Three Men, Three Paths

"You sure he's gonna show?" Frank asked, leaning over the railing like he owned the place. His voice had that low growl, like he was already bored and annoyed.

"He'll be here," Matt said, arms crossed, leaning against the wall like he had all the time in the world. "He said to meet him right here."

Frank scanned the rooftop like a hawk, his eyes darting to every corner. "This place screams 'trap.' High ground, tight spaces, perfect for a sneak attack. You sure he's not playing you?"

Matt smirked. "You always this paranoid?"

Frank turned to him with a flat look. "Surprised you're not."

Matt shrugged. "Paranoia's not really my thing."

"Do you not need a mask?" Matt asked, his tone neutral but curious.

Frank replied simply, his voice bitter, "No need. It's not like I have anyone left to protect."

Matt pressed his lips together, biting back a comment. Bringing up family was... not the move.

"What do you think of him?" Frank asked after a moment, his voice measured, tinged with curiosity.

Matt paused, replaying every detail of his earlier encounter with the man in the crimson mask. "He's not doing this for anyone else," he began, his tone even but thoughtful. "He's using Kingpin's men to serve his own agenda."

Frank didn't interrupt, letting the silence stretch.

"Before he killed that rapist, his heartbeat spiked—more than just adrenaline," Matt continued. "It felt personal. Either something happened to him... or to someone close."

Frank turned his head slightly, giving Matt a sidelong glance but stayed silent. Another guy with a grudge and a gun. Dangerous mix.

"He's not military," Matt went on, "but his moves are sharp—too precise to be self-taught. He's fast, decisive. And he knows me. No hesitation, no fear." He hesitated, lowering his voice. "It's not just confidence in his ability. It's personal. Like he knows who I am."

Frank raised an eyebrow. "You saying he knows your deal? Like, you you?"

Matt nodded, his jaw tight. "It felt like it."

Frank's hand instinctively rested on his rifle, his posture shifting just a hair. "That's bad."

"Thanks for the insight," Matt shot back dryly, his head suddenly snapping up. His enhanced senses picked up the faint sound of deliberate footsteps below. "He's here," Matt said quietly, his voice calm but firm.

Frank immediately became alert, his sharp gaze sweeping the rooftop and the alley below. The air thickened with tension, like a coiled spring ready to snap.

Moments later, the terrace door creaked open.

John stepped through with a deliberate stride, his crimson mask catching the dim light, the rest of him shrouded in the darkness of his jacket.

His focus went straight to Frank, ignoring Matt entirely. His eyes swept over the Punisher in a single, assessing glance: the armored jacket, the arsenal strapped across his body, the rifle slung over one shoulder. Most people would see a man weighed down by weapons.

But not him.

In one glance, he took in every detail that mattered: Frank's balanced stance, the calculated stillness, the predatory sharpness in his gaze. Frank Castle wasn't just a man with guns—he was a hunter, dangerous and prepared for anything.

John's lips curled into a smirk beneath the mask, though his eyes stayed cold. For a fleeting moment, he thought, Yeah, he does look like Jon Bernthal. The absurdity almost made him laugh, but the tension of the encounter kept him sharp.

Matt cleared his throat, breaking the heavy silence. "You came," he said.

"Like I said I would," John replied, his tone calm but deliberate.

He turned his gaze back to Frank. "When you said 'we,' I should've figured it'd be him," he said, his voice carrying a faint edge.

"You know me?" Frank asked, his tone more curious than surprised. His reputation preceded him—most criminals bolted at the mere sight of the skull on his chest.

John tilted his head slightly, his voice cool "Everyone knows you, Castle. The skull on your chest isn't exactly subtle."

Frank's eyes narrowed, his sharp gaze locking onto him. Many knew him as the Punisher, but few knew the man behind the moniker—his real name, his past.

John continued, his tone unwavering. "You're famous, you know. You've got fans. Plenty of people sympathize with what happened to you. They admire what you do—how you see the darkness in this world for what it is. They see the corruption, the rot, and they believe someone like you is necessary."

Matt shifted slightly, unease creeping into his stance. The words hung heavy in the air. This wasn't just commentary—it felt like justification, almost reverence.

John leaned in a little, his voice dropping. "I get it. I get why you do what you do. The law? It doesn't scare the bad guys anymore. But you? You're the nightmare they don't see coming. And you don't just scare them. You make sure they're ready—ready for death. For justice."

"Justice," Frank repeated, his voice flat, like the word tasted bitter. He didn't get justice. His family didn't get it.

John's voice grew quieter, more pointed. "I get it. I understand what drives you. I see the logic. You don't give second chances because, in your eyes, they don't deserve them. Criminals don't fear the law anymore, but they fear you. And they should."

Matt finally spoke, his voice cutting through the tension. "Is that why you're doing this? Playing judge, jury, and executioner?"

John turned to Matt, his voice cold . "I'm here because we're in the same war. But let's not kid ourselves, Daredevil. You want to save people. He wants to punish them." He jabbed a finger toward Frank.

"And you?" Matt asked, his voice quieter now, like he already regretted asking.

The crimson mask tilted just enough to catch the light. "Me? I make sure the ones who've already damned themselves stay buried."