Oswald Cobblepot's phone buzzed during his meeting with the East Side dock managers. He ignored it until the third consecutive call in five minutes demanded attention.
"This had better warrant interruption," he muttered, excusing himself to answer.
Candice's voice came through, breathless and panicked. "Sir, we're under attack. Black Mask's crew—they've taken hostages in the main room. They're asking for you specifically."
The Penguin's carefully maintained composure cracked. His fingers tightened around the phone until his knuckles whitened. "How many?"
"At least fifteen armed men. They're wearing the masks, carrying automatic weapons."
"And my security?"
"Four are do-, oh God...please don't hurt me!" The line filled with sounds of struggle, a scream, then nothing.
Cobblepot ended the call, turning to the nervous dock managers with an expression that made them shrink back. "It seems our business will conclude early, gentlemen. Roman Sionis has made an egregious miscalculation."
As his driver sped toward the Iceberg Lounge, Cobblepot stared through the tinted windows, his mind calculating losses and responses. Black Mask had violated the most sacred rule of Gotham's underworld—neutral territory was to remain neutral. The Iceberg Lounge hosted criminals and cops alike, maintained through careful arrangements and substantial bribes.
This wasn't just an attack. It was a declaration of war.
"Faster," he ordered his driver. "And call Victor. Tell him vacation's over."
____________________________________
Eliza Reed had experienced fear before. Her father's funeral. The night three men had followed her home from the library. The first time she'd argued a mock trial case.
But nothing compared to the cold metal of a gun barrel pressed against her temple.
"Keep still," the masked man growled, his arm tight around her throat. "You're our insurance policy."
Around her, chaos unfolded in slow motion. The club's patrons scattered like startled birds, trampling each other in their desperation to escape. Security guards lay motionless near the entrance, dark stains spreading across their white jackets.
Sophia crouched nearby, blood streaming from her broken nose. Chloe Kane knelt beside her, a vivid red handprint marking her pale cheek. Raina lay curled on the floor, clutching her knee, her screams piercing even through the cacophony of panic.
"They're not coming," one of the masked men called, checking his phone. "Penguin's not even in the building."
"Then we take the message elsewhere," their leader replied, gesturing toward Eliza. "Start with this one. Commissioner's kid's friend, right? Perfect headline."
Eliza felt her body go cold. They were going to take her. Use her. Kill her, probably. And her father wasn't even alive to investigate her murder.
"Hurry up," the man holding her barked, dragging her toward the service exit. "Cops will be here soon."
Eliza's mind raced through options. Fight? Scream? Compliance? Nothing seemed likely to improve her chances. She thought of her mother, who had already lost her husband. Of Matthew, who had lectured her just last week about being more careful in Gotham after dark.
Matthew. Where was he? Last she'd seen, he'd gone upstairs with that white-haired woman. Was he safe? The thought of her blind friend helpless in this chaos made her stomach clench.
A change in the atmosphere interrupted her thoughts. The lights flickered once, twice—then darkness engulfed the Iceberg Lounge.
Absolute, perfect darkness.
Her captor's grip tightened. "What the—"
The scream that followed didn't come from Eliza. It came from somewhere across the room, followed by a thud and the distinct sound of breaking bone.
Then another. And another.
The man holding her shifted, uncertain. "Marcus? Joey? Report!"
No answer came except more sounds of impact and pain. Her captor pushed her roughly to the floor, turning in confused circles, his gun waving wildly in the darkness.
"Stay down!" he shouted, panic edging into his voice. "I'll shoot! I swear I'll—"
His threat ended in a wet gurgle. Something whistled through the air—a projectile of some kind—followed by the clatter of his gun hitting the floor. Heavy footsteps approached, then a hand touched Eliza's shoulder.
She flinched instinctively.
"It's me," Matthew's voice whispered, impossibly calm. "Don't move yet."
Before she could process this impossibility—Matthew, here, in the darkness where everyone was equally blind—he was gone again, his presence vanishing as silently as it had appeared.
More sounds of combat echoed through the darkened club. Bodies hitting walls. Guns clattering to the floor. Men crying out in pain and fear. None of it made sense. How could anyone navigate this perfect darkness with such ease?
It lasted perhaps two minutes—this symphony of systematic violence. Then silence fell, broken only by the moans of the injured and the distant wail of approaching sirens.
The lights flickered back on, revealing a scene from a war zone. Black-masked figures lay scattered across the club floor, each incapacitated in some deliberate way—dislocated shoulders, broken ankles, zip-tied wrists. None dead, all neutralized with ruthless efficiency.
And there, helping Raina to a sitting position, was Matthew Gordon. His pristine Brioni suit was rumpled but intact, dark glasses firmly in place, white cane extended as though he'd been using it to navigate the chaos.
It made no sense. No sense at all.
"Matt?" Eliza called, her voice cracking. "How did you—"
"Eliza!" He turned toward her voice, relief evident in his expression. "Are you hurt?"
She shook her head, then remembered he couldn't see it. "No. Just... confused."
Before she could question further, the main doors burst open. GCPD tactical units poured in, followed by paramedics and uniformed officers.
The impossible questions would have to wait.
________________________________
When the lights died, Matthew Gordon ceased to exist. In his place stood the essence of what had once been Daredevil—not the costume, not the name, but the core of the man who had protected Hell's Kitchen through countless nights.
In darkness, everyone else was blind. But Matthew had never needed light to see.
His world exploded into perfect clarity—fifteen heartbeats belonging to Black Mask's crew, scattered throughout the club. Four on the main floor, including the man holding Eliza. Two near the bar. Three by the main entrance. Two heading upstairs. The rest moving toward the offices and private rooms.
Rose was already in motion, her body language communicating her own transformation from casual clubgoer to lethal operative. Their eyes met across the darkness—a symbolic gesture, an acknowledgment between predators before the hunt began.
No words needed. Rose veered toward the stairs, taking the upper level. Matthew moved toward the main floor, where Eliza's racing heart provided his primary target.
The first thug never knew what hit him. Matthew closed the distance in three silent strides, delivering a precise strike to the throat that collapsed the man's airway without permanent damage. As he crumpled, Matthew relieved him of his weapon, ejecting the magazine and clearing the chamber in one fluid motion.
The second and third fell in similar fashion—quick, efficient takedowns that left them breathing but incapacitated. No killing. Not tonight. Not ever again, if he could help it.
The fourth proved more challenging—larger, with some formal combat training. Matthew absorbed a wild swing, used the man's momentum to slam him into the bar, then delivered a precise elbow strike that shattered the orbital bone around his eye socket. Unpleasant, but not life-threatening.
He reached Eliza's captor last, approaching from behind as the man waved his gun in panicked arcs. The thug never detected Matthew's presence until the thrown baton struck his wrist, shattering the small bones and forcing him to drop his weapon.
Matthew closed the distance in an instant, one hand clamping over the man's mouth to silence his scream, the other delivering a precise nerve strike that rendered him unconscious.
"It's me, don't move yet." he whispered to Eliza, briefly touching her shoulder before continuing his sweep.
The service corridor yielded two more opponents, both dispatched with ruthless efficiency. Then a sound caught his attention—elevated heartbeats, heavy breathing, the distinctive rustle of clothing being forcibly removed.
"Please," a woman's voice begged from behind a storage room door. "I'm nobody. Just a secretary."
"Shut up bitch," a male voice growled. "We've got time before extraction. Take the rest of those fucking clothes off!"
Matthew didn't hesitate. The door splintered beneath his kick, revealing a scene that ignited cold fury in his chest. Candice, Penguin's secretary whom he'd observed during his previous scouting of the club, pinned against the wall by a masked assailant.
This takedown wasn't neat or controlled. Matthew crossed the room in a blur, seizing the man by his collar and hurling him against the opposite wall with enough force to crack the plaster. Before he could recover, Matthew was on him, delivering a series of strikes that left the would-be rapist with a broken jaw, three fractured ribs, and the certainty that he would never threaten a woman again.
"You're safe now," Matthew told Candice, his voice gentler than it had been moments before. "Police are almost here. Can you make it to the main room?"
She nodded, gathering her torn blouse around herself. "Who—"
"Nobody," Matthew replied, already moving toward his next target.
By the time he'd completed his sweep of the ground floor, Rose had neutralized the threats upstairs. They converged near the electrical panel, both breathing slightly elevated but under control.
"Nice work," she murmured, admiration evident in her tone. "You're full of surprises."
"Likewise," Matthew replied. "Police are thirty seconds out. You should go—they'll have questions neither of us wants to answer."
Rose hesitated, then nodded. "Another time, then." She flipped the breaker, restoring light to the club, then vanished through a service exit he hadn't previously mapped.
Matthew took a moment to center himself, adjusting his glasses and retrieving his cane from where he'd stashed it. Commissioner Gordon's blind son couldn't be found standing amid unconscious criminals without explanation. He needed to become Matthew Gordon again—helpless, confused, lucky to have survived.
He made his way to Eliza and her friends, modulating his movements to suggest disorientation. By the time GCPD tactical units breached the doors, he was helping Raina, acting the part of the concerned friend who had somehow navigated the chaos through luck or instinct.
The performance continued as paramedics triaged the injured. Matthew insisted he was unharmed, directing attention to Eliza's friends. When Raina needed assistance to the ambulance, he shouldered her weight, playing the role of helpful bystander rather than the person who had systematically dismantled fifteen armed men in under three minutes.
It was only when they reached the street that a familiar voice cut through the chaos.
"Oh my god, Matthew!" James Gordon pushed through the crowd, terror evident in his voice. "Matt! Are you hurt?"
"Dad," Matthew replied, genuine relief washing through him. "I'm okay. But Raina needs help...her knee's badly injured."
Gordon's heartbeat thundered with adrenaline and residual fear. His hands gripped Matthew's shoulders, checking for injuries despite his son's assurances.
"I'm fine," Matthew repeated. "Really. But Eliza—"
"She's with the paramedics," Gordon confirmed, his attention shifting to the club entrance, where officers were escorting handcuffed, groaning perpetrators to waiting patrol cars. "What happened in there? Reports said armed men, hostage situation..."
Matthew shrugged, adopting the bewildered expression appropriate for a blind teenager who'd survived a traumatic event. "Lights went out. People were screaming. I just tried to stay out of the way, then help where I could."
Gordon's skepticism was palpable, but this wasn't the time for interrogation. "We'll talk later," he promised, squeezing Matthew's shoulder once more before duty reclaimed him.
As ambulances departed with Eliza and her friends, Matthew found himself standing alone amid the controlled chaos of a major crime scene. GCPD officers swarmed the area, collecting evidence and statements from shaken witnesses. None approached him—the commissioner's son warranted special handling, apparently.
He extended his senses, searching for Rose's distinctive heartbeat, but found nothing. She'd vanished completely, leaving no trace beyond the unconscious men she'd neutralized upstairs.
Matthew smiled faintly. Perhaps Gotham held more kindred spirits than he'd realized.
____________________________
Hours later, after hospital visits and preliminary statements, James Gordon stood on the GCPD rooftop beside the activated Bat-Signal. The familiar rush of air announced Batman's arrival before the vigilante spoke.
"Commissioner."
Gordon turned, fatigue evident in every line of his body. "Thanks for coming. Thought you should know—there was an incident at the Iceberg Lounge. Black Mask's crew took hostages, including my son and his friends."
Batman remained silent, waiting for Gordon to continue.
"Fifteen armed men," Gordon elaborated. "All expertly neutralized before my officers breached the building. Broken bones, dislocated joints, concussions, but no fatalities. Good work."
"That wasn't me," Batman observed, his voice betraying no emotion.
"It wasn't you?" Gordon's surprise was genuine. "It has your hallmarks all over it."
"I was across town," Batman replied. "Nygma had rigged explosives at the water treatment facility. Required my full attention."
Gordon frowned, processing this information. "If not you, then who? Nightwing's in Blüdhaven. Robin was spotted with Batgirl in the East End earlier tonight."
"Unknown," Batman admitted, his posture shifting subtly. "But I intend to find out."
"My son was there," Gordon said quietly. "Matthew. Somehow made it through unscathed. Says he just stayed out of the way when the lights went out."
Something in Batman's demeanor changed—a minute adjustment that most would miss but Gordon had learned to read over years of rooftop conversations.
"The lights were deliberately cut," Batman noted.
"That's what the witnesses said. Complete darkness."
Batman remained silent for a long moment. "I'll investigate," he finally said. "Your son is unharmed?"
"Physically, yes." Gordon sighed, removing his glasses to rub his eyes. "Mentally? He's been through a lot in his life already. Losing his sight, adjusting to a new family, and now this..."
"He's resilient," Batman observed. "Like his father."
Before Gordon could respond, Batman had vanished over the rooftop edge, leaving the commissioner alone with his thoughts and the slowly fading Bat-Signal.
______________________________
Bruce descended into the Batcave silently, jaw tight with the aftermath of his encounter with Riddler. The platform elevator hummed as it reached the main floor, bringing him face to face with Alfred, who had positioned himself by the main console with his customary foresight.
"Tea, sir?" Alfred inquired simply, offering the steaming cup.
Bruce removed the cowl, accepting the cup with a nod. His gaze had already shifted to the alerts scrolling across the central monitor. "Incident at the Iceberg Lounge. Black Mask's crew made a move against Cobblepot. Took hostages."
Alfred's posture straightened imperceptibly. "Matthew? Is the boy—"
"Unharmed, according to initial reports," Bruce replied, pulling up footage from cameras positioned strategically around the club. "Something's off, Alfred."
The screens populated with grainy images – service entrance footage, figures in darkness, GCPD response units. Bruce sorted through them methodically, his eyes narrowing.
"Black Mask sent fifteen armed men. All were neutralized before police arrived." His tone remained flat, factual. "Not my work. Not Dick's or Barbara's either."
Alfred observed the footage with practiced detachment. "Gotham never lacks oddities, sir."
"Look here." Bruce isolated and enhanced an image – a slim figure with distinctive white hair slipping away through a service exit. "Deathstroke's daughter. Rose Wilson. Wanted in three countries."
"An assassin at the Penguin's establishment? Hardly surprising."
"No." Bruce's eyes narrowed. "But this is." He brought up another sequence – Matthew Gordon entering the club earlier that evening, then leaving hours later, remarkably composed for someone who had just experienced a violent attack.
Alfred watched, waiting for Bruce to continue.
"Gordon's son has always been... anomalous." Bruce pulled up a secondary file, revealing years of passive observation notes. "His accident, not exactly the same but had a similar chemical composition to compounds developed by STAR Labs for enhanced sensory perception. His training with Ted Grant... Ted has nothing short of praise."
"You've been monitoring the commissioner's son." It wasn't a question.
Bruce didn't acknowledge the mild reproach. "Dick reports Gordon can identify people across crowded rooms without visual cues. Can navigate unfamiliar spaces without assistance. Demonstrates reflexes inconsistent with his medical profile."
"Many who face extraordinary trauma develop extraordinary adaptations," Alfred observed carefully. "Not everyone who overcomes adversity is hiding something."
Bruce remained silent, cycling through more footage. "Rose Wilson has connections to meta-human trafficking rings. Matthew Gordon was in her company minutes before the attack began."
"Coincidence is not causality, Matthew is quite the charismatic young man." Alfred noted.
"Rose Wilson is not just anyone, she's an emotionally guarded trained killer. She wouldn't just 'hang' around anyone." Bruce finally looked up from the screen. "Something happened in that club tonight."
Alfred considered this, then ventured, "If I may, sir, your interest in the Gordon boy seems particularly pointed."
Bruce's expression remained unreadable. "The commissioner's son was present at a precise, systematic takedown of armed criminals in complete darkness. That warrants investigation."
"Indeed." Alfred's tone remained neutral. "I merely observe that your surveillance of Matthew Gordon began long before tonight's events."
Bruce didn't answer immediately. Finally, he closed the primary file. "Monitor him. And Wilson. Discreetly."
"As you wish." Alfred collected the barely-touched teacup. "Though I suspect uncovering the true nature of Commissioner Gordon's son may prove challenging, even for you."
Bruce returned to the footage, studying the millisecond when the club's lights failed. His mind methodically turning over possibilities, probabilities, patterns.
Gotham was his city. He knew its rhythms, its shadows, its secrets.