The door opened with a hiss of cold air. Inside, huddled together on a bare metal floor, were three shapes. Mariana. Lei. Sophia. Their eyes were wide, wet, terrified. They flinched away from the light.
"You lied," Frank said quietly. "There's no ship. There's a container. Refrigerated. You were going to seal them inside." The intel from the previous week had told him that. He just needed confirmation.
Frank Castle knelt in the crawlspace of an abandoned tenement on 43rd. His knees ached against the shattered concrete, but he didn’t move. Through a crack in the brickwork, he watched the back door of The Silver Rail —a dive bar that served as a unofficial clearinghouse for human filth. o justiceiro serie
Not a sprint. A flow. A shadow detaching from the darkness. He crossed the alley in three silent strides. Rizzo never heard the wet thud of boots on asphalt. He only felt the cold, hard circle of a suppressor press against the soft hollow behind his ear.
Frank stepped back. He removed his balaclava, showing his scarred, exhausted face. He didn't smile. He didn't offer comforting words. He simply knelt down to their level, placed his rifle on the ground, and held out his hands—palms up, empty. The door opened with a hiss of cold air
"The police are three minutes out," he said, his voice softer than it had been all night. "When they get here, you tell them the truth. And you tell them you don't know who opened the door."
Frank Castle pulled up his hood and walked into the storm. The justice was never finished. It only reloaded. They flinched away from the light
Behind him, he heard the first faint wail of sirens. Ahead, the night was endless. There were other names in the ledger. Other whispers. Other monsters.
Sophia, the youngest, stared at the skull on his chest plate. She didn't scream. She whispered, "Are you a monster?"