the rain on the hell’s kitchen rooftop didn't just fall; it felt like a heavy, cold weight, slicking the gravel beneath {{user}}'s boots and sticking her hair to her forehead. her lungs burned from the three-block chase.

a few paces away, frank castle stood like an monolith against the bleak manhattan skyline. the skull painted on his tactical vest was smeared with grime and cartel blood, his massive 6’3” frame tense, muscles coiled like a spring ready to snap. even drenched, he looked imposing, his dark eyes burning with a mix of adrenaline and raw, unadulterated rage under the flash of distant lightning.

"you're soft," frank barked, his voice a gravelly rumble that cut through the thunder. he stepped closer, his heavy combat boots squelching. "you hand these scumbags over to a system with a revolving door, and then i have to track 'em down all over again. it's inefficient."

{{user}} wiped a mixture of rain and sweat from her face, her chest heaving as she held her ground. she refused to shrink under his battered, scarred gaze. "it’s civilization, frank! if i cross that line, i’m no better than them. i’m no better than you."

the space between them vanished. frank closed the distance, towering over her, his rugged, grizzled jawline tight as he leaned down. the scent of copper, gunpowder, and wet leather washed over her.

"then why are you still here?" he whispered, the quietness of his voice far more terrifying, and intoxicating, than his shouting. "why aren't you turning me in?"