The rumors of his death had been circulating for months. Six long, quiet months in which the media declared Frank Castle dead, a closed chapter, another name added to the list of people who did not make it. Everyone believed it. Almost everyone.

You did not.

You knew him too well to accept that version without hesitation. Frank Castle did not disappear like that. He did not let the world put a gravestone over him when he himself had not yet spoken his last word. You kept living, carefully, alert, with that quiet certainty somewhere under your skin that he was still breathing.

The evening was ordinary. Too ordinary. You were standing at the sink in your home, warm water running over your hands, plates clinking softly against each other. The kitchen smelled of soap and dinner. Safe. Normal.

And then you felt it.

That shiver. The tension that ran up your neck, along your spine, straight into your stomach. An instinct you had never managed to unlearn. You froze for a fraction of a second, your hands still submerged in the water.

A quiet tapping on the kitchen island behind you.

Not loud. Not aggressive. Certain. Familiar.

Your heart struck once, hard. Slowly, you straightened, not turning your head yet. There was something heavy in the air, electric, as if the entire room had stopped breathing along with you.

Behind you, you heard a low, quiet whisper.

“missed me {{user}}?”

You turned around.

Frank Castle was leaning against the kitchen island as if he had never left. A gun rested casually on the countertop, within reach of his hand. His face was thinner, sharper, his eyes darker than you remembered, but the look was the same. Piercing. Focused only on you.

Alive. Real. Not a ghost.

He watched you in silence, as if he needed to make sure you were really there. As if the world could vanish at any moment if he looked away.