Matthew woke before dawn, his internal clock still functioning perfectly despite everything else that had changed. The house was silent save for his father's soft snoring down the hall and the occasional creak of settling wood. Perfect conditions for what he needed to do.
He slipped out of bed and moved to the center of his bedroom, bare feet silent against the cool hardwood. The space wasn't ideal—nothing like the expansive gym where he'd once trained—but it would have to do. He'd spent the past week rearranging furniture to create a small open area, explaining to his family that having a clear path helped him navigate better.
It wasn't entirely a lie. Just not the whole truth.
Matthew dropped to the floor and began with push-ups—standard fare for a nine-year-old interested in fitness, nothing that would raise eyebrows if discovered. The burn came quickly, his young muscles protesting after just fifteen repetitions. This body was untrained, soft in ways that frustrated him. He'd once been able to do hundreds without breaking a sweat.
"Pathetic," he muttered, hearing Stick's gravelly voice in his head.
"Again, Matty. You think your enemies care if you're tired? Pain is in the mind. Control your mind, control your body."
The memory was so vivid he could almost smell the familiar mustiness of Stick's dojo, feel the rough wooden floor against his palms. Matthew switched to sit-ups, counting under his breath. Twenty, thirty, forty—his abdomen screaming with each repetition.
His old mentor had been brutal, uncompromising, but effective. Stick had forged him into a weapon through sheer force of will and unrelenting discipline. Matthew had hated him sometimes, but without that training, he would never have survived his first night on the rooftops of Hell's Kitchen.
"You're blind, kid, not dead. Stop feeling sorry for yourself and get up."
Matthew transitioned to squats, then lunges, then planks—a circuit designed to work every major muscle group. Sweat beaded on his forehead, dampened his t-shirt. By the time he moved to balance exercises, standing on one leg with arms extended, his heart pounded like a drum in his chest.
This young body was weak, but it had potential. No old injuries to work around. No accumulated damage from years of fighting. A clean slate.
He'd made a schedule, carefully planned to avoid suspicion. Four days a week of strength training in his room before anyone else was awake. Weekend runs that he could explain as part of his mobility training with Dr. Thompkins. Swimming lessons at the GCPD community outreach program—his father had already mentioned enrollment, thinking it would boost his confidence.
Matthew moved through a series of stretches, feeling the pleasant burn of muscles being awakened. The martial arts would come later, when he had established a foundation of strength. For now, no one would question a child doing basic exercises.
He'd already planted the seeds with his father, expressing interest in adaptive physical education and sports for blind children. James Gordon had practically glowed with relief at this sign of "healthy adjustment." If Matthew gradually displayed greater physical prowess than expected, it would be attributed to determination and hard work—the Gordon family spirit.
As Matthew shifted into a handstand against his bedroom wall, his arms immediately began to shake. He gritted his teeth, holding the position as long as possible before crashing unceremoniously to the floor. Frustration washed over him. He'd once been able to hold a one-handed handstand for minutes at a time.
"Start small," he reminded himself. "You didn't build Rome in a day last time either."
He moved to his closet, feeling along the back wall where he'd hidden the makeshift weights—water bottles filled with sand, carefully sealed and wrapped in duct tape to prevent leaks. Nothing elaborate, but enough for bicep curls and shoulder presses to supplement his bodyweight exercises.
Twenty minutes into his improvised routine, Matthew's muscles were on fire. His stamina was laughable compared to what he'd once possessed. When he finally collapsed onto his bedroom rug, breath coming in ragged gasps, he felt a strange mixture of frustration and exhilaration.
This was just the beginning. He would rebuild himself, methodically and patiently. This time, with knowledge his younger self hadn't possessed the first time around.
"The body is just a tool, Matty. Your real strength is up here." Stick's ghostly voice again, accompanied by the memory of a calloused finger tapping his forehead. "Someone can take your strength, but they can't take your discipline unless you let them."
Matthew wiped sweat from his face with the hem of his shirt, listening to the sounds of his home coming awake. His father's alarm clock beeping softly, followed by the creak of bedsprings as the commissioner rose to face another day protecting Gotham. Barbara turning over in her sleep, murmuring something unintelligible before settling again.
He had maybe fifteen minutes to shower and erase evidence of his early morning exertions before breakfast. Matthew gathered his clothes and made his way silently to the bathroom, muscles protesting with each step.
Under the hot spray of the shower, he allowed himself a moment of reflection. In his previous life, training had been about survival, then justice, then something darker toward the end. A way to channel his anger and pain. Now, it felt different.
This time, he trained not just for himself, but for the family sleeping under this roof. For the father who spent sleepless nights worrying about his son's future. For the sister who fiercely defended him from playground bullies. They deserved protection, and Matthew intended to provide it, whether they knew it or not.
He dried off quickly and dressed in his school clothes, carefully hanging his towel to hide any evidence of an unusually intense morning routine. By the time he made his way downstairs, guided by the scent of coffee and toast, he had composed himself into the picture of an ordinary blind child starting another day.
"Morning, sport," his father greeted from behind the newspaper. "Sleep well?"
"Yeah," Matthew replied, sliding into his usual seat at the kitchen table. "What's for breakfast?"
Barbara placed a plate in front of him, guiding his hand to the fork. "Scrambled eggs and toast. I put the eggs at twelve o'clock, toast at six."
"Thanks, Babs."
As they ate breakfast, Matthew mentally reviewed his training plan. He would need to be patient, building strength gradually enough to seem natural. No sudden displays of athleticism that would raise questions. Just steady, consistent progress that could be attributed to dedication and good coaching.
In a few years, when his body had developed more, he could introduce more advanced techniques. For now, he would focus on fundamentals—strength, balance, endurance. The foundation upon which everything else would be built.
"Mrs. Davis called yesterday," his father mentioned, refilling his coffee cup. "Said you're doing exceptionally well with the new material. Adapting faster than anyone expected."
Matthew shrugged, careful to maintain his façade of modesty. "It's not that hard once you get used to it."
"She mentioned you might be interested in some extracurricular activities. The school has an adaptive physical education program."
"That sounds good," Matthew replied, seizing the opening. "Leslie mentioned exercise helps with spatial awareness and confidence."
His father's heartbeat quickened slightly, a tell-tale sign of relief and hope. "I'll sign you up, then. It might be fun."
Barbara ruffled his hair as she passed. "Maybe you'll get super buff and be able to carry my books for me again."
"In your dreams," Matthew retorted, but he smiled.
After breakfast, as Barbara helped him gather his school materials, Matthew felt the pleasant ache in his muscles.
Ah, a familiar feeling. That's called progress.
Stick had been a harsh teacher, but an effective one. Matthew could almost feel the old man watching, judging his efforts with that perpetual scowl.
Stubborn asshole, heh.