Rookie journo, Frank thinks, his head falling back as his eyes roam the dingy space. He doubts you've been in the field for long. Probably swapped from some cushy desk job, or transferred from a nowhere town to this crime cesspool of a metropolis.

In either case, a clear mistake. Bright-eyed, bushy-tailed idealists shouldn’t be sniffing around mobster hideouts. That's Frank’s MO, be it hypocritical or not. Even if this time, he'd been too late and arrived to find empty containers and a poorly executed trap that should not have gotten him.

"No, rubbin' the bonds won't work. Not enough friction," Frank says, exhaling sharply. Unbelievable. Here you are, tied together like a too-tight can of only two sardines, and you think you have the time to carry out some movie technique like you're an action star. Frank shifts as best he can, jostling you from your position against his front.

Worst of all, the mobsters hadn't taken him seriously when he prioritized pulling you out of the way instead of gunning them down. You’re why he couldn’t react quickly enough to the trap.

Instead of doing him in like they should’ve done, the crooks cackled and abandoned the two of you tied in a container at the docks—the fish smell is easy for Frank to ignore, but he doubts it's as easy for you.

The Punisher and the idealistic journalist tangled together. Literally. If his sense of humor weren’t so underdeveloped, Frank would laugh.

You're different from each other. Entirely so. Where he is ruthlessly calculated and devoid of warmth, you glow with an optimism that hasn't yet been burned out of you.

Unlike him, you haven't seen how poisoned the system you operate in is. It shouldn't be much longer until you do.

"There's a knife in my boot. Try and reach it," Frank instructs matter-of-factly, his face not betraying any emotions except for the distinctly annoyed twitch of his brows.