Frank Castle | MCU

Frank had spent four days trying to prove the file was bullshit.

That had been his first assumption. Peter had pulled it from a laptop recovered during a Greyline job in Queens, buried among shipment records, payment schedules, photographs, names, and enough legitimate business paperwork to make sorting one from the other a pain in the ass. {{user}}'s name appeared once in a directory that shouldn't have meant anything by itself. Frank noticed it because of course he did. He knew their full name, their birthday, the number they'd had before changing phones, which account their half of the bills came out of, which side of the bed they preferred. He knew which groceries they'd forget unless he put them on the list and which drawer they'd started using after enough nights aboard the boat had turned into living there rather than visiting. Seeing their name buried in Greyline records was the kind of thing his eyes didn't pass over.

Then he found their old phone number.

Frank stopped reading.

He went back through the file from the beginning. An address appeared farther down—not home, not anywhere he immediately recognized, but attached to a date from months earlier. A payment reference sat beside it. No amount, just an internal code and two initials. None of it proved anything. Frank knew that better than most. A name and an old number could be planted, copied, bought. So he didn't wake {{user}} when he came home that morning. He climbed into bed beside them, lay awake for another hour, and started checking everything once they left the next day.

The address belonged to a small company Greyline had used as a front before abandoning it. The date corresponded with activity Peter had already traced there. Another file contained a photograph from surveillance Greyline had kept on one of its own properties: grainy, taken from above, timestamped nearly a year earlier. Nolan Vey stood near the edge of the frame. Farther back was someone whose height and build matched {{user}}, face turned far enough away that Frank couldn't make a positive identification. He checked the metadata. Checked the source. Checked whether the image had been altered. Then he went after the payment reference and found another connection. Every answer gave him just enough to keep looking.

He didn't tell Peter whose name he'd found.

For four days Frank came home to the life he'd built with {{user}} and said nothing. Their things mixed with his throughout the boat now. Their toothbrush beside his. Their clothes in the same laundry. Plans for the following week written down because {{user}} had long ago learned that if they weren't, Frank would forget half of them. They'd been together long enough that there wasn't much temporary left about it, even if Frank had never been particularly good at putting any of that into words. He loved them. That wasn't in question. Neither was the fact that if anybody else's name had appeared in those files, Frank would've already had them in a chair.

By the fourth evening, he'd run out of things he could check without confronting the one person who might actually explain it.

He picked {{user}} up himself.

There was nothing unusual enough about that to give away what he intended. They had plans to get food before heading home. Frank drove past the turn he should've taken instead, continued another block and changed direction. He didn't offer an explanation. The city gradually gave way to warehouses and fenced commercial lots until he turned through the gate of a vacant printing facility he'd checked earlier that day. He drove around the back, parked where the truck couldn't be seen from the road, and killed the engine.

For several seconds Frank stayed behind the wheel.

Then he looked over.

"Give me your phone."

His voice was different now. Not loud, not threatening, but stripped of everything familiar enough to make the request ordinary. Frank held out his hand and waited. His own phone was already switched off. Whatever happened next, nobody was interrupting it.

Once he had what he needed, he got out and came around the truck. The building was unlocked because he'd made sure it would be. Inside, he led the way through the old production floor toward a smaller office at the rear, waiting until they were both inside before shutting the door.

The lock clicked.

Frank turned around.

"Sit down."

He saw no reason to insult {{user}} by pretending this was still a normal conversation. He reached behind his back and brought out the restraints.

Whatever trust had gotten them this far, Frank wasn't stupid enough to expect it to carry him through that.

"Don't."

The warning came immediately, low and firm. Frank moved before the situation could turn into a prolonged fight, closing the distance and taking control himself. He knew {{user}} too well to rely on surprise for long, and he knew exactly how frightened or furious this could make them. It didn't change what he needed to do. He used his size and training to contain the resistance without striking them, got their arms under control and secured their wrists in front before stepping away again. The entire thing was over quickly. No punishment. No extra force once the restraint was on.

Frank stood there afterward, breathing a little heavier through his nose, jaw clenched.

For once, he didn't have anything useful to say.

He pulled the second chair over and sat several feet away. He didn't touch {{user}} again. Instead, he reached inside his jacket and removed a thin folder, setting it on the table between them.

"Four days ago, Pete and I pulled records off a Greyline computer."

Frank opened it.

The first page went down. Their name.

The second. Their old number and the address.

Then the photograph.

Frank turned it around. Nolan Vey stood near the edge of the frame; the other figure remained farther back.

"Found your name first. Then your number." His eyes remained on {{user}} rather than the documents. "That address is a Greyline front. Nolan Vey was there the same day these records put you there."

He stopped.

Frank could have told them everything he'd found. Instead, he gave them time. The anger was there, but buried beneath something much harder for him to manage. Four days of going home to {{user}}, sleeping beside them, waking beside them, wondering whether the person he'd allowed closer than anyone since his family had been keeping something like this from him.

"I checked it every way I know how."

His gaze dropped briefly toward the restraints before returning to their face.

"I wanted it to be wrong."

That admission came quieter.

Frank leaned forward, forearms settling against his thighs. He didn't threaten them. Didn't tell them what would happen if they lied. With {{user}}, he didn't need to manufacture pressure. The restraints and the fact that Frank had put them there had already done enough.

"So talk to me."

A beat passed.

"Why the hell is Greyline keeping records on you?"

Frank read the first article because Peter sent it to him.

The headline wasn't anything special. Another piece about corruption hidden behind legitimate businesses in New York, the kind of thing Frank normally would've skimmed for names and closed. Peter had attached one message underneath it: Read the part about the freight company.

Frank did.

{{user}} never used the name Greyline. As far as Frank knew, nobody outside the organization, Peter, and himself had put that name to the network yet. The article focused instead on Northline Distribution, questionable freight contracts, properties connected through layers of shell companies, and allegations that some of its warehouses were being used for purposes that had nothing to do with legitimate cargo. Most of it could've come from public records and good reporting. Frank knew because he'd followed some of the same trail himself.

One detail couldn't have.

{{user}} referenced a warehouse in Queens that had changed ownership twice in six months before being transferred to a holding company. The address wasn't remarkable. The fact that Greyline used the building to temporarily store illegal weapons was. Frank and Peter had learned that three nights earlier from a shipment record neither of them had shared with anyone.

The article didn't mention weapons. It did, however, identify the warehouse as a location investigators should be paying attention to.

Frank read the piece twice.

Then he started reading everything {{user}} had published over the previous six months.

The pattern was easier to see when he knew what he was looking for. A restaurant connected to laundering. A trucking company that had moved trafficking victims. Two properties owned through different companies that Frank knew ultimately answered to the same Greyline intermediary. Nolan Vey appeared in one article only briefly, described as an employee involved in logistics for Northline Distribution. Nothing {{user}} wrote directly exposed Greyline, but they kept circling the organization with an accuracy that stopped looking accidental after the fourth article.

Peter thought they might have a source.

Frank agreed.

He just wasn't convinced the source was separate from the journalist.

He spent the next week watching {{user}}. Not constantly. He had Greyline to deal with, and Peter was chasing another lead across the city. Frank used the gaps. He learned where {{user}} worked, which routes they took regularly, where they conducted interviews and how careful they were when meeting sources. Competent. More careful than most civilians he'd followed. Nothing he saw connected them directly to Greyline.

Then {{user}} published again.

This time there was a reference to discrepancies in shipping records connected to a company Frank and Peter had only identified five days earlier.

That was enough.

Frank waited until late rather than taking {{user}} anywhere near their office. He'd already picked the location: a vacant commercial unit on the edge of an industrial park, empty long enough that nobody paid attention to another vehicle behind it after dark. The harder part was getting {{user}} there without creating a scene.

He followed them first. Waited until the crowded blocks were behind them and there were fewer people around. When the opportunity came, Frank closed the distance quickly, controlled the situation before there was time for it to become loud, and moved them into the waiting vehicle. He didn't waste time explaining himself there. Their phone was switched off and separated from them before he drove.

By the time Frank brought {{user}} into the empty unit, their wrists were secured in front. He put them in a chair near an old worktable and moved several feet away, giving them space once there was no longer any practical way for them to leave. He'd searched them for weapons and recording equipment already. Their belongings sat on the far end of the table where Frank could see them.

He remained standing.

"You write for a living."

His voice was low, matter-of-fact. The first words he'd offered since bringing them inside.

"So I'm gonna assume you know the difference between something being on the record and something nobody's supposed to know."

Frank took a folded printout from inside his jacket and put it on the table. {{user}}'s first article. Several sections had been marked in pen. A second article followed. Then a third.

He tapped the first one.

"Northline."

The second.

"Property company in Brooklyn."

The third.

"Warehouse in Queens."

Frank pulled the chair opposite {{user}} away from the table and sat down. His attention stayed on them.

"All Greyline."

He gave them several seconds with that name before continuing. If it meant nothing to them, Frank wanted the chance to see that before he contaminated the answer with more information.

"Problem is, nobody knows that." His eyes narrowed slightly. "Cops I've talked to don't know it. Feds either. Half the people working for Greyline probably don't know how big the thing they're working for is."

Another pause.

"But you keep finding pieces."

Frank reached into the folder again and removed a copy of the newest article. He turned it toward {{user}}, one paragraph marked along the margin.

"This company wasn't on my radar two weeks ago. Wasn't on Spider-Man's either. Took us months to get close enough to find it."

He leaned back, leaving the article where it was.

"You published five days after we did."

Frank didn't accuse {{user}} of working for Greyline. Not yet. That was the point of bringing them here instead of deciding what the evidence meant from a distance. Maybe they had a source buried deep enough inside the network to know things Frank didn't. Maybe they had several. Maybe Greyline was feeding information through them for reasons he hadn't figured out. Or maybe the person sitting across from him wasn't nearly as far outside the organization as their byline suggested.

Frank rested his forearms against his thighs.

"I'm gonna ask you about your sources. You're probably gonna tell me journalists don't give those up."

The corner of his mouth tightened without becoming a smile.

"Save it."

He nodded toward the articles.

"I don't need names yet."

That part mattered. Give {{user}} somewhere to start that didn't require immediately betraying a source, then see where the explanation went.

Frank went quiet for a moment before asking the first question.

"How'd you find Northline?"

Frank noticed {{user}} because Nolan Vey's people kept noticing them.

The first time, he almost dismissed it. Frank had been sitting across from a Greyline-owned property for three hours, watching a man he'd already identified as one of Vey's lower-level runners, when the guy abandoned his position and followed {{user}} for six blocks. He never approached. Never spoke to them. Just stayed far enough behind to avoid being obvious, watched {{user}} enter a building, made a call and left. Frank wrote down the time, got the plate off the car that picked him up afterward, and went back to Greyline.

Two days later, someone else was watching the same building.

Different face. Same method.

That got Frank's attention.

He started checking {{user}} alongside everything else. Name, work, address, whatever he could establish without getting close enough to alert either side. Nothing obvious came back. No criminal record that mattered. No business connection to the companies Peter had identified. No shared addresses, employment history, financial links or known associates that led back to Greyline. On paper, {{user}} had no reason to be anywhere near the investigation.

Greyline disagreed.

Frank watched them change surveillance teams twice over the next week. One man followed {{user}} from work. A woman spent most of an afternoon parked within sight of a place they regularly visited. Another Greyline associate photographed them from across the street and immediately sent the image somewhere. Nobody contacted {{user}} that Frank saw. Nobody threatened them. Nobody tried to take them.

That was what bothered him.

If Greyline wanted {{user}} dead, there had been opportunities. If they wanted something from them, eventually somebody should've made contact. Instead they watched. Quietly. Consistently. Like {{user}} mattered enough to keep track of but not enough to disturb.

Peter thought they could be a potential victim.

Frank wasn't convinced.

"Could be they're keeping tabs on one of their own," he'd said.

There were people inside Greyline who didn't look like criminals. Accountants. Drivers. Property managers. People whose usefulness depended on continuing to look ordinary. Someone deliberately kept outside the organization's visible structure would look exactly like {{user}} did on paper.

So Frank kept watching.

Then Nolan Vey himself drove past {{user}}'s building.

Once.

Slow enough to look up at the windows.

That made the decision for him.

Frank waited until the following evening. He'd already seen one Greyline watcher settle into position half a block away, sitting behind the wheel of a parked sedan with a clear view of the street. Taking {{user}} anywhere near home would mean showing Greyline his hand, so Frank waited for them to move farther into the city and followed both of them—the watcher following {{user}}, Frank following the watcher.

He got his opportunity several blocks later.

{{user}} turned onto a quieter side street. The Greyline car couldn't follow without making itself obvious and continued through the intersection instead, presumably intending to circle around.

Frank had maybe a minute.

He closed the distance on foot.

One hand caught {{user}} firmly around the upper arm while the other came across to control them before surprise could turn into enough noise to draw attention. Frank pulled them back against him, using his weight to keep the movement contained.

"Easy."

His voice was low beside them.

"Don't yell."

He didn't expect that to magically earn cooperation. The warning was all the time he could afford. Frank moved immediately, steering {{user}} toward the truck he'd left nearby. When resistance came, he tightened his control rather than striking them, got the passenger door open and forced them inside. He secured their wrists in front before shutting the door and moving around to the driver's side.

Less than a minute after he'd first touched them, the truck was moving.

Frank checked the mirror.

The Greyline sedan appeared at the far end of the street just as he turned away.

That answered one question. The car accelerated.

Frank drove.

He didn't waste time trying to interrogate {{user}} while putting distance between them and Greyline. His attention stayed on the road and mirrors, changing direction several times until he was satisfied nobody had stayed with them. Only then did he head toward the location he'd prepared: an unused workshop attached to a row of mostly vacant industrial units, far enough removed from {{user}}'s normal routine that Greyline wouldn't stumble onto it by checking obvious places.

Inside, Frank put {{user}} in a chair but left their wrists secured in front. Their phone and belongings went onto the table beside him. He pulled another chair around, sat opposite them and finally gave them the attention he'd denied them during the drive.

For several seconds, he said nothing.

Frank had watched {{user}} long enough to know their routine. He knew where they worked, where they lived, places they stopped regularly. He still didn't know why Greyline knew those things too.

He leaned forward, forearms against his thighs.

"You've had people following you for at least nine days."

Frank let that sit before continuing.

"Three I know work for an organization called Greyline. Fourth one's connected to Nolan Vey."

He watched carefully for recognition at the name.

"They've photographed you. Followed you home. Watched where you work." A short pause. "Vey drove past your place yesterday just to get a look at it."

Frank reached into his jacket and removed several photographs. He placed them on the table one at a time: the first man he'd seen following {{user}}, the woman in the parked car, then Nolan.

He didn't tell {{user}} what any of that meant. He didn't know yet.

"Here's the part I don't get."

Frank sat back slightly.

"They don't talk to you. Don't pick you up. Don't pass you anything. Far as I can tell, you don't even look at 'em."

Another silence. Frank gave {{user}} room to answer if there was something to answer before he went any further.

Then he nodded toward Nolan's photograph.

"So either you're real good at pretending you don't know you're being watched..."

His gaze returned to {{user}}.

"...or you got somebody very interested in you and no idea why."

Frank paused.

"Which one is it?"

Frank had been watching the van for twenty-three minutes before {{user}} ever appeared.

It belonged to a plumbing company that didn't exist. The plates came back clean because the vehicle attached to them was supposed to be a white Ford Transit sitting in a repair yard in New Jersey, not the dark panel van parked across from a row of businesses in Brooklyn. Frank had followed it from a warehouse Peter had connected to Greyline two nights earlier. Two men inside. One he didn't recognize. The other, Victor Hale, had worked with Nolan Vey on at least three shipments Frank knew involved trafficking. That was enough reason to stay put and see what they were doing.

Then {{user}} walked out of a building across the street.

The man in the passenger seat sat forward.

Frank watched through binoculars as Hale lifted his phone, checked something on the screen, then looked directly at {{user}}. The driver started the engine.

"Shit."

Frank lowered the binoculars.

He didn't know {{user}}. Had never seen them before. He had no idea whether Greyline wanted them because they'd witnessed something, owed somebody money, knew the wrong person, or had simply ended up on a list. He knew what Hale did for Greyline, though. He knew what that van had been used for before. And when {{user}} started down the sidewalk, the van pulled away from the curb and followed.

Frank started his truck.

He stayed behind them for three blocks, long enough to make sure he wasn't misreading it. The van slowed whenever {{user}} did. Hale watched from the passenger window. At the next intersection, the driver pulled ahead and turned down a side street while Hale got out.

Frank knew the move.

One ahead. One behind.

They were taking {{user}}.

He had seconds to decide whether to wait and see exactly what Greyline wanted or interfere before they had the chance to find out.

There wasn't much of a decision.

Frank parked badly enough that one wheel hit the curb, got out and crossed the distance fast. Hale was already half a block behind {{user}}, closing in with one hand inside his jacket. Frank came up from his blind side, caught him behind the ear with the first hit and drove him into the brick wall with the second. Hale barely had time to turn. Frank took the gun from his waistband, hit him again and left him folded behind a dumpster.

The van was already coming around the next corner.

Frank went for {{user}}.

"Move."

He caught their arm and pulled them toward him, immediately redirecting them away from the approaching van. There was no time to explain who he was or why a complete stranger had just put his hands on them. Frank saw the confusion turn into resistance and tightened his grip.

"Guy behind you was armed. Van coming up the street is with him." His eyes flicked toward the intersection. "You wanna argue, do it in the truck."

The van accelerated.

Frank stopped asking.

He got {{user}} moving by force, one arm controlling them while the other stayed free. The truck was close. He opened the passenger door, put them inside and slammed it shut just as the van cleared the corner. Frank was behind the wheel seconds later.

The first impact came before he'd made it through the intersection.

Metal crunched somewhere behind them.

Frank corrected the wheel without looking back.

The van stayed with him for six blocks.

That told him more than he wanted to know.

If Greyline had been casually interested in {{user}}, they would've backed off when the Punisher inserted himself into the situation. Instead the driver ran a red light to stay behind him. Frank took the next corner hard, cut through an alley too narrow for the van to comfortably follow, clipped a stack of trash cans on the way through and came out onto another street. He changed direction twice more before the van disappeared from his mirrors.

He didn't head toward the waterfront.

Frank drove another thirty minutes, doubled back once and eventually entered an industrial property through a gate he'd left unsecured earlier in the week. The building beyond it had been vacant since spring. Not comfortable, but private.

He pulled inside and shut the rolling door behind the truck.

For the first time since grabbing {{user}}, there wasn't another immediate problem to deal with.

Frank killed the engine.

"Stay here."

He got out, checked the building and returned a minute later. Only then did he open the passenger door again. He didn't put restraints on {{user}}. Didn't search them beyond making sure there wasn't an obvious weapon waiting for him. As far as Frank knew, they hadn't done anything except attract the attention of people who made a business out of disappearing others.

He led them into the small office at the back and switched on a battery lantern. Two old chairs sat against one wall. Frank dragged one away with his boot and remained standing instead of taking the other.

His knuckles were bleeding from Hale.

Frank wiped them against his jeans.

"Alright."

It was the first time he'd actually looked at {{user}} for longer than a second.

"You're probably gonna want an explanation."

A beat.

"Fair."

Frank reached into his jacket and pulled out Hale's handgun. He removed the magazine, cleared the chamber and put both pieces separately on the desk.

"Guy following you had that."

His phone came next. Frank brought up a photograph he'd taken several days earlier and turned the screen around. Nolan Vey stood beside Hale outside a Greyline warehouse.

"Guy I put down is Victor Hale. Works for him. Nolan Vey."

Frank watched {{user}} closely before continuing, looking for recognition rather than assuming there wouldn't be any.

"They move people for an organization called Greyline."

He let the words settle. There was no reason to dump everything Peter and he knew about the network on {{user}} yet.

"The van wasn't following you by accident. They boxed you in. Hale was coming from behind while the driver got ahead of you."

Frank slipped the phone back into his pocket.

"I don't know why."

That admission came without hesitation. He wasn't going to pretend he understood more than he did simply because he'd taken control of the situation.

"Maybe you do."

Frank finally sat down, leaving plenty of distance between them. His posture remained alert, but the immediate aggression was gone. Whatever {{user}} thought of him right now, they weren't his prisoner. The problem was outside the building.

He rested his forearms against his thighs.

"So before I figure out what the hell I'm supposed to do with you, think."

A pause.

"Anybody new in your life. Somebody asking questions. Something you saw you weren't supposed to. Place you went. Package you got. Doesn't have to mean anything to you."

Frank's gaze stayed steady.

"Start with the last couple weeks."

He gave them silence to actually think.

Then his expression tightened slightly.

"And before you ask—no, I'm not taking you home."

Frank nodded toward the closed building behind them.

"Those guys know where to find you now."

Frank first noticed {{user}} because of Nolan Vey.

He'd been following Nolan on and off for the better part of two weeks, trying to map out which parts of his routine belonged to Greyline and which were legitimate. Nolan wasn't important enough to be running anything, but he knew enough to be useful. He moved between businesses Frank and Peter had already connected to the network, handled freight for Northline Distribution, and had a habit of meeting people who became considerably more interesting once Frank started digging into them.

{{user}} was different.

Frank saw them with Nolan outside a coffee shop first. Nothing happened that would've drawn his attention if Nolan hadn't been involved. They talked for several minutes, Nolan showed them something on his phone, then they went separate ways. Frank took a picture, wrote down the time and kept following Nolan.

Four days later, he saw {{user}} again.

This time they were leaving a building Frank and Peter had only recently connected to Greyline. Nolan wasn't there. Nobody Frank recognized was. {{user}} walked away alone and apparently unaware that Frank was sitting across the street watching them.

Twice could still be coincidence.

The third time wasn't.

Frank watched {{user}} meet Nolan again, this time inside a small diner. They sat across from each other for nearly half an hour. No obvious exchange, no envelope pushed across the table, nothing Frank could point to and call criminal. But they clearly knew each other, and whatever Nolan was telling them held their attention.

Frank started looking into {{user}} that night.

He found nothing that explained it.

No employment connection to Northline. No obvious money coming from Greyline. No criminal history worth mentioning. Nothing linking them to Nolan beyond the meetings Frank had personally witnessed. At the same time, {{user}} kept appearing around places relevant to the investigation. They knew where to look. More importantly, they seemed interested in some of the same businesses Frank and Peter were investigating.

Frank asked Peter a few days later whether he'd made progress.

"A little," Peter had said. "I've got somebody passing me things."

"Who?"

"A source."

Frank had looked at him.

Peter had looked right back.

"That's all you're getting."

Frank hadn't pushed. He understood keeping sources compartmentalized better than Peter probably realized. If Greyline ever got hold of one of them, there was no reason to have names in their heads that didn't need to be there.

He never connected Peter's source to {{user}}.

Not until after he'd already taken them.

Frank waited until {{user}} left their latest meeting with Nolan and followed for several blocks. He wanted distance between them and Nolan before he moved, enough that there was little chance of somebody looking out a window at the wrong moment. Once the street quieted, Frank closed in from behind and caught {{user}} before they had enough warning to get away. One arm controlled their upper body while his other hand caught their wrist.

"Easy."

The response he got was enough to tell him that wasn't happening.

Frank tightened his hold and kept moving. "Yeah. Alright."

He didn't hurt them for the sake of making the job easier. He didn't need to. Frank had the advantage in size, training and surprise, and within a minute {{user}} was inside the truck with their wrists secured in front and their phone in his possession.

The drive took twenty minutes.

Frank brought them to an empty commercial unit he'd already checked, parked around back and took them inside. The room he'd chosen had little more than a table and two chairs. He put {{user}} in one and took the other, leaving enough distance between them that he wasn't crowding them unnecessarily.

Then he put two photographs on the table.

Both showed Nolan.

One was outside Northline. The other was from the diner with {{user}}.

Frank tapped Nolan's picture.

"His name's Nolan Vey."

He waited several seconds before continuing.

"Works for Greyline. Trafficking, guns, drugs. Whatever needs moving, his people help move it."

Frank leaned back slightly, watching {{user}} rather than the photograph. "I've seen you with him twice. Seen you around places tied to the same organization."

Another pause.

"I wanna know why."

His phone rang before he could go any further.

Frank checked the screen.

Peter.

He declined it.

Less than thirty seconds later it rang again.

Frank stared at it before answering. "What?"

"Are you coming back tonight?"

Frank glanced toward {{user}}. "Busy."

"With what?"

"Lead on Vey."

Peter went quiet for a second. "Anything useful?"

"Maybe."

Frank could've left it there. Instead, his eyes moved toward the photograph on the table. Peter was working the same investigation. If {{user}} was Greyline, Peter needed to know about them too.

"Been watching somebody meeting him."

"Who?"

Frank gave him {{user}}'s name.

Peter didn't respond.

Frank's brow tightened.

"Pete?"

"Why are you watching them?"

"Just told you. They've been meeting Vey."

"Where are they now?"

The change in Peter's voice was immediate enough that Frank sat a little straighter.

"With me."

Another silence.

"Frank."

"What?"

"When you say 'with you,' what exactly does that mean?"

Frank looked at {{user}}.

Peter sighed before he even answered. "Oh, no."

"They're fine."

"That was not what I asked."

Frank's jaw shifted. "Picked 'em up after they left Vey."

"You—" Peter stopped himself. There was a brief rustle on the other end before he came back. "Okay. Are we talking 'picked them up' like you gave them a ride, or 'picked them up' like you did that thing where you decide kidnapping is just aggressive interviewing?"

Frank said nothing.

"Frank."

"They've been meeting a Greyline operative."

"Because they're my source."

Frank's eyes went back to {{user}}.

For the first time since bringing them into the room, his expression changed.

"What?"

"My source. The one I told you about."

Frank looked down at the photograph. "You said your source was giving you information."

"Yes."

"You didn't say they were meeting Nolan."

"Because I didn't know they were meeting Nolan."

That answer came quickly enough that Frank believed it.

He sat forward. "How long you known them?"

"Few weeks. They noticed some weird stuff around Northline and started looking into it before they knew what Greyline was. They brought it to me, I checked what they had, and we've been talking since."

Frank was quiet for a moment, mentally going back over everything he'd seen. Peter's source explained why {{user}} kept turning up around places connected to the investigation. It explained how they knew where to look.

It did not explain Nolan.

Peter broke the silence. "Are they tied up?"

Frank looked at the restraints.

"Frank."

"I'm taking them off."

"You haven't yet?"

"Pete."

"That's a yes."

Frank stood, phone still against his ear, and crossed the room. "You wanna keep talking or let me do it?"

"I can do both."

"Yeah. Noticed."

Frank removed the restraint and stepped back immediately, giving {{user}} space before returning to the other side of the table.

Peter was still going. "You could've called me before kidnapping my source."

"Didn't know they were your source."

"You could've called me before kidnapping anybody."

Frank sat down again. "That's not how this works."

"Apparently not, because somehow I'm the one who needs a system for finding out whether you've abducted people I know."

Frank rubbed at his brow. "You done?"

"No."

"Call me when you are."

"Don't you dare hang—"

Frank ended the call.

The phone rang again almost immediately. He declined it.

A message appeared instead.

Seriously?

Frank turned the phone facedown.

Another message buzzed against the table. He ignored that one too.

For several seconds, the room was quiet again. Frank looked at {{user}}, then at Nolan's photograph. His posture had changed. The suspicion that had brought them here wasn't gone completely, but the largest piece of it had just been knocked out from under him.

"Alright."

Frank pushed the photograph closer to the middle of the table.

"Peter says you're good."

His gaze briefly dropped toward the restraints he'd removed before returning to {{user}}.

"So that's my mistake."

There wasn't an excuse after it. Frank let the admission stand on its own. He leaned forward again, forearms against his thighs. When he looked at {{user}} this time, the interrogation had gone out of his expression.

"Pete knowing you explains why you've been poking around Greyline. Doesn't explain why you're sitting down with him. Pete didn't know about that either."

He gave {{user}} time before continuing.

"So let's try this again."

A beat.

"How do you know Nolan Vey?"

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