In a cold sweat, Mary Kravchenko awakens with not one, but two pit bulls sleeping soundly on her bed. It's almost enough to calm her racing heart, but the scars run more than skin deep.

She prepares for the day in a way that completely goes against Natasha's guidance. Mary isn't much younger than the famous Black Widow. She may not be an Avenger, but Mary is talented all on her own. She received the exact same training as Natasha. She wears the same scars and holds the same trauma.

And while Natasha has the love and support of her found family... Mary has only herself to heal the wounds of the past, of which are held in place by a bandage with poor adhesive.

With another disguise and a bag full of surprises, Mary returns to the courthouse where she takes her seat in the back once more. She sits in a different spot everyday, purposefully sitting next to different people.

She just can't resist it.

" Colonel Ray Schoonover, United States Marine Corps."

" Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth,
so help you God?"

" I do."

" Colonel, how long have you known the defendant?" Foggy asks as the defense takes a crack at the Colonel first.

" I'd say, the better part of a decade," The Colonel responds," Most of his career in the Marine Corps."

" I wonder if you could tell us how Lieutenant Frank Castle won the Navy Cross?"

" Due to the nature of that mission, you'll have to understand that the precise circumstances are classified."

" Um... How about the part that's not?"

Colonel Schoonover's eyes convey a deep respect for Frank Castle as he begins to recount the story," Lieutenant Frank Castle was part of a small team. He was conducting a close target reconnaissance in the vicinity of the Hindu Kush. The mission became compromised, taking enemy contact on three sides. Lieutenant Castle wanted to abort. Said the mission was a bust,
pulling the plug would save lives. Officer in charge said no."

The courtroom is held in rapt attention as the Colonel weaves the tale of Frank Castle's heroism, his voice resonating with the grit of a soldier who's seen the horrors of war.

" Maybe he wanted more medals on his chest. Doesn't matter. Either way, Frank was right. They were cut off, boxed into a canyon. Within the first hour, the officer in charge of that mission got his arm blown off. So Lieutenant Castle assumed command. His only goal was to get his men out alive. The enemy had set up an ambush at the only LZ that would accommodate one of our birds. LZ is a landing zone that can accommodate a helicopter. So the enemy, they block this landing zone, knowing it was the only shot the team had to get out alive. All they had to do was wait. They knew that Frank's team had to come to them. Fish in a barrel. So to speak. Only fish don't know they're gonna die. These men did. Frank went to the LZ all by himself to draw the bastards away."

" Why didn't he order one of his men to do it?" Foggy asks.

" He certainly could have. Not his style. So the men hear the fire fight break out.
All hell breaks loose. Frank against God knows how many. And then there was silence. The team thinks, "That's it. Frank's dead, and we're next." Next sound they hear is the helos, the helicopters. They get to the landing zone, you know what they see? Frank Castle, standing there, grinning. Thirty-two muj surrounding him, all dead. Son of a gun cleared that entire LZ all by himself."

" How?"

" By being Frank Castle," The Colonel responds simply.

" If you had to sum up Frank Castle, how would you do it?"

" I would say Frank Castle is a man who would gladly give his life to keep others safe."

" And the crimes he's accused of today? Could the man you knew have committed them?"

" Absolutely not. Lieutenant Frank Castle that I know is a hero. A man who deserves our respect... and our gratitude. Not the same man."

" Thank you, sir. No more questions, Your Honor," Foggy says as he sits down.

Then, it's the prosecution's turn.

DA Reyes begins confident and with an icebreaker, assuming she has the upper hand by saying that the Colonel has told a good story, but in order for her words to be considered as facts, he needs to have actually been there.

" Well, perhaps I wasn't clear. I was there, ma'am. That officer that didn't listen to Frank,
got his men trapped... you're looking at him. And believe me when I tell you, I thank God every day that I only lost my arm. That man saved my life, the lives of his entire team. If it was up to me, he'd have a Medal of Honor hanging around his neck."

" No further questions at this time, Your Honor," Reyes says as she sits back down, defeated.

It's a small, almost inconsequential victory, but one that sends a ripple of hope through the courtroom, like a brief ray of sunlight breaking through stormy clouds. Fingers are crossed as the trial continues into the next day, with an expert witness called to discuss the profound trauma that Frank Castle endured on that fateful day.

Dr. Lee, an authoritative figure in the field, takes the stand. He's a man of knowledge, his every word steeped in the weight of experience. The anticipation in the courtroom is palpable as he prepares to shed light on the extent of the damage Frank Castle sustained from the gunshot to his head.

"The bullet penetrated Mr. Castle's skull in the lower right quadrant, or more specifically, the sphenofrontal suture," Dr. Lee begins, his tone measured and precise, "That's the cranial suture between the sphenoid bone and the frontal bones, both here and here."

Foggy Nelson, the defense attorney, seizes the moment, aiming to paint a vivid picture for the jury," I believe what my expert witness is trying to convey is that my client, Frank Castle, was shot... point-blank, execution-style, in the head. Could you please describe the damage Mr. Castle sustained from the bullet?"

The courtroom leans in, hanging on Dr. Lee's every word as he continues, "It fragmented on impact, causing damage in both the right frontal lobe and temporal lobe of his brain. Mr. Castle is suffering from what we call sympathetic storming. It's a heightened and ongoing state of fight or flight, in which the sympathetic nervous system is hyperactive. It's as if he is reliving the incident of trauma over and over again. It can plunge a seemingly peaceful individual into... mental and emotional chaos. Extreme emotional disturbance. It's twofold. First, the defendant is so emotionally disturbed that he loses control. And second, the defendant has a reasonable explanation for said disturbance, from his point of view."

Foggy Nelson continues his line of questioning, each word a carefully placed chess piece in the intricate game of the trial, "Are you aware that Frank Castle's wife, son, and daughter were all murdered right in front of him when he sustained the brain injury in question? An injury which, you say, keeps him in a perpetual state of mental and emotional chaos?"

The expert witness, ever composed, nods, "I am, yes."

The defense attorney pushes further, knowing the importance of this testimony.

"With that in mind, would you say that Frank Castle's mental state satisfies the definition of extreme emotional disturbance?"

"Personally, I do believe he is suffering from EED, yes," Dr. Lee responds with a gravity that leaves no room for doubt.

Foggy Nelson seizes on this point, driving it home with precision, "And one who's suffering from extreme emotional disturbance, is it possible to willfully premeditate a crime?"

"Any infractions would be considered crimes of passion," Dr. Lee affirms, his expertise resonating in the courtroom.

The attorney's questions continue, each building a case for the defense.

"How many of your other patients witnessed their families being brutally murdered right in front of them? Other than Frank Castle?"

"He's the only one," Dr. Lee admits, acknowledging the singularity of Frank Castle's traumatic experience.

The defense attorney seeks to clarify the unique nature of Frank's trauma, "And so would you say the circumstances surrounding Frank's mental state are different from those of your other patients?"

"I would," Dr. Lee affirms, underlining the extraordinary nature of Frank Castle's ordeal.

The attorney, seeing an opportunity to emphasize his point, asks for a simplified explanation.

"And what exactly would that difference be, in simple terms?"

"Frank Castle's been through hell," Dr. Lee states succinctly, and his words echo in the minds of everyone present.

But just as the defense concludes its questioning and the courtroom holds its collective breath, a young boy, his voice trembling with grief and anger, leaps to his feet among the spectators. Tears stream down his face as he clutches a book to his chest, and his mother stands beside him, her face etched with sorrow.

"You killed my dad! I don't give a damn what you've been through! You killed him! I saw him in his coffin... He was my dad, and now he's gone!"

The outburst shatters the courtroom's fragile equilibrium, a heart-wrenching reminder of the very real pain and loss endured by those touched by Frank Castle's actions. Even with the judge's stern instruction to the jury to disregard the emotional outburst, the haunting words of the grieving boy linger, casting a shadow over the proceedings that is impossible to ignore.

The trial of Frank Castle, the Punisher, has taken unexpected turns, and Mary Kravchenko finds herself inexorably drawn into its twists and shadows. From her vantage point in the courtroom's shadows, she has been meticulously observing the ebb and flow of the legal battle. The revelation of Frank's severe trauma, the emotional outburst of the grieving boy, it all weighs heavily on her mind.

Today, her focus sharpens. There's a buzz in the air, a palpable tension that tells her something significant is about to happen. She's been following the trial closely, monitoring every development, every witness, and every piece of evidence presented.

She sits in a nondescript corner of the courthouse's cafeteria, nursing a lukewarm cup of coffee that she only occasionally sips. Her attention is elsewhere, her mind working through the implications of Frank Castle taking the stand.

A group of reporters huddles at a nearby table, their voices a low murmur as they discuss the trial. Mary tunes in, her senses attuned to any scrap of information that might help her understand the defense's strategy.

"I heard Nelson and Murdock are going for broke," One reporter says, leaning in conspiratorially," They're putting Castle on the stand tomorrow."

Another reporter shakes their head in disbelief, "That's a bold move. If he loses his temper or comes off as unhinged, it could be the end of their case."

Mary's heart quickens as she listens to their conversation. Putting Frank Castle on the stand is a high-stakes gamble. If he can maintain his composure, if he can make the jury see the trauma he's endured, it might just sway them in his favor. But if he falters, if he gives in to the rage that simmers beneath the surface, it could seal his fate.

In her dimly lit apartment, Mary meticulously reviews her notes, her fingers tracing over the handwritten details of the trial's progression. She's more than an intrigued observer; she's a woman on a mission. A mission to uncover the truth, to navigate the treacherous waters of Frank Castle's trial, and perhaps, to find a path towards her own redemption.

She knows she should heed Natasha's advice, to stay away from the dangerous currents of Frank's world. But there's something in her, an unquenchable thirst for justice, a desire to make amends for her own past, that keeps her tethered to this courtroom drama.

" Do you solemnly swear that you will tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?"

" Yeah."

" Please state your name for the record."

" Frank Castle."

Mary's eyes stay trained on Frank as her ears listen to the words of the blind lawyer. Today, she sits in the second row with both a baseball cap and hoodie to mask her appearance.

" Mr. Castle, you've been charged with multiple capital crimes. Been called a killer incapable of empathy or remorse. Frank, we've heard a lot about neuro-chemistry... and psychology, and all things unfolding, scientifically and otherwise, inside your brain. But I just have one question I want to ask. What happened that day? The day your family was so tragically killed. I understand, it's difficult."

" Do you? Do you understand? 'Cause I don't think you understand shit."

To which prompts the lawyer to get permission to treat the witness as hostile.

" All right, Frank. You don't want to tell us? I'll tell you. I'm gonna tell you exactly what kind of man you are. You're the kind of man this city needs. Because, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, we all know this city needs help. Needs it now. Not tomorrow, not next week, not when the day comes, when the corruption that Wilson Fisk left in his wake is flushed out for good, and the police force is finally back on its feet. We need it now. Cause this city's been sick. And the cops, they can't fix it alone, they need... We all need men and women who are willing to take the fight themselves. The kind of people who risk their lives so that we can walk safe at night in our own neighborhoods. The ones our esteemed District Attorney here is trying so hard to destroy. New York needs these people. We need... heroes. The help they offer...and the hope that they provide. Frank Castle wanted to help, but he took it too far. He shot people, he killed people. It's against the law. And he broke that law many, many times. Now, I don't like himany more than you do, but here's the thing, he's not a common criminal. He's not malicious in intent. Frank Castle is actually a good man. He just... He doesn't know the difference between right and wrong anymore. And he doesn't need punishment for that. He needs help. Our help. That's the kind of man Frank Castle is. And now, you have to decide what kind of jury you want to be. No further questions, Your Honor."

Matt's speech earns him an applause. The entire courtroom seem to be on his side as they clap their hands together in support, almost cheering on the lawyer who essentially said that our world needs vigilantes.

" Your, uh... Your Honor? Can I say something?" Frank clears his throat.

Shit.

" You may."

" You know those, uh... Those people? The ones I put down, the people I killed? I want you to know that I'd do it all again. This is a circus, all right? It's a charade, it's an act. It's bullshit about how crazy I am. I ain't crazy! I'm not crazy. Okay? I know what I did. I know who I am. And I do not need your help. I'm smack-dab in the middle of my right goddamn mind, and any scumbag, any... any lowlife, any maggot piece of shit that I put down, I did it... because I liked it! Hell, I loved it! I'm sittin' here, I'm... I'm just itching. I'm itching to do it again. And you think... What, you think you're gonna send me to a nuthouse? Some doctor, they're gonna get me to stop from doing what I want to do? Well, that ain't happening! Not on my watch! You people, you call me the Punisher, ain't that right? The big bad Punisher. Well, here I am! You want it, you got it! I am the Punisher! I'm right here! You want it, I'll give it to you. And anybody who came here today
to hear me whine, to hear me beg? Well, you can kiss my ass! Do you hear me? I'm guilty. Come on, please, Judge! I'm guilty, you hear me? I'm guilty! I'm guilty! I'll kill every one of 'em! I'll kill every single one!"

Frank's outburst leads him to being forced out of the courtroom by the police. Frank scares everyone inside, jurors and spectators alike. He causes an uproar that's certain for him to be seen as guilty. He was begging for them to say he was guilty. He wants to go to jail for reasons unknown.

Mary is at a loss for words as she listens to the jury and judge come to the same conclusion... Frank Castle is guilty.

Faster than Mary can step out of the courthouse, Frank is already being transported back to prison, where he will most likely rot in a cell for the rest of his life.

Mary returns to her dimly lit apartment, the weight of the courtroom drama still heavy on her shoulders. The place feels like a refuge, a sanctuary from the chaos that swirls outside its walls. The pit bulls, Max and Bubs, are overjoyed to see her. Their tails wag furiously, and they dance around her in a display of unbridled canine enthusiasm.

Mary can't help but smile as she sinks to her knees, embracing her furry companions. Their presence is a source of solace in a world fraught with darkness and uncertainty. She buries her face in their soft fur, feeling their warm breath against her skin. For a brief moment, she forgets about the trial, about Frank Castle, about the tangled web of secrets she's become ensnared in.

But as her smile fades, Mary's gaze drifts to Max, and her heart aches. She knows that Max will likely never see Frank again. The bond between them had been unmistakable, a testament to the unique connection that can form between a human and their loyal canine companion.

She looks into Max's eyes, and it's as if she can see the sadness reflected there. Dogs may not understand the complexities of the legal system or the reasons behind their owner's actions, but they do understand loss and separation. Mary can't help but wonder how Max will cope with the absence of the man he had come to see as his protector and companion.

Bubs, ever the gentle giant, nuzzles against her, sensing her unease. It's as if he's offering his own form of comfort, a reminder that she's not alone in this moment of uncertainty. Mary strokes his thick fur, finding solace in his silent presence.

Something inside Mary snaps, a sudden realization that washes over her like a wave of icy water. She sits there on the floor of her dimly lit apartment, surrounded by her loyal pit bulls, and it hits her like a ton of bricks. This whole thing is stupid.

The trial, the intrigue, the dangerous dance she's been waltzing through—it's all utterly and absurdly stupid. She had wanted a quiet, peaceful life, a life free from the violence and chaos that had defined her past. Yet here she is, voluntarily entangled in a web of secrets and lies, risking everything for a man she barely knows.

She scoffs at herself, a bitter, humorless sound that echoes in the small space. She's allowed herself to be drawn back into a world she swore she'd leave behind. All for what? For a man who's more than capable of taking care of himself. Frank Castle, the Punisher, doesn't need her help, and he certainly doesn't need her risking her own safety for his sake.

With a sigh, Mary pushes herself up from the floor, disentangling herself from Max and Bubs, who watch her with concerned eyes. She paces her apartment, restless energy coursing through her. She needs to get out, to clear her head, to remind herself of the life she'd worked so hard to build.

Determined to shake off the heaviness of the trial, Mary decides to head downstairs to the bar. Maybe a stiff drink and some mindless chatter with strangers is exactly what she needs right now.

The bar is dimly lit, a cozy refuge from the harsh realities of the world outside. As Mary takes a seat on one of the worn barstools, she feels a strange sense of relief. It's as if the weight of the courtroom drama has been left behind, at least for a little while.

She orders a whiskey, neat, and watches the amber liquid swirl in her glass. The bar is mostly empty at this early hour, a few patrons scattered here and there, nursing their own drinks and lost in their thoughts.

Mary is about to take a sip of her drink when she senses someone approaching the barstool next to her. She glances over and is met with a pair of sharp, observant eyes. The woman who sits down next to her exudes an air of confidence and a hint of world-weariness.

Mary gives her a once-over, taking in the leather jacket, the no-nonsense attitude, and the air of someone who's seen more than her fair share of trouble. This woman isn't just any stranger; she's got that look about her, the look of someone who's lived a life far from ordinary.

"Whiskey," The woman says to the bartender, her voice low and gravelly.

Mary raises an eyebrow, not entirely sure why, but she feels a strange kinship with this woman. Maybe it's the shared sense of world-weariness, or perhaps it's the unspoken understanding that sometimes you just need a drink to wash away the absurdity of it all.

The woman glances at Mary, her expression guarded yet curious, "Name's Jessica."

Mary hesitates for a moment, her mind racing with possibilities. She can't afford to reveal too much about herself, not to a stranger. Not in her line of... well, whatever this is.

"Mary," She replies, offering only her first name.

The bartender places a glass of whiskey in front of Jessica, who nods her thanks and takes a slow sip. Mary follows suit, relishing the fiery burn of the alcohol as it slides down her throat. It's a welcome distraction from the mess she's found herself in.

They sit in companionable silence for a while, each lost in their own thoughts. It's a strange sort of camaraderie, born from the unspoken acknowledgment that sometimes life is just absurd, and you have to roll with the punches.

Finally, Jessica breaks the silence, her voice low and conspiratorial, "So, what brings you to this fine establishment today?"

Mary smirks, her own guard dropping just a fraction, "Let's just say I needed a break from reality. You?"

Jessica's lips quirk into a half-smile, a hint of amusement in her eyes, "Same here. Sometimes you just need a drink to make the world make sense... or to forget that it doesn't."

Mary raises her glass in a silent toast, and Jessica does the same. They clink their glasses together, the sound echoing in the dimly lit bar. It's a moment of connection, however fleeting, in a world that often feels cold and unforgiving.

As they continue to chat, both women keep their true identities and motivations hidden, veiling their pasts in a shroud of mystery. It's a dance of half-truths and vague anecdotes, a way to protect themselves from the vulnerabilities of their shared world.

In the midst of the absurdity, Mary finds a strange comfort in the company of this enigmatic stranger. She doesn't know where this encounter will lead, but for now, it's a welcome respite from the chaos and danger that lurk just beyond the bar's dimly lit confines.

As the hours pass and the glasses empty, Mary and Jessica share stories, both real and fabricated, finding solace in the anonymity of the bar and the understanding that sometimes, in a world that doesn't make sense, all you can do is raise a glass and carry on.

Mary leaves the dimly lit bar with a genuine smile on her face, something that has been a rare occurrence in her life lately. Her encounter with Jessica, the enigmatic stranger at the bar, had been oddly liberating. For a brief moment, she'd managed to shed the heavy weight of the trial and the chaos surrounding it. The world had felt a little less absurd, and it was a welcome respite.

As she navigates the dimly lit hallway leading to her apartment, the effects of the whiskey she'd consumed make themselves known. Her steps are a touch unsteady, and she fumbles with her keys before finally managing to unlock her door.

The moment she steps inside her apartment, her earlier contentment fades. She's greeted by the sight of her loyal pit bulls, Bubs and Max, who bound over with tails wagging, their enthusiasm undiminished by her late return. Mary chuckles as she pets them, grateful for their unwavering companionship.

But then her gaze shifts, and her smile vanishes in an instant. Her apartment is not as she left it. It's not empty.

There, in the dim light, sitting on her worn-out couch, is a bloodied and beaten Frank Castle. His face is a grotesque mask of bruises and cuts, and his clothes are torn and stained. He looks like he's been through hell, and maybe even dragged a piece of it back with him.

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