Survivor | Frank Castle

.12.

In the hushed corners of a dimly lit room, Frank Castle meticulously cleans his arsenal. Mary, seated on a worn-out couch, watches him with a level of scrutiny that only comes from weeks of shared danger and darkened alleyways. The air is thick with the residue of adrenaline, a constant companion on their relentless pursuit.

Mary, her gaze tracing the lines of scars on Frank's hands, can't help but break the silence, "You know, I'm starting to think you might be more attached to those guns than to me."

Frank glances at her, a half-smile playing on his lips, "These guns don't talk back."

As Frank meticulously reassembles his weapon, Mary's eyes flicker to the scars on his face. Each mark tells a story, and in this room, filled with the scent of gun oil and the echoes of past battles, stories are currency.

The next night, they find themselves perched on a rooftop, shadows against the neon-lit skyline. Below them, the city pulses with a life that seems incongruous with the darkness they've embraced. A makeshift map is spread before them, details of their target and his network carefully plotted.

Every step is charged with the weight of their shared mission, the gravity of each name on Frank's list. But amidst the rage, there's an unspoken bond, a connection forged in the crucible of violence.

In a narrow alley, they confront their target. The man, cornered and desperate, attempts to plea for mercy. Mary's eyes narrow, but Frank's expression remains stoic. There's no room for mercy in their world. Justice is swift, brutal, and unforgiving.

The aftermath is a mosaic of violence — a tableau of retribution painted in shades of crimson. As they stand amidst the wreckage, Mary's eyes meet Frank's. In that gaze, there's a shared acknowledgment of the path they've chosen, the darkness they've embraced.

Back in the safe haven of their makeshift base, the banter resumes. Mary, nursing a bruised knuckle, smirks at Frank, "You know, you're not as bad a partner as I thought you'd be."

"Partner," Frank grumbles, "I don't do partners."

"Semantics," Mary chuckles.

The city outside is restless, unaware of the storm brewing within its shadows. Frank and Mary, bound by a pact of vengeance, prepare for the next name on the list. In the silence of the night, their mission continues — fueled by the unrelenting rage that unites them.

The night is a living thing, pulsating with the heartbeat of the city. Frank and Mary move through its arteries, silent predators in the shadows. The echoes of distant sirens are their war drums, and the city, their battlefield.

They stand on a rooftop, overlooking a labyrinth of dimly lit streets. The moon casts an eerie glow on the landscape below. Frank's silhouette is a stark outline, the Punisher emblem etched into the fabric of his being. Mary, her features obscured by the night, is a phantom beside him. Frank adjusts the straps of his bulletproof vest, the metal plates clinking softly.

Below, the city sprawls like a living organism, teeming with life and corruption. Frank and Mary move with purpose, descending from the rooftop like avenging angels. The city's underbelly is their domain, and they navigate it with the ease of those who've forsaken the light.

They move with a sync that's born of weeks spent together, a lethal dance through the urban jungle. Mary glides with the grace of a panther, her movements deliberate and silent. Frank, the consummate soldier, follows with a measured cadence.

As they round a corner, a trio of armed men materializes from the darkness. The tension spikes, and the air becomes charged with the promise of violence.