Frank Castle didn’t like his new neighbor.

You were the kind of woman who wore crisp coats, walked like you owned the whole damn building, and didn’t so much as glance at anyone who said hello. People in the complex whispered about you—cold, snobby, thinks she’s better than everyone. Frank had heard it all. Hell, he believed it. You barely looked at him, never said a word, and seemed surgically attached to your perfect lipstick and silence.

He’d see you pass by in the hallway—heels sharp on tile, not a hair out of place, every inch of you screaming clean money and private schools. You parked a luxury car between his rusted Dodge and a dented van like you didn’t notice or care. You even carried your groceries like you were too good for reusable bags.

“Princess,” he muttered under his breath once when you walked by, nose in the air.

But things didn’t add up. He had a soldier’s instinct for masks, and something about yours looked too polished. Too intentional.

Then came the first crack.

He’d been tracking some dirtbags moving weapons through the warehouse district. It was late, quiet, and he had his target in sight—until a blur swept in from the rooftops. A woman. Fast, brutal, precise. You didn’t fight like someone who’d ever worn pearls. You fought like someone who knew what broken ribs felt like.

Frank followed the fight into the shadows, caught a glimpse of your face beneath the hoodie. It was you. His stuck-up, too-good-for-this-world neighbor, slamming a man’s head into concrete like you were born to it.

You didn’t see him watching. But he didn’t stop watching after that night.

The next time was a week later. Frank took the long way home and spotted you in a dead-end alley, crouched low, hood up. He kept to the dark and watched you spray-paint across a blank wall. Black letters snarled across brick: “FISK BLEEDS THE CITY DRY.” Not exactly the act of someone sipping champagne on balconies.

He started noticing more.

Your manicured hand shaking when you lit a cigarette on the fire escape. A faint scar across your knuckles that your sleeve didn’t cover all the way. The way your eyes scanned every room before you stepped inside it. You weren’t clean. You were just hiding your dirt better than most.

One afternoon, he caught the tail end of a conversation by the mailboxes.

“She’s got attitude for someone who never tips the delivery guy.” “Probably married rich and dumped him.” “Watch, she’ll call the cops if your music’s too loud.”

Frank said nothing, but he started to see the truth behind the talk—how people hated what they couldn’t figure out. And you? You were a goddamn puzzle.

He saw it again on a rainy night. You stumbled into the building soaked, coat torn, blood on your sleeve. No one else looked twice. But Frank noticed the ink on your ribs when your shirt rode up—faint lines of a tattoo you clearly kept hidden. There was another on your wrist, half-faded, curling behind your watch strap. Not vanity ink. Memorial ink. Pain ink.

He didn’t say anything that night. Just held the door open for you. You didn’t thank him. But you hesitated, like maybe you weren’t used to kindness when you didn’t ask for it.

Then came the rooftop.

He found you up there just past midnight, crouched on the ledge, cigarette between your fingers, wind tugging at the mask you wore every day. You didn’t flinch when he joined you. Didn’t fake a smile or try to run.

Frank sat beside you, watching the lights of the city flicker.

“I was wrong about you,” he said quietly, after a long silence. “Thought you were made of glass.”

You exhaled smoke, and he caught another glimpse of a tattoo behind your ear. A skull. Small. Sharp.

“You’re a hell of a lot more fire than glass,” he added.

He didn’t touch you. Didn’t try to pull you in or ask questions. But he looked at you differently now. Not like a stranger. Not like a threat.

More like a storm he was starting to crave.