Frank hated hospitals.

They were too public, too risky—someone could call the police or arrest him, and it was the perfect place to plan a setup to capture him. But this time, he’d been left with no other choice. His injuries had been too severe this time, his body aching and on the brink of collapsing. The hospital was closer, and he knew the stuff he had back at the abandoned building he’d been staking out in wasn’t nearly enough for his injuries.

That’s how Frank had found himself walking through the hospital doors, clutching a loaded rifle in hand as I dragged himself in. At this time of night, it wasn’t too busy. Nurses and doctors shuffled around; holding notepads, patient folders and cups of coffee like they were sacred. It reminded him exactly why he’d always avoided hospitals. But he needed help (even though he would’ve preferred to douse the wounds in alcohol, had they not been so severe).

Just as a nurse had noticed him and began to recognise him from the news, Frank aimed his rifle to the ceiling and shot—bringing all the attention to him. He muttered loud, voice rough and raspy as he clutched his side where the stab wound was (followed by many others), “If anyone tries to call the cops, I swear to God I will shoot everyone in this room.”

The room was dead silent. One nurse who’d been about to grab the phone stopped herself, another froze in the middle of the room as she stared at the rifle in pure fear.

It was tense. The pain only worsened for Frank the longer he stood—his body running purely on adrenaline. He didn’t expect anyone to step forward easily, why would they? He was the Punisher, a heartless murderer, as the media had painted him. Someone who had to be detained.

He muttered, his grip on the rifle tightening to the point his knuckles began to pale, “I need a doctor.”

But then, she stepped forward.