to."
"This isn't your fault," Matthew said firmly, reaching out to find her hand. "Nobody could have stopped that truck from crashing."
"But I could have pushed you out of the way instead of you having to save that woman," she insisted, her voice cracking. "You're my little brother, Matty. I'm supposed to protect you."
The guilt in her voice was painfully familiar to the Matt Murdock part of him. How many times had he blamed himself for failing to protect someone? How many nights had he spent punishing himself for not being fast enough, strong enough, good enough?
"You can't protect everyone, Babs. Not even Batman can do that."
She sniffled, squeezing his hand tightly. "That's different."
"Not really," he said, drawing on wisdom from his past life. "We all have choices to make. I chose to help that woman and her baby. And I'd do it again."
Barbara was quiet for a moment, processing his words. "When did you get so smart?"
I'm not so smart, my death kinda made that clear. Matthew just shrugged and smiled. "Must be all the hospital food."
That earned a watery laugh from her. "Yeah, right. It's practically toxic waste."
They fell into conversation about school and friends, Barbara catching him up on all he'd missed during his hospital stay. Throughout it all, Matthew could sense her protective instinct strengthening. His brave, brilliant sister had always looked out for him, but now there was a fierce determination in her that reminded him of something... or someone.
It wasn't until later that night, as Matthew drifted toward sleep, that the nightmare came. A twisted amalgamation of both lives' darkest moments.
He stood atop Shadowland's fortress in Hell's Kitchen, but the city below was Gotham, its distinctive skyline illuminated by fire. The Hand ninjas surrounding him wore Batman's insignia twisted into something wrong. Elektra lay dead at his feet, but when he turned her over, it was Barbara's face he saw, bloodied and broken.
"You did this," said a voice—Stick's voice coming from his father's mouth. "You brought the Beast with you."
Matthew looked down at his hands to find them covered in blood that wouldn't wash away. When he tried to speak, to deny the accusation, black smoke poured from his mouth instead of words.
"The Hand is reborn in Gotham," the Beast within him said, using his voice. "And this time, no one will stop us."
Matthew jerked awake, a silent scream caught in his throat. His heart hammered in his chest as he oriented himself. Hospital room. Night-time. The steady beep of monitors. A nurse typing at a station down the hall.
Somehow, he would have to find a way to be Matthew Gordon without succumbing to the darkness that had consumed him in his past life.