She smells it as soon as she steps into her tiny apartment.
Blood. With smoke, and coffee.
"Hello, ma'am." The Punisher rumbles.
Karen stands at the door... One hand inside her shoulder purse, finger on the safety of her 380. Frank's lips tilt fractionally.
"Planning to take a shot, ma'am? Won't be your first rodeo."
"Maybe I should. Shoot you."
"With all due respect... bullshit, Page."
Karen's trigger finger itches.
"Make yourself comfortable. And get your big-ass weapons out of my bed."
It becomes a ritual.
Karen doesn't mind. She has very few friends. Foggy is different now, with his formal shirts and trimmed hair. Her editor... Well, he's not a friend. Yet.
And Matt...
Karen grits her teeth as she heats up leftovers. She doesn't want to talk about Matt (the Devil, he is the Devil).
"First aid kit, ma'am?" Frank calls out. Hesitant.
Karen suppresses a laugh as she remembers the tampon incident. She has never seen The Punisher blush before.
"Why didn't you shoot me that day?" He abruptly asks.
Karen swigs her wine.
"You're not dead to me."
To the rest of the world, he's dead. A criminal. A psychopath. Or maybe a saviour.
He is just Frank to her.
A dead man keeping her alive.
