Survivor | Frank Castle

.11.

The world comes back to Mary in fragments. Consciousness returns like a slow tide, bringing with it the awareness of her surroundings. She feels the comfort of a familiar surface beneath her, the softness of her own bed. The room is dimly lit, shadows dancing on the walls.

Her head aches, and as she lifts a hand to touch her temple, a twinge of pain reverberates through her. The air smells faintly of smoke, a lingering reminder of whatever chaos had unfolded. A memory nudges at the edges of her mind — an explosion, the sound of gunfire, the acrid taste of smoke.

As Mary opens her eyes, the room comes into focus. It's her apartment, and she's lying on her bed. The events leading to this moment are hazy, like a dream slipping away upon waking. She tries to sit up, and that's when she feels it — a dull ache in her ribs, a soreness that extends through her body.

The realization hits her: something went wrong. Something dangerous. And then, in the recesses of her memory, she sees Frank carrying her through smoke and chaos. He had saved her.

Mary takes a deep breath, grappling with the aftermath of whatever transpired. Her eyes scan the room, seeking clues that might fill in the gaps in her memory. The clock on her bedside table reads well past midnight, and the room is silent save for the distant sounds of the city outside.

She glances down and finds herself fully clothed. Her fingers brush against the fabric, and she notices a faint smudge of soot on her sleeves. The evidence of something intense, something she can't quite recall.

Carefully, Mary swings her legs over the edge of the bed and sits up, wincing at the pain in her ribs. The apartment is eerily quiet, devoid of the usual sounds of Max's gentle snores or the distant hum of the city. It's as if the world outside is holding its breath.

Slowly, Mary stands, testing her legs. She moves through the apartment, piecing together the events that led her here. A fleeting image of a burning boat, of Frank's determined eyes in the midst of chaos, flickers in her mind.

In the kitchen, she finds a half-empty glass of water, a silent testament to someone's care. The scent of antiseptic lingers in the air, and she notices a first aid kit on the counter — another piece of the puzzle.

The living room tells a story of haste. The couch cushions are slightly askew, as if someone had been sitting there and abruptly left. Mary's eyes fall on the window, and she moves closer. Outside, the city lights sprawl, indifferent to the tumult within.

As she steps into the bathroom, the mirror reflects a face marked by exhaustion and faint bruises. Her fingers trace the outline of a bruise on her jaw, a vivid reminder of a struggle she can't quite recall. The water in the sink runs cold, and she splashes it on her face, hoping to wash away the fog in her mind.

The apartment is a canvas of fragmented memories — a tapestry of danger and rescue. The events leading to this moment remain elusive, slipping through her fingers like smoke. But one thing is clear: Frank had been here. Frank had saved her.

Mary exhales, a mixture of relief and uncertainty. She's alive, and yet the questions linger.

Time seems to fracture, the peace shattered like glass. The tranquility of her apartment is violently disrupted as the staccato rhythm of gunfire fills the air. Instinct takes over, and Mary drops to the floor, her body moving on sheer muscle memory.

Bullets rip through the walls, shattering windows, a relentless assault that transforms her sanctuary into a battleground. Panic claws at the edges of her mind, but survival instincts kick in. She moves with the fluidity of someone who has danced with danger before, seeking cover behind the couch.

The shots are precise, methodical. It's not random violence; it's a targeted attack. Fear, adrenaline, and anger surge in her veins. She's been hunted before, and she recognizes the calculated brutality of it.