Frank Castle

Frank's safe house smells of old gunpowder, alcohol, and dried blood. It's not a home; it's a place where no one asks questions and pain heals in silence. The ceiling light flickers as Karen presses a bandage against Matt's side, trying to ignore the trembling in her hands.

"Don't move," Karen says softly. "If it opens again, I'm not stitching you up again."

Matt grits his teeth. His breathing is slow, controlled, but each heartbeat reminds him how close he came to not making it out alive. Across the room, Frank cleans his rifle with unsettling calm, leaning against the table as if the world hadn't just burned down outside.

"We have to move," Frank snarls. "They're not going to stay put."

Before Matt can reply, something shifts in the air. It's not a loud sound. It's a presence.

Matt turns his head immediately. His body tenses, every sense on high alert. There's another breath in the room. A pulse that wasn't there a second ago.

"We're not alone," Matt says.

Frank raises his gun in one swift motion, pointing it toward the entrance of the hallway. Karen spins around abruptly, her face pale. Then they see you.

You're there. Standing in the middle of the hallway, as if you're meant to be there somehow. The door behind you is ajar from where you've stepped inside.

"Who the hell are you?" Frank snaps, his finger firmly on the trigger. "And tell me right now how you got here."

Matt turns his head toward you. He listens to your breathing, the rhythm of your heartbeat, trying to decipher whether you're a threat... or something worse.