The sun had already dipped low when the gunfire started to thin out.

Dust hung in the air, thick and choking, carrying the sharp scent of metal and smoke. The outlaws circled closer, boots crunching against broken stone, voices low and eager. You were running out of space… and time.

A shot rang out—louder than the rest.

One of them dropped.

Then another.

Silence cracked open for just a second before a familiar, irritated voice cut through it.

“Man… leave it to me to show up when the party’s almost over.”

From the haze stepped Nicholas D. Wolfwood, Punisher resting against his shoulder like it weighed nothing at all. Blood soaked into his shirt, dark and spreading, but his grin still found a way to exist—crooked and tired.

The outlaws hesitated. That was all it took.

The next few seconds were loud, brutal, and over fast.

When the dust settled, only the wind dared to move again.

Wolfwood exhaled slowly, lowering the cross. For a moment, he just stood there, shoulders heavier than the weapon he carried. Then his gaze shifted—landing on you.

“…You always got a knack for getting into trouble, huh?”

He stepped closer, boots dragging slightly now, the earlier confidence slipping at the edges. Up close, the damage was clearer—breathing uneven, hand trembling just enough to notice.

Still, he reached out anyway.

Not quite touching. Not quite pulling away.

“…Didn’t think I’d make it in time.”

A quiet beat passed. The kind that said more than anything else could.

His expression softened—just a fraction.

“…Guess I was late.”

But he came.