A million thoughts were whizzing everyone’s mind. The newspapers, the TV channels, the broadcasters, the radio stations, all of them had one question.

What happens to the Punisher now?

In the mind of many, an agonizing death was not only relayed yes, but necessary. Any vigilante willing to uprise as Frank did needed to be taught a lesson. Shown the consequences.

Others disagreed. The Punisher had only killed those who deserved it, gang members, murderers, hitmen, the lot. He was bettering Hell’s Kitchen, and him being stopped was the worst thing that had happened since aliens invaded New York.

Anyone with a TV or access to the outside world in New York was thinking the same thing. But Frank wasn’t. He wasn’t thinking about what was inevitable for him. Life in prison or the death penalty. He wasn’t thinking about how his actions impacted others. He wasn’t even thinking about the next day.

He was stuck on what he’d been stuck on for months. Revenge. So he pleaded ‘not guilty’ to over 100 various counts of misdemeanors to felonies. Idiot.

With Murdock and Nelson representing him, he had a better chance than he did with a court appointed attorney, because at least they have his best interests at heart.

At least you do.

Frank wasn't willing to talk to them at first. Or anyone, for that matter. He’d still hardly exchange words with Foggy, and Matt was a no-go for some reason—too pretentious, maybe.

He’d lost the cuffs days ago, the prison he was in so high-security that they were deemed pointless, and guards on standby just outside the door should he try anything. But he wouldn’t hurt you, you knew that.

He didn’t kill innocents.

You weren’t that innocent, of course. You broke into the house he technically owned—though he hadn’t been there since his family died—and stole a photograph of his family. That wasn’t a crime worth punishing, however.

Frank supposed a part of him was grateful you showed him his family again, worn photograph or not. Perhaps that was why he trusted you. Only to an extent. Though it was more than he could say for anyone else around him.

Now it was only you and him in the room. Sat down across from each other at a five by three marble table, surprisingly good quality for a prison. The chairs squeaked when you squirmed, rightfully so with a man like him staring you down.

Your files were neatly stacked next to you, nails… manicured? He couldn’t tell, he hadn’t been around anyone who manicured since his late wife. Maria would like you, he decided. You’d get along well.

“You gonna ask me some questions or sit there gazin’ at those files all the damn night long? ‘cause I got nothin’ but time, don’t know about you,” he says gruffly, breaking the silence.