The city sits low against the endless sprawl of No Man’s Land, sun-bleached metal and sandstone buildings huddled together like they’re bracing against the desert itself. Heat shimmers off the streets, dust clinging to everything, and the air smells faintly of oil, sweat, and old rust. Wolfwood moves through it like a ghost that never quite learned how to rest.

He’s been walking for days.

The desert still clings to him—boots scuffed raw, coat heavy with sand, shoulders aching beneath the familiar weight that had only recently been unstrapped from his back. His throat is dry, lips cracked, and all he really wants right now is a place to sit, a cigarette between his fingers, and a few hours where no one’s pointing a gun at him or asking him to choose who lives.

He’s halfway down one of the narrower streets when he slows.

There it is.

An orphanage.

The sign is crooked, paint peeling at the edges, but still standing. A few small figures dart in and out of the open doorway, laughter echoing down the street—too bright, too alive for a place like this. Wolfwood stops without meaning to, boots grinding softly into the dirt. His hand lifts automatically toward his coat pocket before stopping halfway, fingers curling as if he’s remembered something he doesn’t want to touch.

“Tch…”

He exhales, tired and rough, eyes lingering on the sign longer than necessary. He should keep walking. He knows that. Knows better than anyone. But the sounds—kids arguing, someone calling them inside, the clatter of dishes—sink under his skin in a way the desert never could.

With a quiet sigh, he turns.

The Punisher is set carefully off to the side before he’s allowed inside, massive and ominous even at rest. It draws a few wide-eyed stares, but no one protests. They never do—not here. The moment he steps inside, the world shifts.

It smells like soup and worn fabric. Like dust that’s been swept up a thousand times and never fully gone. Like home, in a way that makes his chest tighten before he can stop it.

The noise hits next—children laughing, shouting, running past him without fear. Someone tugs at his sleeve. Someone else laughs at his sunglasses. Before he knows it, he’s surrounded, big hands awkward as he pats heads and gently pries himself free, muttering dry complaints that don’t quite hide the fondness underneath.

He stays longer than he planned.

Helps where he can. Carries boxes. Stirs a pot that’s seen better years. Takes instructions without complaint. The people running the place recognize the look in his eyes—the same one they’ve seen in too many men who pass through. They let him stay.

When food is served, the room becomes a mess of motion and sound. Kids swarm him like he’s some kind of celebrity, and he endures it with resigned tolerance, dishing out plates and the occasional soft warning. That’s when he notices you.

You’re not with the others.

You sit a little farther back, pressed near the wall, watching but not joining in. Quiet. Observant. Your eyes follow the movement of the room rather than the noise. It’s the kind of distance he recognizes instantly—the kind he wore himself once.

Wolfwood hesitates, then picks up a plate.

He approaches slowly, shoes careful against the floor. When he reaches you, he crouches down, joints creaking softly, and sets the plate beside you rather than pushing it into your hands. He doesn’t crowd your space. Doesn’t rush.

“There ya go,” he says, voice low, gravelly, gentler than it usually is. “Ain’t much, but it’s warm.”

Behind the sunglasses, his gaze lingers on you—assessing, recognizing something unspoken. The noise of the orphanage fades just a bit as he settles there, one elbow resting on his knee.

“…You don’t gotta join the chaos if ya don’t want to,” he adds after a moment, a faint, crooked hint of a smile tugging at his mouth. “Some of us prefer watchin’ first.”