With a bandage still covering his nearly healed wound, Frank has made a makeshift pullup bar in the garage, even going as far to tie a chain with a cinderblock around his waist to add some weight.

The muted sounds of the city beyond the garage walls serve as a distant backdrop to the rhythmic creaking of the makeshift pull-up bar. Frank, his movements methodical and precise, pulls his body upward with a controlled strength that borders on the relentless. The chain around his waist clinks against the garage floor, adding a layer of challenge to the workout.

Mary watches, her gaze transfixed on the spectacle of raw power and disciplined control. Her eyes trace the lines of Frank's sculpted muscles, his biceps flexing with each ascent. The play of light and shadow on his back accentuates the scars etched into his skin, a testament to the battles fought and survived.

She can't deny the allure of the scene unfolding before her—the sweat that glistens on his skin, the tension in his muscles, the way his body moves with a fluidity that defies the harsh realities of their world.

Mary's fingers unconsciously trace the edge of her jacket as she leans against the wall, her eyes never leaving Frank's form.

Frank lowers himself, the chain around his waist clinking against the floor. He pauses for a moment, catching his breath. The intensity in his gaze, a fusion of concentration and focus, remains unyielding. Mary, feeling the weight of his gaze even before he turns to face her, meets his eyes.

"You gonna watch, or you gonna join in?" Frank's voice, gruff and laced with a hint of challenge, breaks the silence.

His eyes, a mirror to the intensity of his workout, hold a challenge that goes beyond the physical. Mary straightens, a flicker of defiance in her gaze, "You offering a lesson, Frankie?"

A smirk plays on Frank's lips, a response to the challenge laid before him. He unties the chain from around his waist, letting it fall with a metallic clatter.

" Nah. Just thought you might want to break a sweat," Frank replies, his tone a low rumble that resonates in the confined space.

Mary, unbuttoning her jacket with deliberate slowness, meets Frank's gaze with a challenge of her own. The jacket slides off Mary's shoulders, revealing the sinewy strength beneath. Her muscles flex subtly as she approaches the makeshift pull-up bar. Frank watches with an intensity that borders on hunger, the unspoken tension between them palpable in the charged air.

She steps up to the bar, her movements a deliberate echo of Frank's earlier precision. Her fingers wrap around the cold metal, and she pulls herself upward. The rhythm of her pull-ups syncs with the cadence established by Frank, creating a silent symphony of exertion.

His eyes remain locked on Mary, a gaze that penetrates beyond the physical to the complexities hidden beneath the surface. Mary's muscles ripple with controlled strength, a display of power that resonates with a different kind of intensity. Frank, despite the gruff exterior, watches with a hunger that transcends the physical.

"Didn't think you'd take me up on it," Frank remarks, his voice a low rumble that cuts through the rhythmic sounds of their workout.

Mary, her breath steady despite the exertion, smirks, "You offering to spot me?"

Frank steps closer, the proximity between them charged with a magnetic force. The garage seems to shrink as they navigate the unspoken boundaries, a dance of tension and desire.

"Wouldn't want you falling," He replies, his voice a whisper that ignites a spark in the confined space.

Mary's eyes meet Frank's, a challenge and invitation woven into the gaze. The pull-ups, initially a physical exercise, evolve into a manifestation of the unspoken connection between them. Each repetition becomes a testament to the complexities etched into the fabric of their shared existence.

As Mary lowers herself, the muscles in her arms flexing, Frank steps behind her. His presence, a silent assurance, adds an unexpected layer to the charged atmosphere. The air becomes thick with anticipation as Mary pulls herself upward, the heat of Frank's breath grazing the nape of her neck.

"Easy," He murmurs, his hands hovering close but not touching.

Mary, feeling the proximity, fights to maintain her focus. The tension between them, a delicate balance, teeters on the edge of something unspoken and profound.

"You're not as tough as you pretend to be," Frank adds, his voice a low growl that reverberates through her.

Mary grins, her defiance a shield against the vulnerability threatening to surface. The pull-ups become a silent dialogue, a language of shared desires and the unspoken truths that linger between them.

As Mary completes the set, she steps away from the pull-up bar, the echo of exertion lingering in the air. Frank, his gaze unwavering, meets her eyes with a raw intensity that transcends the physical. Mary wipes the sweat from her brow, her eyes holding a challenge that goes beyond the physical. Frank, standing in the midst of the charged atmosphere, smirks with a subtle acknowledgment.

"Still keeping up, old man?" Mary teases, her voice a playful cadence that lingers in the aftermath of their shared exertion.

Frank, not one to back down, smirks back. The garage, a witness to the dance of tension and desire, becomes a sanctuary where the boundaries between them continue to blur. In the lingering echoes of their workout, the unspoken connection between Mary and Frank remains an undercurrent that defies definition.

"Old man still got a few tricks up his sleeve," Frank retorts, his voice a gravelly timbre that cuts through the silence.

Mary smirks, a flicker of amusement dancing in her eyes, "I'm not impressed yet. You'll have to do better than that."

The banter, a familiar dance of verbal sparring, heightens the palpable tension between them. The garage, bathed in the dim glow of overhead lights, becomes a battleground where unspoken desires and the weight of shared history clash.

Frank steps closer, the magnetic pull between them intensifying. The air seems to crackle with an energy that defies definition. Mary's heart, a steady rhythm beneath the surface, echoes the cadence of the garage's muted soundscape.

"You talk a big game," Frank remarks, his voice a low murmur, "But I know you felt that. No one gets through those pull-ups without breaking a sweat."

Mary raises an eyebrow, her gaze a challenge that mirrors the unyielding intensity in Frank's eyes. The verbal exchange, laced with innuendo and unspoken yearning, becomes a dance that blurs the boundaries between camaraderie and something deeper.

"Maybe I just make it look easy," She replies, her tone a mixture of playfulness and a subtle invitation.

Frank smirks, the corner of his mouth lifting in a way that sends a shiver down Mary's spine. The tension between them, a delicate balance, hangs in the air like an unanswered question. The pull-up bar, now a symbolic divide, becomes a focal point for the magnetic force that binds them.

"You always did like a challenge," Frank observes, his eyes never leaving Mary's.

Her gaze meets his with unwavering intensity, "And you always did know how to provide one."

The silence, pregnant with unspoken truths, hangs between them like a veil. Mary's fingers, calloused and weathered, graze the edge of the pull-up bar. Frank, his movements deliberate, steps closer until there's barely a breath of space between them.

The tension reaches a fever pitch as Frank's hand, rough and commanding, lifts Mary's chin. Their eyes lock in a silent understanding that transcends the complexities of their shared history. The garage, now a cocoon of desire and unspoken yearning, becomes the backdrop for a moment that defies definition.

" We got work to do, sweetheart," He murmurs.

" I know," She affirms, her head nodding just the slightest.

Their plan is quite simple. Break into a military base and pay a certain Colonel Bennett a visit. He's the person who would know Agent Orange's identity, putting them a step in the right direction.

But Lieberman's one rule means Mary and Frank must use non-lethal force, something they're not entirely used to. They know that Bennett will be home that night for 'entertaining'.

The night air hangs heavy with the weight of anticipation as Mary and Frank navigate the shadows en route to Colonel Bennett's residence.

The glow from within suggests that the night's 'entertainment' is in full swing. The plan unfolds with a calculated ease. Mary and Frank, dressed in dark attire that blends seamlessly with the night, approach the Colonel's residence from different angles.

Mary, her steps cat-like in their stealth, reaches the rear of the house. Frank, a shadow in the night, positions himself near the front entrance. The synchronicity of their movements, a testament to their unspoken connection, echoes in the stillness of the night.

Mary picks the lock on a side entrance, her movements swift and soundless. Frank, with a practiced ease, incapacitates the lone guard at the front entrance, ensuring their entry remains undetected.

The interior of the Colonel's residence is a contrast to the opulence suggested by its exterior. The muted lighting and hushed voices convey an air of secrecy. Mary and Frank move with the precision of predators, navigating the corridors and avoiding the watchful eyes of the Colonel's security detail.

Frank bursts in, catching the Colonel with a ball gag in his mouth as the dominatrix screams and yells 'he's here'. While Frank deals with the Colonel, Mary stays on the lower level do to some digging of her own, only to be halted by Lieberman talking through the ear piece.

They've got company.

Mary groans as she looks out the window and sees 8 figures dressed in black making their way towards the house. They spilt up into groups of four, one group going up the stairs and the other group staying on Mary's level.

Luckily, both Frank and Mary deploy their smoke grenades, as in cooperation with the no-killing rule.

The smoke engulfs the room, transforming the Colonel's residence into a disorienting haze. Mary, her senses heightened, moves with the agility of a panther, navigating the dimly lit corridors as the acrid scent of smoke lingers in the air.

The muffled sounds of footsteps and hushed voices reach her ears, a symphony of impending danger. Mary glides into the shadows, her movements calculated and elusive. The tension in the air, already palpable, escalates with the arrival of the mysterious figures in black.

The first figure on Mary's level emerges from the smoke, a silhouette clad in tactical gear. Mary, her movements fluid and calculated, launches into action. A swift kick disarms the intruder, and a series of precise strikes incapacitate them without causing permanent harm.

Mary takes down her targets under the veil of silence. Her head springs up as she hears gunshots coming from upstairs, followed by glass breaking and shadowy figure running across the lawn.

" Let's move, Widow!" He shouts through the earpiece.

" Moving!" Mary shouts back as she springs into action.

They duck past the oncoming bullets, their clear path being ubstructed by more guards. They reach a tunnel, thinking their just about to escape, only for a poor little private to stand in their way. Frank doesn't wanna hurt the kid, he really doesn't. He does everything he can to not hurt the kid, only to end up firing one shot in his shoulder.

It sticks with him, it stays in his mind even as they make it to the van, where Lieberman acts as the getaway driver.

" This shit's a lot easier when you can kill people," Frank comments, his remark making Mary snort.

A silence takes place in the van as Lieberman drives, Frank sits in the passenger's seat and Mary sits in the back, sitting criss-cross with her back against the wall of the van. But the silence is broken the moment the van is parked and Lieberman pulls out his laptop.

" Agent Orange knew we would go after Bennett next, and they were waiting for us. They set a trap, but we saw it coming," Lieberman says in an attempt to explain," They think they out thought us. It's the other way around. You understand that? If he calls anyone or moves, we're gonna know it."

" Nothing, huh?" Frank sighs.

" No. Not yet," Lieberman says.

" What's going on? You think Bennett knows we're tracking his phone?"

" If he did, he would have turned it off."

Frank unexpectedly slams the dash with his palms, a way to vent out his frustrations before he offers up and explanation," There was this, uh... this kid there...and... I had to hurt him. A kid like that, he makes a choice, you know, be loyal to this country, to a flag, his unit. Then comes some... some piece of shit like Bennett, you know. He abuses that loyalty, that... It just makes me sick. From now on... I'm taking out every single one of them."

Mary sits with his words, feeling the slightest churn in her stomach from withholding a piece of information, but it quickly fades away once the laptop beeps and they see that Bennett is on the move.

The tracker leads them to a CIA safehouse, where they finally get their sights on Agent Orange. Frank sets up his sniper rifle, eyeing the man responsible for so much death and destruction. It takes all of his discipline and self-control to not storm in and make the son of a bitch pay. Instead, he settles for the riffle with his eye peering down the scope.

He takes the shot and squeezes the trigger... but the bulletproof glass gets in his way. The alarms blare, alerting everyone in the compound of an intruder, forcing Frank to make a defeated run across the snowy bank.

Back in the van, Lieberman drives them back to their underground layer, with Frank now punching the steel walls in the back of the van.

" Frank! Cut the shit!" Mary exclaims as she pulls him back," It's fine, we'll figure it out."

" Fucking bulletproof glass," Frank growls," Bulletproof glass!"

" Yeah, bulletproof glass, I know!" She utters as she places her hands on his shoulders to steady him," Don't lose your shit. Frank, do not lose your shit."

" I'm not losing my shit!"

" Then stop yelling!"

" I'm not yelling!"

" Yes, you are!"

" Guys!" Lieberman yells from the driver's seat," God, you two argue like old people."

The tension in the van hangs thick, the aftermath of a failed operation weighing heavily on their shoulders. Lieberman, in his usual unassuming manner, interjects with a hint of exasperation, a stark reminder of the peculiar dynamic that binds them.

"Alright, deep breaths, everyone," Lieberman suggests, glancing at the rearview mirror with a mixture of amusement and concern.

Back at their underground lair, the atmosphere is thick with the aftermath of the failed operation. Frank paces, his frustration manifesting in restless movements. Mary watches him with a measured gaze, understanding the storm of emotions brewing beneath the surface.

Her eyes glance over to the coat rack, and her hand follows. She grabs a leather jacket hanging on the wooden hook, before she tosses it in Frank's direction, the contact with his chest making him stop pacing.

" Let's go," Mary orders.

Frank, his jaw clenched, eyes Mary with a mixture of defiance and resignation. The leather jacket hangs from his hand, a symbol of a decision to be made. Without uttering a word, he slips into the jacket, the familiar weight settling on his shoulders.

Mary leads the way to the rooftop, the metal stairs echoing with the weight of unspoken tensions. The night air greets them as they emerge into the open space. The city sprawls below, a tapestry of lights that flicker in the darkness.

The rooftop, a canvas for the complexities that bind them, becomes a stage for the unfolding drama. Mary takes a seat on the ledge, her eyes fixed on the cityscape. Frank, his gaze shifting between the skyline and Mary, joins her with a reluctance that hangs in the air.

The silence stretches, a taut thread that connects them in a shared moment of reflection. The city below, oblivious to the turmoil within the two figures on the rooftop, pulses with a rhythm that transcends their individual struggles.

"You know, I was thinking," Mary starts, her eyes still fixed on the city below, "Maybe next time we should try knocking on the front door, see if they let us in for a chat."

"Real funny," Frank retorts, a ghost of a smirk playing on his lips.

Mary turns to him, her gaze meeting his with an intensity that defies the casual banter, "We need a new approach."

"Oh, and what do you suggest? Tea and crumpets with Bennett?" Frank scoffs.

Mary rolls her eyes, "No, I'm suggesting we get creative. Find a weakness, exploit it. Not every problem can be solved with a sniper rifle."

Frank leans against the ledge, his arms crossed, "And how's that gonna look, detective? A stern talking-to? Maybe a strongly-worded letter?"

Mary smirks, "You'd be surprised what a few well-chosen words can do."

The city below, with its myriad lights and distant hum of activity, becomes a backdrop for the unfolding conversation. The rooftop, a junction where their paths converge, becomes the arena for a battle of ideologies.

" Didn't think Widow's liked talking so much," Frank sighs," Guess you're the exception."

" Because I'm persuasive?"

" Because you can't shut up."

She chuckles, her eyes gazing out to the stars as they sit side by side. A strong breeze blows by, carrying an icy chill that makes Mary shiver.

" Let me guess, you're about to tell me you're cold," Frank comments.

" And let me guess, you're not about to offer up your jacket," Mary scoffs.

Yet, to her surprise, he does. Frank removes the leather jacket from his body and drapes it over Mary's shoulders, allowing her to feel the warmth he generated within the fabric. She meets Frank's gaze, her eyes reflecting a mixture of surprise and a subtle acknowledgment.

"Thanks," Mary says, her tone softer than before.

Frank grunts in response, a nonchalant acknowledgment of the simple act. The rooftop, now a stage for the interplay of tensions, becomes a haven for shared silences and unspoken gestures.

The city below, its lights twinkling in the night, seems to hold its breath in anticipation. Mary, wrapped in Frank's leather jacket, feels the weight of the fabric against her shoulders, a physical reminder of the complexities that define their connection.

"Getting creative, huh?" Frank breaks the silence, his eyes returning to the cityscape.

"Yeah," Mary responds, her gaze fixed on the distant horizon, "Sometimes you have to think outside the box. Not every battle is won with fists and bullets."

Frank snorts, a derisive sound that carries the weight of his skepticism, "You sound like you've been to one too many therapy sessions."

Mary smirks, "Therapy has its merits. Helps you see things from a different perspective."

The tension between them, once a palpable force on the rooftop, eases into a more nuanced exchange. The city, a sprawling canvas that bears witness to their struggles, becomes a backdrop for the unraveling layers of their shared narrative.

"You ever been to therapy?" Mary turns the question back to Frank.

He shoots her a sidelong glance, his expression guarded, "Therapy's not my thing."

Mary raises an eyebrow, a silent challenge in her gaze, "Because you have everything figured out, right?"

Frank grunts again, a dismissive sound that masks the complexities within, "Figured out enough."

The rooftop, now a space for candid exchanges, becomes a theater for the intricacies of their individual histories. Mary, her fingers tracing the worn edges of the leather jacket, contemplates the enigma that is Frank Castle.

"You know," Mary begins, her voice measured, "I've seen the way you look at yourself. The guilt, the regret. It's written all over your face."

He scoffs, a defensive reaction to the vulnerability exposed by her words, "Save the psychoanalysis, doc."

Mary leans back against the ledge, her eyes never leaving Frank's, "You can pretend all you want that you've got it under control, but I've been in this game long enough to recognize when someone's drowning, even if they won't admit it."

Frank's eyes, a mirror to the turmoil within, meet hers in a silent acknowledgment. The rooftop, now a crucible for shared confessions, becomes a space where vulnerabilities and truths intersect. The chilly night air seems to thicken as Mary's words hang in the space between them. The rooftop, their stage of revelations, becomes a vessel for the unspoken, an arena where the complexities of their shared existence intertwine.

"I've seen enough death," Frank's voice, a low growl, carries the weight of a lifetime's worth of struggles.

His gaze remains fixed on the distant city, but the vulnerability lingers in the lines etched into his features.

" So have I," Mary utters, her voice barely above a whisper," My parents were killed. The official report listed it as an accident... but they were burned alive. In the apartment building I grew up in. That's how I..." she pauses to take a deep breath," ended up as an assassin. They take these girls from all around the world, no older than 9 or 10. And they strip you of everything, your humanity, your girlhood, your autonomy... everything," she lets a bitter chuckle escape her lips," And even when I went stateside, did the right thing and joined S.H.I.E.L.D... all I ever did was kill."

The revelation hangs heavily in the night air, a confession etched with the scars of Mary's past. Frank's jaw tightens, his eyes narrowing as he absorbs the weight of her words. The rooftop, a witness to their shared truths, becomes a realm where the ghosts of their pasts intertwine.

Mary's gaze remains fixed on the city below, her eyes distant as she delves into memories that have long haunted her. Frank, despite the gruff exterior, senses the vulnerability that lingers in the spaces between her words.

Frank's silence becomes a canvas for Mary's words to paint their shared pain. The city below, its lights flickering in the vast expanse, seems to bear witness to the unspoken bond that forms between them.

"You ever feel like you're drowning?" Mary's voice softens, the edge of vulnerability revealing itself again.

Frank's gaze shifts to her, a silent acknowledgment of the shared struggles etched into their existences. The rooftop, now a sanctuary for revelations, becomes a space where the complexities of redemption and survival collide.

"Yeah," Frank admits, his voice rough, "Every damn day."

Mary turns to him, her eyes locking onto his with an intensity that transcends the darkness around them. The leather jacket, a symbolic link between them, seems to carry the weight of shared burdens.

The wind carries a chilling whisper as Mary's fingers brush against the leather jacket draped over her shoulders. Frank's eyes, a mix of resignation and understanding, hold hers in a silent pact. The rooftop, now a conduit for shared confessions, becomes a sacred space where vulnerabilities intertwine.

"You think we can swim back up?" Frank's voice is a gravelly murmur, his doubt veiled beneath the gruff exterior.

Mary's eyes hold a glimmer of hope as she answers, "Yeah... But not alone."

Frank's gaze lingers on Mary's, the unspoken pact hanging between them like an invisible thread. The city below, a sprawling labyrinth of lights, seems to echo the complexities of their shared existence.

The chill in the air, once a harbinger of isolation, transforms into a gentle breeze that carries the echoes of shared pain and unspoken desires. Mary, her eyes reflecting the resilience of a survivor, bridges the distance between them with a vulnerability that transcends the complexities of their pasts.

A bright fire burns in each of them, one that causes their hands to ache for the others. A fire that burns inside and makes it hard to breathe, one that makes their heart clench and flutter all at once.

Frank's eyes, stormy and intense, remain locked onto Mary's. The leather jacket, a shared emblem of vulnerability, seems to amplify the unspoken desires that linger in the spaces between them. The chill in the air becomes a subtle force, heightening the awareness of their shared proximity.

A charged silence settles over the rooftop, the unspoken acknowledgment of a connection that defies rationality. Mary's hand, seemingly of its own accord, moves closer to Frank's on the ledge. The city below, oblivious to the complexities unfolding above, becomes a canvas for the nuances of their shared existence.

The fire burning within them, an undeniable force that transcends reason, intensifies as Mary's fingertips brush against Frank's. His gaze flickers, a subtle tension building in the air.

Frank's thumb traces a gentle arc on the back of Mary's hand, a gesture laden with unspoken promises. The rooftop, a tableau for the inexplicable, becomes a canvas for a tension that refuses to be contained.

Dinah Madani lays in bed, day after day, crippled with grief over the  death of yet another partner. She still feels his blood on her skin and  can still see his eyes before the life left them. She stays with her  mother, whom cares for her daughter in a time of need, all while Frank  watches from the scope of his rifle.

And just as Lieberman  goes to take a leak, three bombs go off, one by one on the nearby  streets. Several people killed and dozens more injured, it doesn't take  long for it to make it on local and national TV, and it takes even less  time for a letter to reach the desk of Karen Page.

The  United States government has become a tyrannical force... using its  power to persecute teachers and citizens... trying them in a court like  criminals for seeking to defend themselves as the Constitution allows.  They wanna take away our guns, our freedom... and then we will be unable  to defend ourselves. I have acted in defense of our liberty and  identity. I have acted for all of us, to do what is right.

A  letter most certainly for the one responsible for the bombings, someone  in a poor headspace, feeling as though they haven't any other options.

You  have championed the common hero before, Miss Page. I believe you  understand that sometimes a man has to make a stand for what is right,  what is true, even if the law stands against him. I ask you in the name  of this country we love to print my words as a call to arms. If you do  not, I will know you're one of them, and you and everyone at your  liberal paper will be on my list. Give me liberty... or give me death.

Some right-wing fanatic who claims to be acting in the name of what is right, yet fails to see the hypocrisy in their words.

The  bomber claims to be a hero, similar to that of Frank Castle, only it  couldn't be further from the truth. Frank Castle is no hero, and  certainly isn't anywhere close to the likes of former infantry soldier,  Lewis Wilson.

Frank and Mary stand side by side, eyes staring  at the TV screen where a video of the bombing plays on the news. A group  of people in their office singing happy birthday to their co-worker  before debris and dust goes flying.

" There's nothing in this world I hate as much as a goddamn bomb," Frank utters.

" It's cowardly," Mary adds.

"  They think they're gonna scare people into making them do what they  want. They're wrong," He says," It just pisses people off,  you know,  brings them together, makes them stronger. New York doesn't forget.  Whoever this is, they're in for a world of shit."

" You know, if they bring Madani into work, we might get our chance," Lieberman speaks up.

" Whole city's got its eyes open. Last thing we're gonna do is go after a Homeland agent," Frank counters.

" What do you wanna do? Nothing?" Lieberman sighs.

" It's better than doing something stupid," Mary shrugs.

This  bomber is intent on spreading fear, but I'm not scared. I know this  city will pull together like it has so many times before. The Bulletin  may have printed his words, but we've also given  his letter to the FBI,  because we have faith in the institutions that he seeks to destroy. We  must not tolerate those who use violence to communicate. This man is not  a patriot. He's a coward, a terrorist.

It's as though Karen  wants to make herself a target, at least that's what Mary thinks as she  reads the newly printed article from the Bulletin.

The radio  show that Karen makes an appearance on has a host that almost seems to  be defending the bomber, or at the very least, the second amendment. His  argument is that the terrorist used bombs, not guns. The host almost argues with his other guest, a pro gun-law senator sitting beside the journalist.

The  entire broadcast is a shit show. It depicts just how easily Americans  can defend the actions of horrible people, so long as they hide behind  the constitution and patriotism.

The whole thing makes Frank  sick to his stomach, being compared to this low life who uses bombs to  sway people's thoughts in his direction.

The senator insists  that the Punisher is no different than the recent bomber, but Karen  argues that the two have nothing in common. The Punisher only punished  those who were bad, and didn't kill innocent civilians like the bomber  has.

" New York, we have a caller on the line who claims to be  the bomber himself. Can I get a name?"

" No, my name is not important. Only my actions. Why did you say those things about me, Karen? "

" Because I despise everything you've done."

" This country is being cannibalized by people like Senator Ori. Shipping our jobs overseas,
selling us out, then taking our guns so we can't do anything about it."

"  You're such a coward. Those people that you killed, they weren't making  policy. They were secretaries and janitors and beat cops. Regular  people. How does that help  your cause? Maybe the government did  something awful to you. I don't know your story. But awful things happen
to people every day, and they don't murder people because of it."

"  You're just a pawn, like the rest of them. And Senator Ori, what a  joke. You don't represent anyone but yourself. The war is just  beginning, and you are all on the wrong side of it. Sic semper  tyrannis."

Thus always to tyrants.

A message echoed  in a veteran's group hosted by Curtis, the man who saved Frank's life by  getting the arrow out of his chest. The bomber is a vet, a soldier  who's deranged and fallen for right-wing propaganda.

With the information Frank can remember about the kid, Lieberman does his digging to find out the coward's true identity.

The  coward is going after Karen, he has to. There's a maniac coming after  her once more, and it's up to Mary and Frank to protect her, to keep her  out of harm's way and to keep her safe.

" Lewis Wilson. Age  26,  formerly 1st Infantry Division. Address is registered to Clay,  Lewis' father," Lieberman says as he pulls up the information on the  screen.

" That's him," Frank confirms as he grabs a pistol.

"  Look..." Liberman trails as he watches them prepare for war," why don't  we just call an anonymous tip line? Let's call Curtis. All right?  Curtis knows the guy. Let him deal with this."

" Curtis will just try to fix him," Frank counters as he cocks his gun," We're doing this my way."

He  hops in the driver's seat of the van while Mary joins him in the  passenger's, the two of them setting off to stop a madman before he  turns a bad situation into an even worse one. And once the van is  parked, Mary dials a number from her burner phone.

" Karen Page."

" The hell are you doing?" Mary asks as she presses the phone to her ear.

" He chose me. It made me angry that he thinks. I'd agree with his actions."

" Yeah, good for you. Now you got a target on your back. You happy?"

" What was I supposed to do? Nothing? That's how people like this win. Why are you calling?"

" Is the FBI there?"

" Yes."

" Good. You just stay put till you hear from me."

" Why am I hearing from you? What do you know about this?"

" I know that you need to stay put until this gets dealt with."

"  No, what does this have to do with you? Do you know who he is? If you  do, tell me. I can go to the FBI, and we can deal with this."

Frank then rips the phone from Mary's hands and brings it to his ear.

" Ah, it's faster my way."

" Faster? They're right here. Why don't we do this the right way for once?"

" Right way he doesn't walk away from."

" That makes you no different than him."

" Hey, Karen, we are plenty different, and you know it."

" Two guys don't like the way the world works,so they do whatever they like? Do not do this and  say that it's for me."

" Yeah, just stay put."

He ends the call and returns the burner to Mary, who narrows her eyes at the vet.

" Don't take the phone from me like that," She utters.

" She's gonna get herself killed, excuse me for not using my manners," Frank retorts.

The  scene they stumble upon is horrible, it's horrific. Curtis is beaten  and bloody, tied to a chair with a bomb strapped to his chest as Lewis  looks as though his brain has rotted from the inside. Lewis is a man  possessed, a man beyond reason, yet that doesn't stop Frank from trying.

Lewis  is on a rooftop, peering in through the scope of a sniper rifle,  talking through the phone, his rational being that Frank should be on  his side... they want the same thing.

Frank swallows the  burning pit in his stomach as he continues to reason with the kid,  watching his friend beg with his eyes, a silent plea to not let him die.  He somehow manages to convince the kid to tell him how to deactivate  the bomb. Frank places the phone on speaker as Mary uses her steady  hands to mess with the wires.

But they're out of luck.

Lewis already has the cops on the way, and once he hears the sirens, he flees the scene.

" Shit," Mary utters.

Once  Curtis is safe from the bomb, Mary and Frank sprint out the backdoor.  Mary grabs a brick and tosses it at one of the cops, knocking him out so  they can hijack the car, which they swiftly ditch one they get to a  safe point. They're in the wind, gone without a trace.

Or at least that's what they think.

Lieberman  sits in a bar beside Dinah Madani, going against the advice of his  friends when the local news channel pops up with two very familiar  faces.

" An anonymous tip led police to this house in Queens  where Castle was fleeing the scene with a female accomplice. Police were  unable to apprehend Castle and the female, but this image was
caught  on a dashboard camera. Facial recognition software confirms. that the  man you are looking at is indeed Frank Castle. He is alive and appears  to be working alongside a former Soviet spy, Maryshka Kravchenko."

" It appears Frank Castle, also known as the Punisher is alive and may..."

"  Castle was tried and convicted of the murders of 37 people, all of  whom  have ties to the city's most notorious organized crime  syndicates..."

" Kravchenko, a former S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, pardoned by Congress and believed to still have ties with..."

" We have breaking news that Queens NYPD Police have confirmed the Punisher is alive, and now is working with the Red Widow."

" Stay tuned as the story develops."

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