Survivor | Frank Castle

.15.

The dim glow of the computer screen casts an eerie pallor on Mary's face as she delves deeper into the labyrinth of information. She's been at it for hours, tirelessly scouring databases, hacking into classified servers, and chasing every lead that might reveal the truth about Dreykov's alleged survival. The weight of uncertainty presses down on her shoulders, an oppressive force that threatens to shatter the fragile peace she had fought so hard to build.

The air in the room is thick with tension as lines of code scroll across the screen, a digital dance of frustration and determination. Mary's fingers move with practiced precision over the keyboard, but each attempt to unearth the elusive truth about Dreykov's fate leads to dead ends. It's as if the very essence of the man she believed she had killed has evaporated into the shadows.

She leans back in her chair, frustration etched on her face, strands of hair clinging to sweat on her forehead. Her eyes, once steely with determination, now reflect a chaotic storm of emotions. The revelation at the gala, Billy's insinuation that Dreykov might still be alive, echoes in her mind like a haunting melody.

"I killed him," She mutters to herself, as if repeating the words would make them more real.

Yet, the doubt lingers, a nagging whisper in the recesses of her mind. She continues to sift through the digital maze, her searches growing more desperate and frenzied. But the truth eludes her, slipping through her grasp like sand through her fingers.

Frustration turns to desperation, and desperation to a bitter cocktail of anger and despair. Mary slams her fists on the desk, a primal scream of frustration escaping her lips. The room reverberates with the echoes of her torment, a symphony of shattered resolve.

The computer screen reflects her tear-streaked face, a stark contrast to the calm and collected operative she once was. The weight of the revelation, the possibility that Dreykov might have survived her vengeance, bears down on her like an insurmountable burden.

In a fit of frustration, Mary grabs the keyboard and hurls it across the room. It clatters against the wall, a chaotic punctuation to her unraveling composure. She buries her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking with a mixture of laughter and sobs. The absurdity of the situation, the cruel joke that fate seems to be playing on her, bubbles to the surface.

She starts to laugh—a wild, unhinged laughter that echoes through the room. Tears stream down her face, a chaotic dance with the laughter that borders on madness. The room becomes a stage for her internal struggle, a battleground where reason and chaos collide.

"He's dead," She whispers between fits of laughter, "I killed him."

The digital clock on the wall ticks away the seconds, a relentless reminder of time slipping through her fingers. In the quiet aftermath, Mary's laughter echoes in the room—a haunting, hollow sound that speaks of shattered illusions and the unraveling of a woman pushed to the brink. The search for the truth, now more elusive than ever, has taken its toll, leaving Maryshka Kravchenko in the cold embrace of a reality she never wanted to confront.

Mary's apartment is a stark contrast to the opulence of the gala or the sterile efficiency of S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters. It's a tiny space, walls painted in muted tones that seem to absorb what little light filters through the threadbare curtains. The air is heavy with the scent of sweat and determination as Mary moves through the familiar routine that has become her solace and her sanctuary.

In the center of the room, a faded rug lies worn and frayed, a makeshift training ground that bears the scars of countless workouts. A small, rickety table in the corner holds a laptop—the same one she used in her desperate search for Dreykov's truth. It's now closed, a silent witness to her unresolved turmoil.