A/N: Hey guys. Some of you may know me from my Captain America story 'Apricity', which I have not abandoned by the way. I'm just trying to find my voice again so think of this as an experiment. I love Daredevil and the Punisher (which I unfortunately do not own) and I wanted to get this out of my head so tell me what you think and let me know if I should continue because honestly I would love to. I'd like to thank Amatista and Miky, my really good friends for editing and being awesome in general. Happy New Year and hope 2017 starts off well :)

She silently wiped down the stretching oak countertop of the nutty bits and milky circles of water, ignoring the raucous bellows of laughter and drunken slurs of Irishmen. She firmly believed that some people were actually born unlucky, or were predestined to a purgatorial existence, such as cleaning up after ungratefuls.

She was obviously included in that lot. She was not supposed to be here in the first place; her usual schedule consisted of 4pm-12am shifts Monday to Thursday, with an occasional odd shift on Saturday, not late Friday nights. No one ever came by the Wellborne on Fridays...except for the Irish mob, who stopped in to enjoy their weekly spoils, as well as plan their surreptitious activities for the rest of the month. It was like someone had died and made them God; like they designated whole days to their pleasure and comfort at the expense of the peace and safety of the public. She didn't have much of a choice, though, as Darren, her boss, graciously upped her pay-grade. Therefore, she owed him. And she hated owing people. In fact she owed many: the university, the hospital, maybe some friends from secondary school back home. It all came down to money in the end. It was the heartbeat of the world, an endless pumping vessel that took and took until your hands were broken and had nothing left to give, except maybe your soul and time.

So she could not emphasize enough: SHE DID NOT WANT TO BE HERE! But…she had to suck it up and proceed with her laborious work, flitting in and out of the kitchen, and only appearing when she had to. She did not speak unless spoken to, no matter how loud and punishing her mind was. 'Breathe,' she told herself, 'they don't matter.' As long as she kept her head down and did nothing to displease the rowdy patrons, all would be well. She just wished Darren possessed the backbone to stand up to these imbeciles. But the one thing she learned when she'd come to the US was that backbone, in many cases, got you killed.

"Excuse me, love. Can we get another round of pints here?" One of the guys called gruffly. She made a confirming sound at the back of her throat and got to work filling 12 sparkling pint glasses to the brim, allowing the white foam to gently fall over the sides in an agonizingly slow trickle. The Irish liked it that way apparently, believing there was a certain art to having a perfectly normal drink that had a magical impact on taste or something. 'Europeans', she scoffed inwardly.

Right now, the bar supplied a long, rectangular dinner table for the crime family as opposed to the twenty-five round tables and accompanying chairs for ordinary folk. The identical leather clad and slick haired men moved from their scattered places around the establishment and took a seat around the table. Matching waistcoats and gun holsters, too; who would have thought? Ironically, her mind then went to the last supper: these twelve guys gathering to support their leader. However, the head of their syndicate was no saint, nor a God-fearing individual, as he claimed to be. Finn Cooley was a born and bred Irishman from Dublin, red hair and beard to match. Despite being graced with a cordial and sunny disposition, the man was manipulative, brutal, and unforgiving. She heard the rumors from other staff members that he'd taken a poor sod's head off for talking ill of his home country. Talk about patriotism; he made Captain America look like Dora the Explorer! While she thought that was a bit of an exaggeration, she would not have been surprised if he possessed such a temper. And he proudly called himself a Catholic.

After the fall of Wilson Fisk, the Irish began to rise from the ashes of the Japanese, Chinese, and Russians. While she commended the good work of the Devil of Hell's Kitchen, she gave him a F for his ineffectiveness. Yes, he took down one of the biggest white-collar criminals to emerge in New York City, but the disappointing result of his efforts was now a few paces away from her, watching her like meat as she finished filling the glass with their liquid gold. Way to go, Daredevil, great job. She expertly and carefully gripped three glass in each hand, serving one to each of his lackeys before going for the next batch. Some of the guys complimented her skills, to which she just nodded and returned to the kitchen. She desperately wanted to trade in her uniform, which consisted of black shorts and tight green t-shirt for something baggy. A voice stopped her from that pleasant dream.

"You've always been such a good girl to us, Mars. I just want you to know that the boys and I appreciate it," Finn Cooley said to her as he lounged in his chair, hands clasped over his abdomen. She held back the impulse to sneer at him and gave a simple, polite smile. She did not like that he used her nickname for his own use, as if he knew her. You see, Finn rarely spoke to her before; mostly 'thank yous', 'have a good day, lass,' and even asking her where she was from. He had a way about him that fooled people into thinking he was a casual businessman by the playful, curious glint he held in his eyes, except for the obvious .45 in his suit's jacket pocket. When he came into the restaurant during the week, she always tried her best to ignore how his gaze followed her busy movements as she bustled from table to table, taking orders for her costumers. However, he never made a move on her, nor did any of his men, for that matter. She preferred not to question it, and opted to be grateful for no harassment. In this day and age, there was enough of that to go around in this neighbourhood.

Just as she was about to return to the back, Finn decided to prolong their conversation by leaning forward as if intrigued.

"You know, you could always come to us if you need anything. Anything at all. We'd be happy to...secure a ticket back home...back to Cape Town if you desire it," he offered.

Too good to be true, and a very stupid move, she thought. She still owed people money, and to increase that debt by getting involved with a mafia boss was a death wish. It felt like he was testing her somehow. Well, she was not about to fail and find herself deep in unfathomable waters.

She did not deny that the temptation to go back to South Africa was there. She missed her mother and her brother terribly. Then her dad had suggested (subtly begged) that she could stay in New York with him to complete her studies. She sometimes wondered if she should have stayed home. Maybe that would have been for the best, sparing her months of heartache and worry.

So, instead she answered, "That's very generous of you, Mr. Cooley. But I prefer to work for it. It keeps me honest." It was the truth; it reminded her that life did not come on a silver platter without a price, like what Finn was offering her. He seemed to appreciate her response with an approving nod, and she silently let out a breath she didn't realise that she was holding.

"That's what I like about you. Darren is lucky to have such a good lass like you. You have a good night," he dipped his head slightly, a taste of Irish chivalry, which she gratefully took as her cue to head back.

"Good night, Mr. Cooley," she replied quickly, and pretended to hurry back because Darren called her. The humidity and whiteness of the kitchen was welcoming compared to the darkening edge of the main room. Darren finished placing some dishes in the cupboard with urgent clinks and made his way over to her with his arms crossed.

"Everything good?" He asked eagerly.

She restrained herself from rolling her eyes at his lapdog mannerisms. Was he being serious right now? "Yup. Everything is to their satisfaction," she replied dryly.

Darren sighed at her tone. "Mahree..." he began as if ready to explain something to a child.

"Why do you put up with them? They bully you into taking over the restaurant at the end of every week. What's to stop them from buying it completely? Being here once a week is dangerous enough."

"Would that be such a bad thing? They're very generous to me. They've offered me protection in the past..."

"Forget it." With that, she locked off from any further conversation with her boss. She was silently fuming at how spineless and dishonourable he made himself out to be. She wasn't usually like this; snappy and confronting. She always kept to herself, worked hard and didn't get into trouble. Besides, she was trying to prevent more stress from getting into her life. The doctor said it was bad for her recovery, but avoiding it altogether seemed impossible at this point, with a crap job and mounting debts on her back.

"Are you eating right? Taking your medication and everything?" Darren decided to ask her about the one thing she did not like to discuss. She knew he was trying to ease the tension, but it was to no avail.

"I'm fine," she ended it there, and he acknowledged that he needed to back off.

In her mind, she shoved the blaring sounds and unbearable stench of Hell's Kitchen and replaced it with the image of her childhood home in Cape Town. Her house was by the sea, a constant reminder of the vastness of the ocean beyond. Across her lawn, there were steps that led to the beach below, a place she visited everyday in her youth. She felt an amazing peace in her home country, but she also couldn't resist the call to discover the continents on the other side of the world. She knew herself to be quite naive back then, as she immediately jumped on the bandwagon that America was the best place for a student to be. Her estranged father offered her a place to stay in this sector of New York City, so everything fell into place for her to embark on her adventure.

However, she got a rude awakening when she arrived; the hard realities that life had to offer her here. Ever since her recovery began a few months prior, she always reminded herself to be grateful for what she had…or at least what was left. She suddenly flinched when she heard an obnoxious voice echo past the main room.

"Place smells like dog shit!" It yelled.

She rolled her eyes at their lack of class. She just hoped they would get what they deserved one day: a world of disappointment, and a lovely view from a cell. She sat on a wobbly stool, her hand under her chin in a bored manner. Darren made it clear that staff always had to be ready for anything. The only thing she could do at this point was listen to their upcoming 'noble' toasts to family, and a life of control and luxury.

"Gentlemen, if you'll permit me, a word before we begin. This is a night for celebration. A night to discuss the future of our family...the gratitude we feel for the support of his father..." Peaking through the doorway, the man she knew as Grotto, who was definitely an introvert watched her, sharing her bored and annoyed sentiments. She took some comfort in that others saw these people for who they really were. However, that small feeling of kinship evapourated when Grotto's eyes did a slow take on her form. She crossed her legs tighter and glared at him with disgust. But she still held her tongue; only an hour or two to go, she reminded herself. Stressing out would only take her backwards, instead of forward to that stable place she desperately needed—

It was really strange to see how quickly a conversation at a dinner table could change into a massacre. When she heard the first few gunshots, she thought she was dreaming. The sound of metal hitting flesh was almost muffled, and around the corner she watched in horror as bodies dropped like flies, bloody faces frozen in fear, and some even unrecognisable from the aftermath of bullets. She sobbed as some faces were turned towards her, as if warning her that she would be next. She fell on her side and covered her head as the wood from the tables and counter splintered and broke apart in the air. Glass rained down on her as the bullets destroyed the bar area. She cried out, not because she felt her arms and legs starting to burn, but because she knew she was going to die. She would never see her mother and brother again, or her father, with whom she'd tried to form a relationship…Then she felt a surge of rage; she saw that surviving the past few months meant nothing, and that God—or whoever was in charge of her fate—was going to pull the plug on her, just for kicks.

It took her a moment to realise that the havoc had come to an end. She still held her head in a death grip and continued to shake uncontrollably, as if remaining in fear would keep the gunfire at bay. She dared to look up at the damage, only being met with smoke and debris and the dead. She gulped as she saw numerous henchmen littering the wooden panel floor, crouching low and avoiding the windows in case of another round of fire. While relief should have flooded through her at the reassuring sounds of sirens, she looked down at those who were less fortunate than she. It was too late for them, so basically the rescuers were just on their way to collect.

She felt her legs give way beneath her, sitting with her back to the wall and hugging her knees to her chest. She stared at the broken windows, thinking about yet another thing she'd survived as the blood started to stain her white shirt.

…...

Three weeks later

"Ok. I think we are about done," the nurse named Claire told her softly as she put the scissors down on the table beside her, "they've healed pretty well. I hope not to see you here again, Mahree."

"Thank you," she replied gratefully before hopping off the examination table to get her bag.

Mahree gently ran a finger over her healing gash, and allowed herself a moment of relief that her stitches were removed. Darren, who rightfully decided to lay low for a while, graciously paid for her doctor's visits so she didn't have to worry while finding another job. His hour-long apology over the phone—while she sat shell-shocked on a gurney at Metro- General—had gone in one ear and came out the other. At that point, she couldn't feel anything; still couldn't at this moment in time. She should have been angry at her ex-boss for putting the once respectable establishment in danger; angry at the mob itself for walking all over the town and making enemies. The only thing she felt, though, was fatigue, both mentally and physically. In addition to this, her estranged father was fawning over her, babying her and refusing to let her step a foot outside his house, which meant she hadn't seen her dorm room in days. Her assignments remained neglected in the wake of everything, and her excruciating migraines had started to return.

Now was the first time in weeks that she'd gotten a moment to herself to sort her life out. She had found a quaint little diner in a lighter, friendlier part of town that needed staff. Everyone seemed nice enough and pitied her situation, much to her annoyance, but she was glad for the work nonetheless. The hospital had given her another extension when they heard what had happened, which helped a lot, considering her previous deadline would have dragged her under.

She walked by some newspaper stands and saw the headline of the New York Bulletin: "BREAKTHROUGH IN MOB HIT INVESTIGATION".

Cringing inwardly, she hurried away. While the papers withheld her name from the public as just a 'witness', it did not stop the curious and concerned stares she received while going about her daily activities. The brownish-red scars were still there to remind her of her ordeal, and it was only a matter of time before they put two and two together. 'A female South African student' getting 'caught in the crossfire' wasn't exactly a stretch when they heard her accent and saw her attending classes on campus.

So occupied by the events and strains of the last few weeks, she remained unaware of the curious, dark figure watching her from the shade of an alleyway across the street.

…...

He did not anticipate this kind of complication the night before, his first night in taking down the scum of the godforsaken city people glorified on a daily basis. They did not know what this place was. It was a stinking hole where people stayed to rot and die in their own filth. They preferred to survive in their ignorance, and allow bad things to happen to those who did not deserve it. Those who sat by idly were just as guilty as the active participants. But he would deal with them later; he silently promised himself that. It was time to prioritize, and Friday evening had been a prime chance: the entire crime family was gathering for the first time in months, and not just the smaller packs that usually hunted on the streets for traitors and prospective recruits. So when he'd heard from a source that they were meeting at the Wellborne pub, he couldn't help but feel excited. It was a subtle jitter he felt all over his body, even down to the very fingertip that sat on the trigger as he lay on the rooftop of the building across the street. The light chill in the air was replaced by the warmth of anticipation. Eventually, targets all came into view, lined up so perfectly for him. Must be my lucky day, he chuckled inwardly. There they were, herded together like cattle, and he was a wolf waiting patiently.

Eyes alert and that finger trigger happy, he breathed steadily and began to chant silently, "One batch, two batch, penny and dime." His mantra was his anchor in the tumultuous sea of his mind; a reminder of what he had to do. More appropriately, what he wanted to do. It got him to focus and execute to perfection; no target left untouched. Seeing the blood was no longer an issue, as it became a routine for him, a comfort in knowing that bad people were not going to see another sunrise. If he didn't leave some in his wake, then he would have been alarmed. Yes, it showed how messed up he was, and he knew that without a doubt. But why should he care? At the end of the day, he had nothing left to lose. He'd already lost everything on a sunny day, at a perfectly ordinary carousel at a random spot in the city. He would never understand why they chose that place in particular; there were a million other parks in New York, and he just happened to be at that one. God's sense of humour, no doubt. But this guy wasn't laughing.

So the only option left for him was to unleash hell, put some of the universe back together in his own vision, and if it cost him his soul, so be it. Not like it wasn't already gone.

The men had settled down and sat in their respective seats according to rank. Such a thing did not matter to him, since they were all going to the same special place in hell.

Almost there, he told himself, just a little while longer.

The grisly men started talking, gesturing and toasting and he took a deep breath. This was just the beginning. He pulled the trigger, holding back a smirk at the breaking glass and screams of cowards. The smoke billowed around the establishment, and he finally let go. It was quicker than he thought, and going by the destruction and silence, it was a job well done. So he packed up and never looked back, not at the sons, fathers and husbands he'd put down like rabid dogs. That's all they were: animals. And he was always going to be their hunter.

It wasn't until the next morning when he read the fine print of the newspaper that he saw what he'd left behind. Some civilians were there at the back of the restaurant, one being described as having minor injuries. While he knew that it was next to impossible for him as a marksman to hurt anyone—aside from his targets—that supposedly insignificant statistic bothered him. Minor injuries huh? What were minor injuries exactly? A broken leg? Sprained wrist? Why were they complaining anyway? They were alive, weren't they? But this did not stop him from reading further, giving the piece his full attention away from the car bomb wires he was twisting.

"A 24 year old South African female student has been reported to have been taken to Metro General for treatment of minor injuries. Her identity has been withheld at her request," it read.

His brow furrowed, and he folded the newspaper roughly before throwing it on the floor. He sat there and thought, so quiet that the sound of the fan was like a propeller plane. 24 years old; student; a life ahead of her was what he thought. And she had the unfortunate experience of being exposed to that.

But she was alive, and that was all that mattered. His feet apparently had a different perspective, though, as he found himself grabbing his jacket and walking out the door. What was it going to accomplish, anyway? He berated himself. Getting emotional about risks was not a part of his job…

At least it didn't take a lot to find out who she was. A talkative, attention seeking laundromat owner across the street was happy to enlighten him, throwing in a useful voucher to "put a smile on that pouty face." He actually felt sorry for the girl, realising that her privacy ultimately depended upon people like this. It must have been good for business, he thought bitterly.

Mahree Swart was her name. Very strange compared to his generic Frank Castle. The laundromat owner told him that she was recovering well (showing him a picture of her), and proactively looking for a new job a few blocks away while her former boss went underground, which brought him back to this moment.

His eyes landed on the slender figure coming out of the diner, following her figure as she made her way past the shops. Her fatigue was evident, not just physically but mentally. The lack of response to trivial things; the lack of excitement; her frequent sighing and such; all things he was too familiar with. She was stiff, her shoulders looked painfully tense, and the lines on her forehead gave the impression that she was fighting someone in her head. Based on appearance, he thought her to be much older than the 24 years the article had reported. Jaded and worn with dark bags under her eyes made her look easily 10 years older than that.

So…this was her. The girl who cheated death; who cheated him.