On a street not far from the blacksmith's shop, Frank Castle cradled Jill's face in his hands, his expression grave. "Jill, I've got unfinished business. I won't be able to visit often for a while."
Jill had long prepared for this parting. Having witnessed death, he knew his place was by Bul-Kathos's side for now. Though reluctant to leave his father, he nodded solemnly. If his father said he had matters to attend to, it was true—Frank never lied to him.
"Go on, head back. My old comrade says that guy's trustworthy."
Frank wasn't entirely truthful. Nick Fury, through Coulson, had only described Bul-Kathos as immensely powerful and seemingly decent. Coulson had even warned against contacting Jill or Bul-Kathos just yet. But as a father, Frank couldn't resist seeing his son.
From what he could tell, Jill was doing well, and Bul-Kathos matched Coulson's description—a good man. If his strength was as reported, that was even better. Frank was about to seek vengeance for his family, and knowing his only son was under someone's protection was reassuring.
Watching Jill walk toward Bul-Kathos, Frank's eyes lingered with reluctance. But enough sentiment—he would soon revert to the skull-shirted avenger, unleashing retribution.
"Drink the milk on the table and rest," Bul-Kathos said as Jill returned, his tone brisk. "Oh, and make up for today's missed training tomorrow."
Jill obeyed without protest.
Bul-Kathos sat on the bench, giving Frank a long look. He was curious about this man, whom Gu Yi had called the ideal commander among superheroes. The traces of gunpowder and battle on Frank earned a nod of approval, especially since he carried no taint of evil—a rare quality.
A warrior who struck enemies without hesitation, yet remained upright—that was Bul-Kathos's assessment of Frank. Such men were common in the Sanctuary, but tactical command? Barbarians facing demons charged head-on, no need for strategy.
Frank met Bul-Kathos's gaze briefly before turning to leave. His knowledge of Bul-Kathos came solely from his old comrade, but that single glance had stirred an unshakable sense of inferiority. He trusted his friend's judgment—though that guy was a real piece of work.
"Director, Frank still made contact with Bul-Kathos," Coulson reported, standing before Nick Fury.
He understood why Fury had sent him to Frank—to convey goodwill indirectly. Having completed the task, he was here to report. As for investigating Bul-Kathos, Coulson had handed all footage to Agent Hill for Fury to review when needed.
"What about the internal personnel movements I asked you to investigate?" Fury's eyes locked onto Coulson, sharp as a wolf eyeing prey.
"When did you assign me that?" Coulson replied with his usual easy smile.
"Get back to work," Fury said, lowering his head to sort through files.
Coulson understood the unspoken order. Fury's cryptic messages, left for subordinates to decipher, were standard. It caused occasional inconvenience but kept his plans opaque. Careful to a fault, Fury sometimes wondered what he was guarding against. Still, caution never hurt.
Rumlow dozed on his couch, uncomfortable but accustomed. Beds were for amateurs—too obvious a target for enemies. A faint noise outside snapped him awake. It wasn't human footsteps—more like a toddler in dress shoes.
Silently, Rumlow sat up, pistol in his right hand, enchanted brass knuckles in his left. A rhythmic knock came from the lower half of the door, too low for a person.
He knew it might be Hit-Monkey, the former Howling Commando turned assassin. But that was no reason to lower his guard. On the table lay a card with a cryptic string of numbers from Dum Dum Dugan, meant for Hit-Monkey. Rumlow had memorized them, planning to ask Dugan their meaning later.
Cautiously, he approached the door, avoiding its direct line. With a quick twist, he yanked it open.
"Screech!"
A monkey's cry confirmed his guess. Rumlow flicked on the light and aimed his gun at the creature's head—only to find two barrels already trained on him. A monkey in a black suit and sunglasses strode into the apartment.
"Hit-Monkey?" Rumlow asked.
The monkey nodded, guns unwavering.
Rumlow gestured with his knuckled hand toward the table. "Dugan's package is there."
Hit-Monkey pointed one gun at the table, then back at Rumlow's head, signaling him to fetch it. Rumlow's jaw twitched. Complying meant losing focus and the upper hand—and submitting to a monkey, no matter how extraordinary.
This was a standoff, and he wasn't about to bow to a primate.
(Chapter End)