Capítulo 24: The Weight of Choices
The man sprinted into the alley, his panicked footsteps echoing off the damp brick walls. "Run, Punisher—" His desperate cry was silenced by the sharp crack of a gunshot. The bullet struck clean through his skull, and he crumpled onto the cold pavement. The echo of the shot lingered, swallowed by the city's distant hum.
A group of gang members emerged from the shadows, stepping over the fresh corpse without hesitation. Their leader, a wiry man with a sneer carved into his face, spat on the ground and snarled, "That's it. Tonight, we finish this bastard for good."
Another thug pulled a pistol, the metallic clink of it cocking cutting through the tension. "No more running. We kill him right here, right now."
The others murmured their agreement, fanning out with weapons ready.
And then Frank Castle stepped into the light.
No warning. No hesitation. Just action.
The first man didn't even see it coming. A single shot from Frank's rifle tore through his forehead, and he collapsed instantly, his body hitting the ground with a sickening thud.
Frank moved with mechanical precision, pivoting to his next target. The second thug barely raised his gun before a round punched through his chest, throwing him backward.
Chaos erupted.
Shouts filled the air as the remaining gang members scrambled for cover, fumbling with their weapons. But Frank was faster. Calculated. Merciless. The third man fell before he could fire a shot, clutching at his chest as blood poured from the wound.
The fourth thug managed to squeeze the trigger. The muzzle flash lit up the alley for a fraction of a second, and the bullet slammed into Frank's chest, forcing him back a step.
But he didn't stop.
The Kevlar vest absorbed the impact, leaving a dent and a sharp ache, but Frank's focus never wavered. He raised his rifle and fired twice in rapid succession. The thug collapsed, his pistol clattering uselessly to the ground.
Silence descended over the alley, broken only by the faint rustle of the wind and the dripping of blood pooling beneath the bodies. Frank stood still, his breath heavy, his rifle lowered but still in hand. He looked down briefly at his vest, rubbing the dent where the bullet struck. Painful but survivable. He'd had worse.
John stepped out from the shadows, his boots crunching softly on broken glass. He'd been watching from a distance, studying Frank in action. Three days. That's how long it had been since he started working with the Punisher and Daredevil. Three days of dismantling Kingpin's empire, one brutal skirmish at a time. Deals disrupted. Goons taken out. Supplies stolen or destroyed.
It was dangerous work, but John couldn't deny the benefits. Watching Frank fight was like witnessing a predator in his natural environment—relentless, unyielding, and terrifyingly effective. Daredevil was different: calculated, focused on control rather than annihilation. But tonight, Daredevil was chasing leads elsewhere, leaving John and Frank to clean up.
Frank turned, his cold eyes locking onto John. "Is that the last of them?" His voice was gravelly, detached—focused on the mission, nothing more.
John nodded. "Yeah. We're clear." He glanced at the carnage around them. "Daredevil's not gonna like this."
Frank snorted, his expression hard and unreadable. "He doesn't have to. He's got his way; I've got mine."
John stayed silent. He'd learned enough in the past days to know that Frank's methods, brutal as they were, got results. But they also left a lingering question in his mind—how far was too far?
John's gaze drifted to the bodies. It wasn't just Frank's brutality that weighed on him—it was his own. He remembered his past: the torture, the choices, the scars. He couldn't go back to what he once was, even if he wanted to.
Maybe, in another life, he could've been something different. If he'd woken up as someone else, someone innocent, like an orphan struggling to find their place in this dangerous world, maybe he could've tried to be a hero. Someone like Spider-Man—idealistic, fighting for the light.
But that wasn't his reality.
Instead, he'd woken up inside a broken shell of a boy, filled with disgust for the parents who created him and haunted by memories of a darker, more violent existence. Memories not only his own but also of that facility, where they'd treated mutants like animals. Those memories and experience twisted him, drove him to choose darkness over light.
Frank Castle's war made sense to him. It felt right, even when it felt wrong. And that scared him more than anything else.
He clenched his fists, staring at the ground. The real problem wasn't the fight itself—it was how it stuck with you after. That's what he kept telling himself anyway. It wasn't the gunfire, the blood, or even the chaos that scared him now. It was the quiet after. That silence where all the memories crept in, like ghosts you couldn't shake. Every messed-up choice, every line he crossed, made him wonder how much further he could go before there was no way back.
The truth? He couldn't let himself turn into something worse than the people they were fighting. Something like the Joker—a crazy, twisted version of everything he hated. That fear lingered, sharp and suffocating. The abyss was always staring back, always hungry. But John wouldn't fall. Not yet. Not today
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"This is good, but I still prefer the coffee at the House Café," the man said, taking another sip and smiling at the girl beside him. "Don't you think, Jess?"
She nodded. "Yeah, it's definitely better there."
Just as he was about to stand up, a man slid into the seat across from him without an invitation.
Without waiting, the man leaned in and said, "Mr. Kilgrave, we want to make a deal with you."
Kilgrave's eyes narrowed, his mood already sour. "I've seen you before. Haven't I?"
The man didn't flinch, placing a folder on the table and flipping it open. Inside were photos of Daredevil and the Punisher. "My boss needs your... expertise," he said, his tone laced with careful persuasion.
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