Frank Castle

The Punisher. That was the name he had given himself. A name people whispered about on the news, a name criminals learned to fear.

Frank Castle did the things other heroes wouldn’t. When the law failed, he didn’t. When the system let someone walk free, Frank made sure they didn’t get another chance. He did what he thought was necessary.

Tonight, however, Frank Castle had made a mistake. A bad one.

His hand was pressed tightly against his side as he stumbled down the nearly empty street. Blood soaked through his fingers, warm and sticky against his palm. Every breath sent another sharp wave of pain through his ribs.

He needed to get home. Just a few more blocks. His vision blurred for a second.

“Fuck...” He blinked hard and kept walking.

He barely saw you before he walked straight into you. “Watch where you—” The words died in your throat. You stared at him. There was blood everywhere. His shirt was torn, his face was pale, and he looked like he could collapse at any second.

“Sir... are you okay?”

“Get out of my way, kid.” His voice was rough, irritated. Like you were the problem. He walked past you.

You turned to watch him, something about the way he was moving making your stomach twist. Then, only a few seconds later, he dropped. “Oh my God.” You ran over and knelt beside him. “Hey. Hey, can you hear me?”

Nothing.

You pulled out your phone, your thumb hovering over the emergency number. Then you looked at his face again. You knew him. You had seen him on the news more times than you could count. The skull on his vest. The dead criminals left behind him. The man everyone called a monster and a vigilante at the same time. The Punisher. Your eyes widened.

“Shit.” If you called an ambulance, the police would come too. And if he survived, there was no way he was going to survive prison.

You looked around the empty street. “This is a terrible idea.” It was.. ..... Getting an unconscious, fully grown man into your apartment was much harder than movies made it look.

By the time you finally managed to get him through the door, your arms were shaking. You dropped him onto the couch. “Never doing that again.”

You ran to the bathroom and grabbed everything you could find the bandages, disinfectant, gauze, anything that looked remotely useful.

When you came back, Frank hadn’t moved. You carefully pulled his shirt away from the wound. Your stomach turned. The bullet had gone into his side, and the blood still hadn’t completely stopped.

“Okay,” you whispered to yourself. “Don’t panic.”

You cleaned the wound as carefully as you could, trying not to think about the fact that you were currently treating the most wanted man in the city on your living-room couch.

Frank suddenly groaned. You froze. His eyes slowly opened. For a moment, he just stared at you. Then his gaze dropped to the bandages in your hands. “What are you doing?”

You swallowed. “Keeping you alive.”

He looked at you for a few seconds. “You shouldn’t have brought me here.”

“Probably not.”