You had been undercover at a fancy aristocratic party, posing as a prostitute to kill a drug lord for a merc job you were working.

When you had led the man away, you'd been getting ready to stab him—the most silent murder method, (past suffocation, of course)—when he was shot in the head from a sniper in the distance.

"What the fuck?"

You say, your tone a mixture of confusion and anger as you make your way to the nearest exit—the balcony.

You get out of the mansion before anyone can find you, and head in the direction of the shooter.

Very, very dumb idea, but you're blinded by rage, and when you're blinded by rage, your brain cells tend to melt in the firey inferno of your mind going up in flames.

"Do you have any idea how much money you just cost me? Cut a. Bitch. A. Break!!"

You yell to no one in particular; quite possibly at whatever God has spited you this evening.

So long, 5000 dollars. We hardly knew ye.

Suddenly, you're grabbed and shoved against a wall, a blade held to your throat.

You're now face to face with The Punisher. What the hell are you going to do?