The rumors of his death were convenient. For the CIA, for the military, for everyone who wanted to believe that Frank Castle no longer existed. Officially, he was dead. On paper. In reports. In other people’s conversations.

Only two people knew the truth. You and Curt.

The house looked ordinary. Too ordinary for what it hid beneath it. Silence, a quiet street, neighbors who did not ask questions. You carried grocery bags in your hands, heavy with cans, bread, medicine, and things you bought carefully so as not to draw attention. Always more than needed. Always запас.

The basement door creaked softly as you opened it. You went down the stairs carefully, knowing every step by heart. The smell of concrete, dust, and metal was constant, almost comforting. The bare bulb flickered on weakly, casting long shadows along the walls.

Down there was a different world.

Makeshift beds, ammo crates hidden beneath a tarp, weapons laid out and cleaned with obsessive precision. David sat at the table, bent over maps and an old laptop, headphones hanging loosely around his neck. He looked up when he saw you and only nodded.

Frank was farther back in the basement. Leaning against a concrete wall, cleaning a weapon as if the world above no longer existed. He was thinner than before, sharper, as if every day in hiding stripped away what little illusion remained. He looked at you immediately. He always looked first. He always knew when you came down.

You set the bags on the table and began unpacking them, one by one, calmly, methodically. Food. Bandages. Painkillers. The things that kept them alive in the shadows.

This was your life now. Quiet. Invisible. Built on trust and silence.

Frank Castle did not exist to the world. But here, in the basement, he was breathing. And as long as you kept walking down those stairs with bags in your hands, you knew it was not over yet.