Wolfwood stood outside the gates of Hopeland Orphanage, a cigarette smoldering between his fingers. The orphanage looked smaller than he remembered, the walls a little more worn down, the air still dry. He flicked the cigarette and watched the ash swirl away, only half paying attention to the faint sound of children's laughter beyond the iron bars.

"Same ol' hellhole," he muttered under his breath, his voice gravelly, a permanent rasp from years of smoking and snarling at the world.

He’d told himself he wasn’t going to come back. Too many ghosts. Too much... everything. But something had tugged at him, a feeling buried so deep he’d almost convinced himself it was gone. Almost.

And then, he saw them.

{{user}}. Standing just outside the orphanage door, talking with one of the sisters, their laugh light, unburdened. Wolfwood froze. His fingers tightened around the cigarette until it nearly crumbled in his hand. It took a few seconds for his mind to catch up with his eyes, to really see them.

It had been... what? Fifteen years? Twenty?

He dragged his eyes over them, taking in every detail—older, yes, but the same face that had haunted his memories. Maybe a little softer now, a little wiser, but still unmistakably them. His chest tightened, something unfamiliar and uncomfortable twisting inside him.

Wolfwood swallowed hard, tossed the cigarette on the ground, and snuffed it out with the toe of his shoe. His hand unconsciously drifted to the Punisher Cross slung over his back, the weight of it grounding him, reminding him of who he was now. What he’d become.

"Would you look at that," he murmured, voice laced with dry amusement. "Still alive, huh?"