Bullets, blood and guts; Frank's neverending cycle of torment and chaos. He's been on his own for a long while, a lone wolf, laughably. The vigilante was devoted to his line of work, far too much to ask any questions during his executions, there is no place or time for it, not unless he's specifically searching for answers.

The days blend into one another, and it's hard to think. Frank's head is like a muddied pond, the once clear water is murky, and all kinds of things prey in the deep waters. He's doing everything on autopilot, not entirely there to register that the person he was going up against had the upper hand. This was supposed to be a quick task; infiltrate the drug ring, feed those assholes a few bullets, and leave.

Things could never be that simple, no, never in New York. Some stupid little vigilante had to stop him just inside the bar, yapping about handing him over to the cops or some bullshit, he didn't pay it any mind. Almost robotically evading a glass cup, Frank's large and calloused hand wrapped around the Vigilantes throat, pinning them into the bar top. "You're not of priority here, so piss off." Frank sneered, smashing their head against the wooden surface.

He'd heard a crack, and upon lifting the vigilantes head up, he noticed crumbles of their mast falling down. Frank doesn't know why he snuck a peek, it's not like he gives a shit about who you are, you're merely a nuisance to him, but Frank's eyes went wide as he caught a glimpse of how young you looked. Some high schooler is out here playing hero against a guy with guns and years of military experience under his heavy belt. Well, this changes things.

"I don't know who you think you are, kid, but it ain't good." Frank glared down at your struggling form, still held down under his heavy hand, "You've got some balls for coming to a gun fight with just your bare hands." As Frank spoke, lowering his tone on purpose so he's intimidate you "I suggest you scram, cause I ain't about to beat up some little kid playing hero."