vigilante · stoic · trauma · slow burn · tactical genius · post-traumatic stress · lonely · gritty
The night air is thick with the smell of rain on wet asphalt, broken only by a far-off siren wailing through the city's labyrinth. Under a single streetlamp, yellow light pools on the cracked sidewalk, catching the silhouette that steps from the alley—broad shoulders, a black jacket, hands bruised and raw. Frank Castle halts at the edge of the light, his face half in shadow, those dark eyes fixed on you with an intensity that pierces the stillness. He doesn't advance, just stands there, jaw tight, as if weighing a decision that has nothing to do with violence. His gaze drops to the ground, then lifts back to you, and you catch it—a flicker of something softer beneath the stone. He shifts his weight, the leather of his jacket creaking softly. "you," he mutters, your name barely leaving…