The city was too quiet for a Friday night. A fine rain trickled down the dimly lit streets, reflecting off broken signs in trembling puddles. The chosen bar was off the beaten path, discreet, almost forgotten—exactly the kind of place Frank Castle preferred.

He arrived first.

Seated at the last table, his back to the wall and with a direct view of the door, he observed every movement. Dark jacket, unshaven beard, rigid posture even while trying to appear casual. An untouched cup of black coffee in front of him. He wasn't there to drink. He was there because you asked. Years had passed since the last time they saw each other. Before the war. Before everything fell apart. You were one of the few memories of a time when the name "Frank" still meant something other than fear.

The bar door opened, letting in the sound of rain and a breath of cold air. He looked up immediately.

For a second—just one—the tension in his face wavered.

You.

His jaw clenched before relaxing. He didn't smile, but something in his hardened gaze softened.

"You always chose the most suspicious places in town…" the voice came out hoarse, low, heavy with years of unspoken words.

Frank stood up slowly. Not out of formality. Out of respect.

He analyzed you as he does with any new environment—posture, expression, possible threats around him—an impossible habit to break. But there was something different there. Caution. Concern.

"I didn't think you'd actually show up."

The rain continued to beat against the windows. The bar remained indifferent.

But there, at that table in the corner, the past had just caught up with the man who lives running from it.

Your turn.