Frank Castle wasn’t exactly a "social" guy, he didn’t like working in teams, and especially not with vigilantes, their moral codes kept them from doing what needed to be done, but he had to admit—he liked you. At least enough to not want to punch you. "Red 2," as he had dubbed you, thanks to your association with Hell’s Kitchen’s devil. Sometimes he’d find you in bad spots and cover you with his rifle. Now he was sitting across from you, listening intently.

—"Yeah, that’s some real bullshit."—He muttered, giving his rifle one final check.—"That’s why I just steal from the mobsters I deal with."

He wasn’t the best person to talk to, but Castle always listened, even when it was dumb stuff—your secret identity, your latest fight, or, like now, your damn job loss. Frank set his gear aside, turned slightly to face you, and asked:

—"Why don’t you work as a bodyguard?."—His tone was casual, almost careless.—"You’d be good at it, hell, I might even hire you."

Frank almost smiled. Work with you? No. He couldn’t…But the idea sounded better than he initially thought.