Warning/Introduction:
Before we begin this story, I feel it's important to share something with you. The character of Sharon, whom you're about to meet, isn't a new creation but rather an old character I developed more than ten years ago. Back then, Sharon was part of a fanfiction set in the GTA universe, a product of my imagination long before I discovered the world of The Punisher.
When I came across the series, something clicked in my mind. Frank Castle's story, his tortured journey, his inner battle, and the violence he carried immediately reminded me of Sharon and the story I had built back then. It was as if two worlds collided: the one I had created and the one that fascinated me. The similarities were striking—a broken character with a heavy past of suffering and revenge—and I had the irresistible idea to rewrite Sharon into this universe while still keeping the essence I had always imagined in another context.
This allowed me to breathe new life into an old character while improving certain aspects, deepening her motivations, and adjusting her to the darker, more expansive universe of The Punisher. I decided to merge these two worlds.
But inspiration doesn't just come from shows or movies. In reality, several songs have played just as important a role in the evolution of this character. Among them, the 2011 album by Within Temptation, especially the song "I Don't Wanna," had a major influence on Sharon's creation. The lyrics, filled with pain and disillusionment, resonated deeply with the internal struggles of my character, her quest for vengeance, and her inability to escape a past that haunts her.
I'm truly happy to share this with you, because this blend of my old fanfiction, the influence of The Punisher, and musical inspiration allowed me to give Sharon an even more interesting and complex dimension. And although her story is a bit different from Frank's, I'm sure you'll find echoes between their journeys, and I hope you'll be touched by this tale.
The tires of the Dominator GTX rumbled on the dusty asphalt, kicking up gravel in its wake. Sharon gripped the steering wheel tightly, her knuckles white. The arid hills of Blaine County rolled by under a relentless sun. She drove fast enough to feel the adrenaline coursing through her veins, just enough to stay in control. Her destination: a remote village, a few hours outside Los Santos. There, she hoped to find an old ally, one last refuge in this hostile world: Johnny.
She had met Johnny in Liberty City, during a time when her life, though already tumultuous, seemed less overshadowed by darkness. She had gotten him out of a tight spot, one of those situations that leave invisible scars. Before joining the Lost and Damned and heading to Los Santos with his gang, Johnny had looked at her with a kind of rough gratitude, like someone recognizing a fellow survivor of the same harsh world. They never talked about it, but they both knew how to navigate a world that spares no one.
For almost a year, she had been living without any ties, calculating every move, every detour. To survive, she had learned to erase herself, to sever all connections with what remained of her past life. In this perpetual chase, her enemies were faceless, hidden in the shadows of every city she passed through. Caution and instinct had become her only compass, the only things keeping her alive.
Sharon knew how to fight. She knew how to survive. She had crossed the country, constantly changing hiding places, adopting different identities, cutting ties with the few people from her past. Solitude had been a constraint at first, but now it was a silent, precious ally. She could only rely on herself, and that wasn't such a bad thing.
The GTX, her only relic from the past, symbolized her struggle to survive. She had customized it, turning it into a true war machine, a silent ally in a world where everyone was a potential enemy. But as she sped down a long straight road, the engine coughed and lurched, a dull noise echoing from under the hood. The power faded, and the temperature gauge was dangerously close to the red. She cursed. Not now. Not here.
Sharon maneuvered the car onto the shoulder, slowing down before stopping in a heavy cloud of dust that settled around her. She got out, opened the hood with a determined gesture, and a wave of hot smoke hit her, stinging her eyes. She frowned, quickly assessing the problem. With precise movements, she touched several hoses, checked the visible parts, inspected the radiator and belts.
She knew her car well and could spot common problems. She could see the engine was overheating, and some parts were seriously worn out. She pulled a rag from the glove compartment to handle the engine without burning herself. After a few minutes, she realized she wouldn't be able to fix it without some replacement parts. Her gaze fell on a dilapidated payphone not far away. With a resigned sigh, she walked towards it, already irritated at the thought of explaining the situation to a mechanic—once again. Her feet kicked up dust with every step as she scanned the surroundings, alert to the slightest movement, ready to react at the first sign of danger.
After a few rings, a gruff voice answered. Sharon briefly explained her situation. Less than half an hour later, the tow truck arrived, raising a wave of dust as it stopped with a metallic creak in front of Sharon and her immobilized Dominator. The driver climbed down from the cab with the casualness of a man who had seen it all. He wore a faded cap and an old T-shirt stained with oil. Without a word, he scrutinized the smoking engine, nodded knowingly, and motioned for Sharon to get into the tow truck.
The ride to the garage took place in silence, interrupted only by the sound of the engine and the squeak of the axles on the bumpy road. Sharon sat beside the driver, staring at the landscape passing by, the weight of fatigue pressing down on her shoulders. Several times, she felt the driver's eyes slide over to her, curious but without insistence, as if he were weighing the mystery surrounding her without trying to unravel it.
Once they arrived at the garage—a modest sheet-metal building with faded posters and a dog dozing near the door—a mechanic in his fifties approached them. His skin was weathered from the sun, and deep wrinkles framed his sharp eyes, marked by years spent under the hoods of broken-down cars. He leaned over the GTX's engine with calm expertise, his hands moving over the mechanics with no hesitation. After a few moments, he sighed and straightened up, wiping his hands.
"It's gonna take me a bit to fix this," he said, casting a quick glance at Sharon, his look a mix of respect and curiosity.
Sharon pulled out a wad of bills and counted them slowly before handing over the sum. Each bill seemed heavier than the last, as if each note represented a portion of the freedom she was trying to hold onto.
"I need it as soon as possible," she said in a direct, no-nonsense tone.
The mechanic examined the money without flinching, but a brief smile flickered at the corner of his lips. He nodded and slipped the bills into the back pocket of his jeans, showing no emotion. "Spend the night in town, I'll have it ready for you tomorrow."
Sharon gave a curt nod. She had nothing more to add, no small talk or exchanged smiles. Once out of the garage, she lifted her phone to check her messages, glancing nervously at the screen. She had sent Johnny a message to let him know she had just arrived in Blaine County, but there was no response. Johnny's unusual silence felt like a subtle warning, the kind of feeling that twists your gut without any rational explanation.
She took a deep breath, pushing away the worry that threatened to settle in. Now wasn't the time to let doubt creep in. She had to stay focused. Behind that vague sense of unease was maybe just the fear of finally facing the Losts' territory—a faction that, even from a distance, cast an intimidating shadow.
Sharon knew she had to move forward, and hesitating here, alone, wouldn't help. With renewed determination, she put the phone back in her jacket pocket, shoving down any unnecessary emotion. Her steps took her towards the dusty road that led to the Losts' HQ.
The village was bigger than she had imagined, a curious mix of rundown buildings and more modern constructions. The locals eyed her warily, some whispering as she passed, but no one dared to speak to her.
She stopped in front of the dilapidated building, the dusk casting a reddish glow over the sky. The motorcycles parked outside, the gang members casually smoking… everything felt strangely familiar, yet there was something different. A palpable tension, eyes that looked away. She approached the guard at the entrance.
"I want to see Johnny," she said.
The man stared at her, eyebrow raised. "Who's asking?"
"Sharon." She felt her impatience rise, her tone hardening. "He's expecting me."
The guard shrugged, indifferent. "Go on in. The boss is in his office."
She didn't wait any longer, stepping inside the building. The dark hallways smelled of dust and stale beer, the few bikers present watching her with a curiosity tinged with hostility. When she reached the office door, she hesitated a moment before knocking. A deep voice invited her to enter. It wasn't Johnny's.
She pushed the door open and saw a massive man sitting behind the desk, his mocking smile immediately putting her on guard. He eyed her with a look that seemed to taunt her.
"Who the hell are you?" he said without standing up.
"Where's Johnny?" Sharon shot back, her eyes fixed on him, searching for any clue.
He let out a bitter laugh. "Johnny? He's not here anymore, sweetheart. Got himself shot a few days ago. Some business gone wrong."
The words hit the room like a thunderclap. Sharon felt her stomach tighten. "What?"
"Johnny got himself in trouble with the wrong people, and you know how it goes in this world. It always ends badly." The man stood up, his cold eyes locked on Sharon's. "He lost control. And maybe you should learn something from that."
She stared back at him with a barely contained rage. Johnny deserved better. She had hoped that, for once, someone from her past would keep their promise. But nothing was left of that promise now, except a deep anger and a burning desire to make those who had taken Johnny's life pay.
"Who did this? Who killed him?" Sharon's voice trembled with fury.
The leader crossed his arms, a mocking smile playing on his lips. "A bad deal, they told me. The Angels, the Aztecas, or maybe a bunch of bounty hunters... Who knows? Honestly, what does it matter? Johnny was useless by the end."
His casual tone ignited something inside Sharon, but instead of exploding, she channeled that burning anger into a cold determination. She locked eyes with the leader, a firmness growing in her that had only intensified over the past months.
"I want details," she demanded sharply.
"Oh, so you're here for the details, huh?" he sneered. "You guys hear that? She wants explanations." His gaze hardened, his voice turning colder. "Alright then, show her what we do to people who ask too many questions."
One of the goons stepped forward, slowly and deliberately, a nasty grin spreading across his face. The other hung back, ready to pounce at any moment. Sharon's heart pounded faster, but she stayed still, watching for the slightest opening. When the man was within reach, he reached out suddenly and grabbed her jacket.
"You look pretty nervous, don't you?" he said, his shifty eyes gleaming with amusement as he tugged on her collar provocatively, testing her patience.
That was the trigger. Sharon yanked her arm free and slammed her fist into the man's face, the sound of a crunch accompanying the blow. He staggered back, clutching his bleeding nose. Without missing a beat, the second man lunged, a knife gleaming in his hand. The blade slashed through the air, just missing Sharon as she dodged, though it left a tear in her jacket.
She reacted instantly, striking his wrist with a sharp blow. A snap echoed, and the man cried out in pain, dropping the weapon. But she had no time to rest; another attacker rushed her, swinging a rusty chain.
Sharon ducked just in time, the chain whistling above her head and smashing into a hanging lamp. She rose quickly, but the biker rammed her with his shoulder, sending her crashing into a table. The impact was brutal, pain flaring in her ribs and knocking the breath out of her. Her ears buzzed.
Rolling to the side, Sharon narrowly avoided a kick that could have shattered her skull. She grabbed a broken piece of wood from the table and, as she stood up, struck the biker on the side of the head, making him stagger. He groaned, shaking his head to clear the haze from his vision, but she didn't give him the chance to recover. She threw the piece of wood at his face and, taking advantage of his momentary distraction, swept his legs out from under him, sending him crashing to the ground.
"Damn it! Kill her!" the leader shouted, calling more members from outside the office.
Sharon frantically searched for a way out. She stood no chance against so many foes in such a confined space. Her eyes landed on a window, its shutters slightly open across the room. Without wasting a second, she sprinted towards it, the bikers' voices closing in behind her.
Just a few feet from the window, she leaped, shielding her face with her arms. The glass shattered with a deafening crash, and she felt the sharp shards slice into her skin. Her fall on the other side was rough; she hit the dusty ground, the breath knocked out of her, sharp pain stabbing her side.
Looking down, she saw a shard of glass deeply embedded in her flesh. The wound was already gaping, blood flowing freely. She took a deep breath and yanked it out in one swift motion. The pain was searing, but she gritted her teeth and pressed her hand to the wound to slow the bleeding.
"Get her!" the leader yelled from inside, the roar of motorcycles growing louder.
Sharon staggered but kept moving. She ran down the adjacent alley, her breaths short and labored. She crouched behind a dumpster, out of sight, desperately searching for something to improvise a bandage. She found a torn, dirty piece of cloth—filthy, but usable. She wrapped it around her waist as tightly as she could to stem the bleeding.
Her body trembled, the pain throbbing with every heartbeat, but she had no choice. She had to hold on, even though each step drained more of her energy. Her ears picked up the distant sound of engines; they were searching for her. Looking up, she saw a neon sign in the distance: Silver Bullet. A bar. It might be her only chance to hide, at least long enough to catch her breath.
Inside the Silver Bullet bar, sitting at the far end of the counter, Frank Castle was enjoying a rare moment of calm, hidden in the shadows of the bar, enveloped in anonymity. The dull sound of rock music emanated from the jukebox in the corner, masking the hum of conversations—just enough to avoid being disturbed. He observed in silence, lost in the routine of the place.
Around him, the crowd buzzed, animated by laughter and indistinct whispers from the regulars. Frank preferred to remain on the outskirts, observing quietly. It was a habit he had acquired over the years, one he couldn't shake even in these rare moments of calm.
He sipped his drink, lost in his thoughts, when a woman's voice—hoarse and slightly deep—rose next to him.
"A bottle of whiskey, please."
Frank turned his head slightly, intrigued. It wasn't a common request, and the weariness mixed with confidence in the woman's voice caught his attention. There was something about her, a palpable tension, like a tightly wound wire ready to snap. Her movements were measured, but her eyes told the truth: they betrayed exhaustion, an invisible burden. Everything about her—her simple outfit, the precision of her movements—revealed someone who wasn't trying to stand out.
Frank had seen this kind of behavior before—the vigilant look, the body slightly pulled back, ready to react to the slightest movement. She seemed to be discreetly scanning the room, as if preparing to slip away at the first sign of danger. Yet, despite her attitude, there was something about her that made her hard to ignore.
Then, when she pulled out a few bills to pay, he noticed dark stains on the backs of her hands. In the dim light, it was hard to tell exactly what they were, but he recognized them as the marks of someone accustomed to roughness and violence.
Their eyes met for a brief moment. She scrutinized his gaze, quickly assessing whether he was a threat. Frank sensed a strange tension—a mix of curiosity and caution. She said nothing, but that look... there was something elusive about it, a glimmer he couldn't ignore. He remained impassive, sipping his beer, letting her size him up without a word. She looked away almost immediately, but that fraction of a second left an impression.
Finally, the woman grabbed the bottle and, without waiting for a glass, moved quickly toward the back of the bar. Frank watched her movements out of the corner of his eye. She navigated through the patrons, her shoulders stiff and her gaze nervous. As she passed the counter, she also grabbed a handful of paper napkins, as if anticipating something. Her movements were hurried but calculated, hinting at an underlying urgency.
A drunken man bumped into her, causing her to flinch. Frank noticed. She was in pain, it was obvious. Her steps were quick, but slightly unsteady, as if each movement reignited a hidden pain. Frank frowned, intrigued. The dark stains on her hands were indeed blood. She wasn't just nervous—she was injured, and the whiskey she had taken wasn't meant for simple consumption.
She disappeared behind the bathroom door, and Frank remained still, staring at the spot where she had vanished. Part of him, deeply ingrained, told him not to get involved in such matters. He wasn't there to play hero. But the truth was, he had never been able to ignore a mystery when it presented itself so clearly. The woman seemed hunted, desperate... and it awakened instincts in him that he thought he had mastered.
The bar's door swung open with a sharp bang, and the Lost MC gang entered, casting a menacing shadow over the cramped space. One by one, they crossed the threshold slowly, filling the air with their imposing presence. A few patrons exchanged furtive glances, while others kept their heads down, hoping to go unnoticed. Frank, motionless at the end of the counter, observed the reactions around him, picking up every sign of unease like a silent wave rippling through the room.
At the center of the group, a massive man with a red beard, clearly the leader, stepped forward slowly, scanning the room with a predator's gaze, evaluating each face one by one as if searching for the slightest hint of deceit. Frank's brow furrowed slightly; this man wasn't here for the usual Lost MC intimidation. There was something in his methodical manner that hinted at a much more precise goal.
When the leader spoke, his voice cut through the silence—gruff but with controlled coldness.
"We're looking for someone," he said, emphasizing each word. "A woman. She's here."
The silence became tangible. The patrons froze even more, their bodies tense, while some dared to glance at the exit, calculating a possible escape. A couple at the back, unsure, slowly stood and, after a quick look at the leader, slipped towards the door without being stopped. Others cautiously followed their example, using the diffuse threat as an opportunity to leave the bar under the bikers' cold stares.
But Frank remained still. Hearing the word woman, he immediately thought of the stranger from earlier—the woman with bloodstained hands who had taken a bottle of whiskey before disappearing into the bathroom. He wondered, his mind troubled, what she could have done to attract the attention of a group as feared as the Lost MC. These guys never showed up in numbers for trivial matters.
One of the bikers, a scarred giant, walked past Frank, his cold gaze lingering on him for a moment, as if assessing whether he posed any threat. Frank didn't flinch, his hands firmly wrapped around his glass. The bikers' presence wouldn't normally have bothered him, but this time something felt different. These men weren't there to impress or collect a debt; they were hunting.
"If anyone's seen her," continued the leader with icy calm, "better speak up now. It'll save you some trouble."
His sharp voice cut through the room like a blade. His words weren't just a threat—they felt calculated, as if he had already anticipated every possible reaction. Frank saw a man near the counter discreetly get up to leave, and again, none of the bikers moved to stop him. Most of them remained in the center of the room, dominating it with their hard stares without blocking the patrons who slowly trickled out.
As the room emptied, the Lost MC gang began to spread out, their large silhouettes stretching like shadows to fill every space.
With a barely noticeable gesture from their leader, two men and two women from the group headed to the back of the bar, where the bathrooms were. The two men went first, shoving open the door to the men's room. They came out almost immediately, visibly irritated by the empty space, and stationed themselves in the hallway, exchanging a frustrated look. They remained there, in the background but clearly visible from the bar, waiting with a tension that seemed ready to explode.
As for the two women, they moved towards the ladies' room with a brutal determination. No sooner had they crossed the threshold than muffled noises and hurried footsteps could be heard from the other side of the door. The women inside were quickly pushed out, visibly panicked—some holding back tears, others whispering nervously as they hurried to leave the bar.
Frank felt a surge of frustration rising in him. He wasn't here to save anyone, let alone a stranger. But the idea of remaining inactive, of turning a blind eye like so many others, brought back a familiar bitterness. This kind of indifference left a sour taste, one he had sworn to no longer tolerate. He didn't know what she had done to deserve this, but something inside him reacted instinctively—a reflex he thought he had buried.
His mind spun, wondering what she had done to provoke such a relentless hunt. Those two women searching the bathrooms, the men on guard in the hallway… It was clear they wouldn't stop until they found her.
He lowered his gaze, but his thoughts kept racing. This wasn't the first time he had seen prey cornered, mercilessly hunted. His instincts told him to stay out of it, but every passing second strengthened an odd sense of responsibility.
Sharon was crouched in the stall, her breath rapid. She pressed whiskey-soaked towels against her wound, suppressing a groan of pain. Every breath burned her lungs, as if the air itself had turned hostile.
When the door slammed open, her breath caught, every sound amplifying her tension. She felt panic rising, but deep down, a simmering anger threatened to overtake her.
Her survival instincts urged her to stay still, her breathing shallow, as the shadow of the Losts drew closer.
"Come on, get out of your hiding place..." One of the Losts' voices echoed in the restroom, cold and mocking. A heavy silence followed, broken only by the approaching footsteps.
A sharp laugh rang out, belonging to the other woman. "She really thinks she can hide?" she added, amused, as her footsteps joined those of her companion.
Sharon remained frozen, but her stillness was less about paralyzing fear and more about calculation. Every fiber of her body was preparing to react, to seize the slightest opportunity to defend herself or flee. Her heart pounded, but adrenaline began to sharpen her thoughts, transforming her survival instinct into something more active.
The two women seemed to be playing with her, taking their time, until one of them stopped right in front of the stall where Sharon was hiding.
"I bet she's in here," murmured the second woman, her smile almost audible in her voice.
With a sharp move, the door was smashed open, the first woman lunging forward with a predator's grin.
"End of the line," she taunted, while the second woman stayed back, blocking any escape, her arms crossed but her gaze sharp.
Sharon realized the confrontation would not be against one, but two opponents ready for a fight.