The steady beep of the heart monitor was the first thing Matthew Gordon registered as consciousness returned to him. The second was pain—a dull, persistent ache behind his eyes that seemed to pulse in rhythm with his heartbeat. The third was darkness. Complete, overwhelming darkness.
Matthew tried to open his eyes, but they felt heavy, restricted. Something was covering them—bandages, he realized as his fingers tentatively explored his face. The rough texture of gauze wrapped around his head, pressing firmly against his closed eyelids.
"Matt? Matty, are you awake?" The voice came from his right side—his father, James Gordon. The familiar scent of coffee and the faint traces of cigarette smoke that always clung to his clothes confirmed it. There was a scrape of chair legs against linoleum as his father moved closer.
"Dad?" His voice came out as a rasp, his throat dry and scratchy. "What happened? Where am I?"
"You're in Gotham General, son." His father's hand found his, squeezing gently. "There was an accident. A chemical truck overturned near the school. Do you remember?"
Matthew started to shake his head, but the motion sent fresh waves of pain through his skull. "No, I—"
And then, suddenly, he did remember.
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The screech of tires. The blare of a horn. The metallic groan of a truck tipping onto its side.
Matt had been walking home from school when he heard it—the sickening sound of impending disaster. He'd looked up to see a truck carrying industrial chemicals sliding across the intersection, its load shifting dangerously as the driver fought to regain control.
There was a woman with a stroller at the corner. She was frozen in fear, watching as the truck barreled toward her. Matt didn't think. He ran, shoving the woman and stroller clear of the path of destruction. But as the truck's container split open, sending a wave of caustic chemicals across the street, Matt couldn't get himself out of the way in time.
The last thing he remembered was burning—a horrible, searing pain as the chemicals splashed across his face and into his eyes. He remembered screaming. Then nothing
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"The doctors say you were very brave," his father was saying, his voice thick with emotion. "You saved that woman and her baby. But the chemicals..." James Gordon paused, clearing his throat. "They got in your eyes, Matt."
Matthew could hear what his father wasn't saying. The subtle shift in his breathing, the way his voice caught. Whatever had happened, it was bad.
"I can't see," Matthew stated flatly. It wasn't a question.
His father's hand tightened around his. "The doctors are doing everything they can, but... they say the damage is severe. They don't think..." Another pause, heavier this time. "They don't think your sight will come back, son."
The words should have devastated him. A nine-year-old boy being told he would never see again. It should have broken him. But something strange was happening to Matthew Gordon. As his father delivered the life-altering news, a cascade of foreign memories began flooding into his consciousness.
A boxing ring. A man with a weathered face calling him "Matty." Law books spread across a desk. A woman with blonde hair laughing. A red suit. Rooftops. The taste of blood in his mouth. Hell's Kitchen. Nelson and Murdock. Foggy. Karen. Elektra. Stick.
Another life. A complete life. Forty years of memories belonging to someone named Matt Murdock.
Matthew's breathing quickened as the foreign memories collided with his own. He remembered being Matthew Gordon, son of Commissioner James Gordon and little brother to Barbara Gordon. But he also remembered being Matthew Murdock, son of boxer Jack Murdock, blind lawyer and vigilante known as Daredevil.
Two lives. Two sets of memories. Both equally real, equally vivid.
And something else was happening too. As the memories of Matt Murdock settled into place alongside those of Matthew Gordon, his other senses began to sharpen. The antiseptic smell of the hospital room became overwhelming. He could taste the chemicals in the air. The steady beep of the heart monitor grew louder, joined by dozens of other sounds—conversations in distant rooms, the squeak of gurney wheels down the hall, the hum of electricity in the walls.
And beneath it all, the sound of his father's heartbeat. Strong. Worried. Afraid.
"Dad," Matthew said, his voice steadier now. "It's okay."
"Matt, I know this is a lot to take in. The doctors said there might be other treatments we could try, specialists in Metropolis or Central City. I'm not giving up, son."
Matthew reached out with his free hand, finding his father's arm with surprising accuracy. "I know you won't. But right now, I'm just glad you're here."
James Gordon pulled his son into a careful hug, mindful of the IV lines and monitors. "Always, Matty. Always."
As his father embraced him, Matthew's enhanced senses painted a picture of the room around him. The dimensions, the furniture, the equipment. He could hear the blood flowing through his father's veins, sense the electrical impulses of his nervous system. It was overwhelming, disorienting—but also familiar. Part of him—the Matt Murdock part—had lived with these abilities for decades.
"Is Barbara here?" Matthew asked as his father released him.
"She was. I sent her home to get some rest about an hour ago. She's been here since they brought you in yesterday, wouldn't leave your side." There was pride in Gordon's voice when he spoke of his daughter. "She'll be back soon. Probably with more of those smuggled-in cookies from that bakery you like."
Matthew smiled at that, even as his mind raced to process everything that was happening. Two lives colliding in the mind of a nine-year-old boy. The knowledge and experience of a middle-aged man trapped in a child's body. Enhanced senses that would let him "see" the world in ways most couldn't imagine.
"Dad," he said softly, "would you mind getting me some water?"
"Of course, son." The chair scraped again as Gordon stood. "I'll be right back."
As soon as his father's footsteps faded down the hall, Matthew carefully raised himself to a sitting position. He needed to test something. He concentrated, focusing his hearing outward, beyond the confines of his room. Conversations, equipment, footsteps, heartbeats—the symphony of hospital sounds washed over him. Just as they had in his past life.
Then he extended his hand, moving it slowly through the air, feeling the subtle changes in temperature and air currents that helped map the space around him. Yes, it was all there. The abilities that had defined Daredevil had come with the memories.
Matthew lowered his hand as his father's familiar gait approached from down the hall.
He wasn't just Matthew Gordon anymore. He wasn't just the son of Commissioner James Gordon of the GCPD.
He was also Matt Murdock. Daredevil. The Man Without Fear.
And he had been given a second chance.