A rapid barrage of gunfire, mingled with guttural screams, tore through the bar.
Frank Castle, clad in his skull-emblazoned jacket, gripped a submachine gun, unleashing a relentless sweep across the room.
This wasn't some respectable establishment. Sure, it had a business license, but at this hour, it was nothing more than a den for mob bosses tallying their latest haul.
The Punisher hadn't come for justice—only vengeance.
These were the scum who'd been at that park, complicit in the tragedy that shattered his life.
The gunfire did nothing to quell Frank's rage. As the screams faded, guilt and fury surged, drowning his heart.
He methodically delivered a final shot to each body sprawled on the floor. Spilled liquor caught fire, flames licking the chaos.
By the time Frank walked away, not a single soul remained alive.
Perhaps the blaze would erase even the rats.
As Frank left the bar engulfed in roaring flames, a team of black-suited figures materialized nearby.
"He didn't even try to cover his tracks. Shell casings everywhere?"
"Easy, pal. He knows we're watching. All we can do is clean up his mess."
The two agents spoke with practiced detachment, while their team set to work on the fire-ravaged scene.
In the end, this act of vengeance would be labeled an "accident." The public would rally at city hall, decrying the hapless fire department and, conveniently, the mob's shady construction supply fronts.
Two higher-ranking agents oversaw the cleanup, the scene falling eerily quiet.
"Tell me, what do you see in those casings?"
"His rage."
The conversation died. The cleanup crew finished and slipped away.
The agents, masters of stoic control, came and went like ghosts.
Firetruck sirens wailed in the distance. By the time the flames were doused, nothing but charred ruins remained.
"Nick, I know this isn't you in the flesh, but what do you want to say?"
Frank, still cooling off from his rampage, found himself cornered on the road by a one-eyed figure. He was in a decent mood, so he spoke first.
"Frank, you know what you're doing, don't you?"
Nobody knew how many life-model decoys Nick Fury had, but each one carried his will.
Or rather, their actions were all sanctioned by Fury himself, meaning he had something to say.
"I'm getting revenge. Handing out punishment to those bastards. So what?"
Frank's expression darkened. He knew his old war buddy only showed up when trouble was brewing.
"So you make this kind of mess? You're making things hard for us."
"Come off it. You, the old spook, always dealing with things too classified to mention. This little stunt's got S.H.I.E.L.D. sweating?"
Frank didn't bother with pleasantries. He and Fury never needed them.
"Your son's still alive…"
"I know. You sent someone to tell me, didn't you? Using me to get what you want—I don't owe you a damn thing!"
Frank cut Fury off, his voice sharp.
The mention of his family sent his temper flaring.
He had a feeling that letting Fury keep talking would drag him into something messy.
"I need you to look into Dugan. That old dog's scheming something, and it's got me worried."
"Dum-Dum Dugan? I'm not part of your system. You want me to spy on that old soldier?"
Dum-Dum Dugan was a known name, tied to the tales of Captain America and the Howling Commandos.
Frank couldn't fathom what Fury was playing at. Digging into someone's secrets wasn't his forte.
"I suspect there's something on that mountain those guys are after. Otherwise, my agents wouldn't have handed Dugan operational control for days."
"I don't care about your games. They're trouble, not help."
Frank had no interest in Fury's schemes.
"I gave you intel on your son!"
"And I went and poked at that silent volcano of a man for you!"
Frank's tone was venomous, his gun raised, as if ready to fire.
Fury knew Frank was capable of it. Back when they worked together, they'd traded blows often enough—it was practically routine.
"I'll give you more support. Cut down the time you spend chasing gang intel. Use it to check on Dugan."
Fury laid out his terms, waiting for Frank's response.
Frank and Dugan had no connection. Asking him to investigate was absurd.
"I'll say it again: I'm not getting mixed up in your mess. I'm just a soldier."
Frank aimed his gun at Fury, his face cold and unyielding.
"So you'd better leave. Now."
Fury nodded once, then stepped back into the shadows, vanishing without a trace.
Nick Fury, the one-eyed spymaster, was a master of appearing and disappearing.
Rumor had it, it added to his mystique.
Frank was used to it by now.
He'd rejected Fury's offer, but a nagging curiosity lingered.
Fury had never asked for his help before, no matter how messy things got.
S.H.I.E.L.D.'s agents were far better at digging than Frank Castle ever would be.
And Fury hadn't specified what to investigate. Frank knew that whatever he uncovered would pull him into a vortex he couldn't escape.
He had a son to think about. He needed to steer clear of trouble.
Fury commanded some of the world's most formidable resources, yet something he couldn't trust his own people to handle was clearly no small matter.
Frank holstered his gun, staring at the glow of a streetlamp, his figure cloaked in a weary solitude.
He'd retired hoping for a normal life, but fate had other plans. He was now on a path paved with blood.
Author's Note
A quick chat.
Some readers have pointed out that the protagonist doesn't get much spotlight, and I'll admit that's true.
It's like how humans might find it amusing to join in on an ant's activities now and then, but no one's watching ants all day.
The protagonist operates on a higher level and can't personally drive every plot point.
That's why we have Rumlow, Luke Cage, Matt Murdock, Jill, and Jessica Jones.
These characters aren't random additions—they're here to push the story forward.
But to those saying I've nerfed Marvel characters, I feel a bit wronged…
Is there a difference between a hydraulic press crushing an ant and a finger doing it?
The hand still can't take on the press, can it?
I'm not great at writing stories that are pure thrills from start to finish. Those predictable tales, where you can see the ending from the opening, don't feel compelling to me.
Have you all been following the Jie Shen Zhe drama? The writer, Maofu, made a mess of the presentation, but she said something interesting: she wanted to show the protagonist's struggles, growth, and rise.
That's what countless writers aim for.
The difference is whether we can pull it off.
Every satisfying moment needs buildup to hit harder, like in Hollywood blockbusters that start with setbacks.
Think John Wick's dog, Doctor Strange's hands, or Daredevil's blindness—it's usually like that.
But a protagonist facing setbacks? That's not thrilling enough!
So others face the struggles, creating space for the protagonist to step in.
Like in Rohan Kishibe Doesn't Move, it's about justice—or rather, principle.
This book's plot is thoroughly outlined, with the ending already planned. I'm not worried about it falling apart.
(End of Chapter)
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