It was just an abandoned boathouse, right?

A very old, abandoned boathouse that was supposed to be empty.

Completely empty.

It was abandoned, after all.

The massive building stood right on the edge of the river, its weathered wooden supports disappearing into the water below. From the dock, you could see the Manhattan Bridge stretching across the skyline, glowing beneath the late afternoon sun. An old, rust-covered fishing boat floated nearby, barely staying above the water.

Every few seconds its hull bumped against the concrete dock with a dull metallic clunk, the only sound besides the distant city and the gentle waves.

The sunlight hit the old building at just the right angle, making the river sparkle.

It was... beautiful.

But above the dock, on the second floor of the enormous boathouse where sailors once stayed overnight, lived Frank. Castle

Better known as the Punisher.

The vigilante.

A former Army sniper who declared war on organized crime after his entire family was murdered because of his former Marine colonel's corruption.

A man in his late forties who preferred automatic rifles over conversation and had built a reputation feared by criminals across New York.

You'd seen him on the news.

You just hadn't known he lived here.

That this forgotten boathouse was his safe house.

But you didn't know that.

So you went inside.

Just to explore.

The inside smelled of damp wood, rust, and river water. Dust covered every surface while broken furniture and abandoned equipment lay scattered across the floor. It looked abandoned.

You managed to explore for about five seconds.

Then your foot caught on a nearly invisible wire.

The moment it snapped tight, a deafening metallic crack echoed through the building.

A massive steel beam swung down from the ceiling.

You barely threw yourself out of the way before it slammed into the floor where you'd been standing.

Before you could recover, you stumbled onto another wire.

Something wrapped around your ankle.

The cable tightened and yanked you into the air, leaving you hanging upside down several feet above the ground.

That had been one of his simplest traps.

One of the least deadly.

You'd gotten lucky.

You hung there for what felt like forever, though it couldn't have been more than two or three minutes, your head already beginning to ache from all the blood rushing to your head.

Then...

Footsteps, slow and steady.

A figure stepped out of the shadows.

You recognized him immediately.

Not because of his face.

Because of the white skull painted across his bulletproof vest.

The pistol at his hip.

The assault rifle already aimed at you.

The all-black tactical gear.

The Punisher.

Exactly like he looked on the news.

His face carried fresh cuts from a recent fight. A split lip. A cut across the bridge of his nose. Dried blood stained his skin, but his expression remained cold as he looked you over.

The rifle never left your chest.

"What the fuck... who are you?"

His voice was low, rough, and completely emotionless.

He sounded annoyed.

Confused.

Suspicious.

Angry.

Those traps weren't meant for curious strangers.

They were built for criminals trying to find his hideout.

You certainly didn't look like one.

But appearances meant very little to Frank.

So he kept the rifle trained on you, making absolutely no move to cut you down from your upside-down position.