In his crap apartment, on his crap futon, he was getting crap sleep. He didn't toss and turn under his lone blanlet, he laid there stoic and nearly silent and simply took it, sleep was just a necessity not a luxury to indulge in. Adorned in black from head to toe, arms crossed rigidly across his chest, face void of any lingering emotions, if one didn't know better you'd assume him dead, and you'd be right. Here in this crap apartment, on this crap futon slept a dead man, Frank Castle was most assuredly dead.

His dreams were another story, yes dead men do dream; And what of you may ask? Of better times of course, of when they were alive. The moments that made them feel so alive that the memories transcended death itself, kept the corpse moving. Sleep may not be a luxury but these dreams were. These moments where he could still see them, hear them, feel them, the Castle family were alive during these fleeting, cherished moments and he was fully emersed.

As the hours passed dreams and sleep had grown bored with Frank. He could feel himself being beckoned to the world of the living, a place where he didn't belong. As he did with everything else, he fought against it. He dug his nails into the earth trying to hold his place in his dream. He wanted to stay, he wanted to watch his children play and laugh in the front yard, he wanted to sit next to his wife, holding her seemingly tiny hand in his and let this afternoon or any dozens like it last forever.

But that wasn't in the cards, as much he fought, and yelled, it was a moot point. Hands already clawing into the grass and dirt from his long gone suburb, even planting his heavy heels into the ground could not help him remain stationary. It didn't dawn on him how ridiculous he might have looked, him on all fours clinging to the earth's surface as he fought against the inevitable, to be thrown out of paradise, him being bucked back into his shity existence. It didn't seem to phase his dream family in the slightest, everyone was still smiling having fun, he could still hear his little girl he finally lost the battle and woke up something was different. Not that his jaw hurt from clenching it tight in his sleep, not that his fingernails had left indents in his callused hands from his fists balling up, that was par for the course Frank Castle sleep aftermath, something was different. He could still hear her.

The laughing, his daughter's laughter was still ringing in his ears like aftershock. "Lisa?" He barked out, half jumping half tripping out of bed. He tried to pinpoint where it was coming from, his dark eyes scanning the bleak apartment in a frenzy. He couldn't see his baby girl, but he could hear her. Had he finally snapped, completely lost the ability to discern fantasy from reality? But what about that laughter?After getting more of his bearings he finally figured out where that sound was coming from. "Lisa? Frank? Maria?" His open palm landed with a quaking thump against his apartment wall multiple times in rapid succession, it was coming from the other side. He heard a child shriek, a thud and then in a voice that was distinctively not his daughter's a whined reply.

"Nooo! I'm Dahlia and I was just gonna beat Dilly at twister and you ruined it you jerk!" Frank barely acknowledge the words being shouted at him, or that it had begun a whole conversation at the other side of the wall. His focus was on her voice, it was too small, too young to be his daughter. As he became more and more alert, he felt it, that sinking, bone crushing, soul destroying truth, he was alone, his family was gone. He could almost feel his ears trying to contort, trying to lean in just a way so that he could hear her again, keep that illusion just a little longer.

"Idiot!" Knuckles cracked hard against his skull, once. "Fucking Moron." Then twice, as if he was trying to literally knock some sense into himself, or at least cause enough pain to distract him. "Shit . . . get your shit together." As he teed himself up for a third blow to the temple something stopped him.

"Sir? Hey you alright over there?" In a slightly less crappy apartment, sitting awkwardly on a twister mat, with a squirming child on her lap Cordelia stared blankly, a bit in awe at her wall. She knew that sound, the clashing of bone on bone, someone was being punched over there, they did not sound mighty forgiving either. From the grunting and cursing, she deduced it was her shady newish neighbor, punching himself in the face or head. "It was just a game . . . she'll get over it." Her tone was flat and awkward. She didn't know what to say. She knew his self harm most likely had little to do with being called a jerk by a soon to be first grader. From the few glances she had gotten of the lone ranger as some of the other tenants called him, he didn't appear to be an overly sensitive soul.

"Huh?" With his brains being rattled by his own hand that was the only response he could form. His follow up wasn't much better "What?" His face bunched into a scowl when he heard laughter on the other side of the wall, this time coming from the adult. If they knew what kind of caged animal they had just prodded, they wouldn't be laughing.

"I'm sorry." It was as if Frank's disapproving glare had pierced straight through dry wall, Cordelia could feel the tension. "I shouldn't laugh . . . I laugh when I get anxious sometimes. I get anxi . . ." She caught herself beginning to ramble, another anxious trait of hers. 'No one cares Cordelia. 100, 99, 98 . . .' She shook her head to regain some level of calm.

Frank had somehow gotten invested in this conversation. It was dawning on him that there were other people in this city besides him and the scum he planned on mowing down, he had become numb almost blind to your average civilian.

"Yeah yeah . . . look kid I'm sorry about your game alright? I'm a bit of a klutz I . . " He tried his best at a disarming chuckle, tried to seem less scary, he didn't want to spook the child. "Just bump into stuff from time to time alright?" There was a long pause after his apology, maybe it hadn't worked, maybe this child wasn't born yesterday and hadn't bought it. He heard some muttering on the other side he couldn't quite make out, then finally a response.

"It's ok I forgive you." Just like that Dahlia was over her tragic loss. Boney feet digging into Cordelia's lap as she stood, wobbling as she ran towards the kitchen. "Dilly can we play again?"

"Sure." Cordelia let out a heavy sigh, this was set to be the eighth one more of the day. "What are you grabbing?" She watched as the little girl with all her strength pulled the step ladder excruciatingly slow across the kitchen floor. "Poptarts . . . need energy to . . ." the girl panted as she now climbed on the counter not yet tall enough to reach her prize. "Win! you want one?"

Frank didn't know why he was still staring at the wall, he had been excused from the conversation once Dahlia had accepted his apology, but he hadn't moved an inch. Perhaps his mind was starved for interaction, listening to that scanner night after night was dulling his brain. Here was something fresh and bright, and not bogged down by the heaviness of the city. His position as a silent eavsedropper was betrayed as he chuckled at the young girl's over the top struggle for a breakfast pastry.

'He's still there!' Cordelia's eyes shot to the wall in disbelief, and a twinge of concern. Why was he still listening? This was a slumy apartment building in a sketchy part of New York, where people pride themselves on minding their own business and not introducing themselves to their neighbors.

"Dilllllly? Hellllooooo?" Dahlia made it well known she would not tolerate being ignored.

"Dahly relax ok?!" Cordelia switched her focus once again to the child rummaging through her pantry. "There's only one package left in there. How bout we split it?" Cordelia worried that the same poor balance that lead Dahlia to lose eight straight games of twister would cause her to fall off the counter, she wanted her to get down.

It took a moment but the gears finally turned and Frank finally solved a nagging question. "Dilly . . . and Daly . . .huh" He let out another snort of a laugh. The puzzle he had solved was what in the hell kind of name was Dilly, especially for a girl. 'They got matching nicknames, sisters maybe.' He still didn't know what Dilly was short for, but giving the name some context quelled the itch in his brain.

"Yeah" Cordelia for a second time was stunned that he was still standing at the wall listening to them, it was making her uncomfortable, she had to put an end to it. "So anyway Mr . . . ." She paused, she had not the slightest clue what his name was.

"Frank" The man of few words struck again.

"Right Mr. Frank these walls-"

"First name . . . not last." He didn't know why he was correcting her, he had no plans on ever having a single conversation with this woman.

"Yeah we're not tight like that." She quickly brushed him off, keeping this lurking stranger at arms length. "So Mr. Frank" she started again without missing a beat. "These walls are paper thin, like everything else in this building they're absolute garbage." She couldn't help but smirk when she heard his now token snort of a laugh emanate from the other side of the wall. "So you can probably hear us breathing over here, and we can hear you blinking over there . . . so just keep that in mind."

As dense and single minded as Frank might appear at first glance he was by no stretch dumb. He could read between the lines. What she really meant was keep to yourself, don't bother us and we won't bother you. It seemed like a perfect setup, he wanted to stew and wallow and rage alone, he didn't need nosey prying neighbors. "Gotcha." He nodded taking two steps back, away from the wall.

"Mr. Frank?" Her voice sounded less confident this go around.

"Yeah?" He was confused, had he done something wrong, wasn't this what they wanted.

"Don't do anything . . . you know rash." Cordelia knew she was overstepping the bounds she had literally just laid out but her conscience was willing to have her overlook that.

"Rash?" Still in the dark Frank didn't understand what she was getting at.

"Just don't be so hard on yourself . . . things will get better. I know you have . . ." Her voice trailed off.

"Have what? What are you getting at?" Frank had many abilities that neared super human levels, patience was not one of them and the change of tone in his voice reflected that.

"Guns." The word came out quick and quiet almost as if it would summon some demon from hell at its mere utterance.

He had moved in a little over two months ago, for the most part his apartment was still and quiet, but Cordelia rarely slept so she hears everything and during the witching hours she could hear the clicking and clanking of more than one gun being cleaned and loaded. At first she just took him as some bruiser thug, part of one of a handful of this city's gangs, nothing to write home about, but he was too isolated for that, he never had a single visitor. Then she thought him to be just your run of the mill gun enthusiast, a man in love with his toys. That didn't stick either, the way he paced his tiny apartment, and on multiple occasions stormed out with such purpose, meant those were not toys, they were far more dangerous than that. He was something she couldn't quite nail down which made him far more dangerous.

Frank was rarely caught off guard, but this was one of those few and far between moments. This woman that if you asked Frank to pick her out of a crowd he couldn't for the life of him, had somehow began to peel back a layer of his anonymity. He felt anger flare in him, how could he have been so careless. Who was she? Who had she told? Was anyone else listening, watching? He didn't hear Cordelia continue her statement, he was only brought back to reality when he heard the ding of their toaster go off. ". . . what you're thinking. I promise I haven't called the cops or told the landlord or anything." He was catching the tail end of a sentence.

"You don't need to worry miss." His voice seemed vapid cold and distant, he was lost in his head, still seeing red.

"I only care about me and Dahlia and I . . ."

"Good. Keep it that way." And with that he finally broke away, taking long strides to his door slamming it with punctuation as he left.

Cordelia stared at the wall for a moment longer, wondering if she did the right thing, letting that stranger just fester feet away with a stockpile of guns. She tried to let it go, taking a semi burnt poptart from her budding chef. 'That's the only thing though.' The way he looked at her and Dahlia in passing glances in the hallway that no one would remember but Cordelia is what she was referring to. She had made a life out of reading people, and while she sensed white hot anger, the want and more importantly ability to inflict harm, when he saw them, it gave way to apathy, and a twinge of something she couldn't put her finger on, and that gave her comfort. Up until recently she thought she had some sort of cosmic pull. Anyone that could inflict pain, anyone who wanted to do bad things, to truly destroy someone would find their way to her and do their worst. Here was a text book version of a man hell bent on carnage and he was actively overlooking her. That was a comfort she didn't want to turn over to the police just yet.