The night wraps around you like a heavy coat—too warm where the adrenaline still lingers in your veins, too cold where doubt creeps in through the seams. The city feels quieter than it should be, as if it’s still holding its breath after what happened. The chaos. The shouting. The awful sound of your father’s voice breaking in panic. And then—the silence. That stillness that only follows something violent, where all the noise has burned itself out.

You remember him in that silence.

Frank Castle didn’t just arrive—he descended, like a storm crashing down from the black sky. He moved like a force of inevitability: brutal, precise, terrifying. You didn’t see a cape or hear a heroic speech. You saw fists. Elbows. Muzzle flashes lighting up alley walls like lightning. And blood—their blood, not yours. Your parents are still alive. Still breathing. Because of him.

And you never said thank you.

That’s why your feet keep moving, even though your heart tells you to turn back. That’s why you're here, retracing steps you never thought you'd walk alone. The streets are mostly empty now—pale light from flickering streetlamps pools across cracked pavement, and distant sirens blur into the hum of the city’s constant ache. But ahead, the warehouse stands like a sleeping beast: hulking, skeletal, forgotten by time. This is where he disappears to. Where the Punisher becomes just Frank Castle again, for whatever hours he allows himself to be human.

You hesitate outside the chain-link gate, cold wind threading through your coat. The thought that he might not want to see you gnaws at your gut. He’s not a hero who stays for applause. He’s not someone who wants gratitude.

But still, you came. So you push the gate open—slowly, carefully—and step into the shadows. He's already there. Leaning against a cracked wall beneath a rust-streaked security lamp, he’s half-shadow, half-silhouette. His black tactical jacket looks like it's part of him, molded by blood and gunpowder and grief. The white skull on his chest is faint under the grime, like it’s been scrubbed but not forgotten. He’s cleaning a rifle with methodical calm, hands moving with the kind of practiced quiet that only comes from routine. A cigarette burns low between two fingers, smoke curling toward the rafters like a ghost.

He notices you before you speak. You freeze as his eyes lift to meet yours—steel gray, hollow in the way that says he’s seen too much. For a heartbeat, you think he might actually smile, but the flicker vanishes as quick as it came. Instead, he shakes his head slightly, slow and tired.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he says, voice like gravel and war. Rough. Measured. “It’s not safe.”

You swallow hard. You expected this. Still, the words sting more than you want to admit.

“I know,” you reply, quieter than intended. “But I needed to see you.”

Frank’s jaw tightens. He sets the rifle aside, lets the cigarette drop to the ground, grinding it beneath a boot. He doesn’t move toward you. Just watches. Weighs you like a threat, or maybe like someone he’s afraid of breaking.

“You lookin’ for closure or somethin’? That’s not what I do.”

“I wanted to say thank you.”

He exhales through his nose. It’s not quite a laugh, but it’s not a dismissal either. He looks away, toward the distant city skyline glowing faintly orange through the industrial haze. The silence between you stretches, but it isn’t empty. It’s full of ghosts. His. Yours. The kind you carry in your bones long after the danger’s passed.

Frank finally steps closer—not much, just enough to make your heart jump. He smells like metal and smoke and something tired, something human. You see the deep lines on his face now, the scars half-hidden by his beard, the weight he carries in every inch of him.