Chapter 58:
[Frank Castle POV]
[War Room, New York City]
NYC. Forget the things you heard about the place. About the 'New' New York that gleams in the glossy pages of travel magazines, where skyscrapers pierce the clouds and Times Square dazzles with its neon lights. Sure, there's a park full of tourists snapping selfies and sipping lattes, but that's just the facade. The old New York, the gritty underbelly of the city, still pulses beneath the surface, its heartbeat echoing through the alleyways and dimly lit streets of the forgotten neighborhoods. There is a rawness here, a palpable energy that can't be tamed or sanitized. When darkness falls, it's as if the city itself comes alive, revealing its true nature to those brave enough to wander its labyrinthine corridors. In these shadows, there's no safety net, no comforting illusions to shield you from the harsh realities of urban life. You're laid open, exposed to the elements, vulnerable to the whims of fate and the machinations of those who dwell in the shadows. And just because some masked heroes may have chased away the monsters, don't think for a moment that the city has changed. Not in its heart, not where it lives and breathes, a living, breathing entity that defies all attempts to tame or control it. NYC is the city that never sleeps, that thrives on chaos and contradiction, where beauty and brutality walk hand in hand down every avenue and boulevard. Welcome to the real New York, where every heartbeat is a symphony, and every step is a dance with the reaper.
Striding down a narrow street, I enter an abandoned subway station. The air is thick with the musty scent of damp concrete and rusted metal. Graffiti adorns the walls like modern hieroglyphics, telling stories of the city's forgotten souls. The echoes of distant trains reverberate through the tunnels, a haunting melody that serves as the soundtrack to my journey. On the platform, I cut into a large tunnel, the darkness swallowing me whole as I make my way to the entrance of my hideout. While holding my injured shoulder, throbbing with each step, I grit my teeth and press forward through the dimly lit corridor. The pain is sharp, shooting through me with each movement, but I can't afford to dwell on it now. My focus is singular, honed on reaching the sanctuary of the restroom where I can assess the damage and tend to my wounds.
With each stride, I can feel the weight of the medkit swinging at my side, a constant reminder of the task ahead. As I navigate the labyrinthine passages of the space, my mind races with thoughts of the recent confrontation with Daredevil and the police. The echoes of gunfire still reverberate in my ears, the adrenaline-fueled rush of combat fading into a dull ache as reality sets in. I knew the risks of going in and understood that my mission was bound to draw the attention of both law enforcement and the heroes. We may strive for the same goal, but our methods differ greatly. Daredevil, with his strict adherence to the law and his unwavering commitment to justice, often finds himself at odds with my own approach. While I respect his dedication to protecting the innocent, I cannot abide by the limitations imposed by the legal system. Sometimes, in order to truly root out the evil that plagues this city, one must be willing to step outside the bounds of conventional morality. The police, on the other hand, see me as little more than a criminal, a vigilante operating outside their jurisdiction and beyond their control. They view me as a threat to the fragile peace they strive to maintain, blind to the fact that I am simply doing what they cannot. In their eyes, I am a danger to be apprehended, a menace to be eradicated. But I am neither a hero nor a villain. I am simply a man driven by a singular purpose: to rid this city of the filth that infects its streets and to ensure that no more innocent lives are lost to senseless violence. And if that means facing off against the likes of Daredevil and the police, then so be it. I will not be deterred, not by their judgment nor their condemnation.
Finally, I reach the restroom, its door a welcome sight amidst the chaos of the building. With a sigh of relief, I push it open and step inside, the familiar scent of antiseptic and bleach washing over me. Setting down the medkit on the counter, I gingerly peel away the fabric of my shirt, revealing the angry red gash that mars my shoulder. Taking a deep breath, I steel myself for the task ahead, knowing that the road to recovery will be an arduous one.
[Spartan POV]
[DA's Office, New York City]
I stand right outside the DA's office, my back pressed against the wall. Through the closed door, the muffled voices of Maria Hill and Reyes, two powerful figures in their respective spheres, echo into the hallway. It's tense, and I strain to catch every word. The Punisher, a figure notorious for his brand of justice, is at the center of their conversation. SHIELD's involvement doesn't surprise me; someone like the Punisher operates on a scale far beyond the jurisdiction of local law enforcement. Their efforts to bring him to justice are understandable, a necessary step to maintain order. The conversation continues to unfold. Maria Hill's voice cuts through the air, sharp and authoritative, as she accuses Reyes of ordering the SWAT team to fire on a SHIELD operator. The implications are grave; the lines between law enforcement and extrajudicial actions blur in the pursuit of someone as elusive and dangerous as the Punisher. But Reyes doesn't seem to back down. Her defiance is palpable, her rebuttal swift and calculated. My grip tightens on the handle of the door as I listen to Reyes list off the accusations against me, each one like a blow to my reputation and integrity. Assaulting police officers, interfering in NYPD operations, obstructing justice, and aiding the Punisher's escape. And then she mentions Daredevil, painting him as a mere vigilante when, in reality, he is so much more. I can't stand idly by any longer. Bursting into Reyes's office, I feel a surge of adrenaline coursing through my veins. The need to set the record straight overwhelms me. Reyes's accusations hang heavy in the air, but I refuse to let misinformation tarnish the truth. With a voice steady despite the storm raging within me, I correct her, emphasizing Daredevil's status as an Avenger, a symbol of authority sanctioned by SHIELD itself. In this complex web of law and morality, clarity is a rare and precious commodity, one I intend to fight for, even if it means challenging those in positions of power.
[Outside.] Maria Hill and I step out of the DA's office building. "So how much trouble am I in?" I ask, hands stuffed in my pockets. Hill shakes her head, "Don't stress over it. You're fine. Legally speaking your actions are justified as a SHIELD operator dealing with out of control police officers. And make no mistake based on what I've seen through your visor cam they were definitely out of control. With that said, did you really have to put two of them in the ER?" I shrug my shoulders, "I didn't inflict any lasting damage. They'll be fine in two days." "This fiasco is going to make things complicated," Hill whispers to herself. I shoot the woman a side glance, "Make what complicated?" She lets out a tired breath, "Certain individuals in the government are voicing concern about people like the AVENGERS." "You mean Metahumans," I say, understanding her meaning. Hill nods, "Yeah. When the bigwigs are worried they tend to do something stupid out of fear."
As the two of us trek down the steps, I couldn't shake off the feeling of unease settling in my gut. The mention of government concerns about Metahumans sent a shiver down my spine. It wasn't just bureaucratic red tape we were dealing with; it was the potential for widespread panic and overreaction from those in power. I glance at Hill, noting the tension etched into her features. "What exactly are they afraid of?" I inquire, my voice low as if the very walls might overhear our conversation. Hill's gaze meets mine, her expression grave. "They fear what they can't control. And in their fear, they might resort to drastic measures to maintain their hold." The thought of government officials making rash decisions out of fear was a nightmare scenario. It wasn't just about the safety of individuals like me or the Avengers; it was about the stability of society as a whole. "Are we talking about potential legislation?" I ask, dread pooling in the pit of my stomach. The idea of laws specifically targeting Metahumans wasn't far-fetched, but the implications were terrifying. Hill nods grimly. "It's a possibility. And if it comes to that, it won't just affect you and the team. It'll affect every Metahuman out there." Silence settles between us, the weight of uncertainty hanging heavy in the air. The future suddenly seemed more uncertain than ever.
I can only focus on one issue to tackle at a time; right now, that's the Punisher. His actions have plunged the city into a state of chaos, leaving behind a trail of violence and bloodshed. He's a symptom of a much larger problem, a symptom that can't be ignored. Delving deeper into the Punisher's motives and methods, I realize that he's not just a vigilante seeking justice; he's a reflection of the deep-rooted societal issues that plague our city. Poverty, inequality, and corruption have festered for far too long, creating an environment where individuals like the Punisher feel justified in taking the law into their own hands. He's a product of a system that has failed its citizens, where the line between right and wrong has become blurred beyond recognition. The Punisher may be just one man, but his actions have far-reaching consequences that ripple through the fabric of society. Bringing him to justice won't solve every problem, but it's a step in the right direction—a step towards reclaiming the peace and stability that the city desperately needs. And as I steel myself for the battles ahead, I know that I can't afford to lose sight of what's at stake.
[Drake POV]
[Funeral Home, New York City]
Under stealth-camo, I watch the Costello Crime Family pay their respect to their fallen. Thirteen caskets fill the space. At the head lay the lifeless body of Don's son. I don't bother to learn the name. Frankly, to me, the Costello Crime Family is a relic of a long-dead era. A crime syndicate I couldn't take seriously. Zemo, however, saw an opportunity, pawns he could use. Observing the somber scene unfold before me, I can't help but feel a sense of detachment from the proceedings. The Costellos may mourn their losses, but to me, they're nothing more than cogs in a larger game. Their outdated methods and archaic sense of loyalty are no match for the ruthlessness of modern-day organized crime. In a city where power shifts like sand in the wind, the Costellos are little more than a footnote in the annals of history. But Zemo sees potential where others see irrelevance. He understands the value of leverage, of having loyal soldiers at his disposal to carry out his bidding. And in the Costellos, he sees an opportunity to expand his influence and strengthen his grip on the city's underworld. It's a calculated move, one that could tip the scales in his favor and solidify his position as a force to be reckoned with. Yet, even as Zemo orchestrates his machinations behind the scenes, I can't help but wonder about his endgame. What does he hope to achieve by aligning himself with a crime family that's past its prime? Is it simply a matter of expanding his power base, or does he have grander ambitions in mind?
The door leading into the Costello Crime Family's private space within the funeral home swings open with a creak, echoing through the somber atmosphere. A man clad in a sharp gray suit strides into the room with purposeful steps, his presence commanding attention. It's Vito Costellos, the patriarch of the family, his face a mask of grief and anger as he approaches the head casket where his son lies in eternal repose. I watch from my vantage point, hidden beneath the cloak of stealth-camo, as Vito gazes down at his son's lifeless form, his emotions churning beneath the surface. Words are exchanged between Vito and his loyal lieutenant, Nesbitt, their voices hushed but charged with tension. Yet, their conversation fades into the background as my focus remains fixed on the unfolding drama before me. Vito's steely gaze sweeps over the assembled members of his family, each one bearing the weight of their grief and uncertainty. His voice cuts through the silence like a blade as he demands answers, seeking the identity of the man responsible for the death of his beloved son.
The gang members exchange uneasy glances, their faces etched with fear and apprehension, but none dare to speak. It's a testament to the fear and respect that Vito commands, even in the face of tragedy. The air grows heavy with anticipation as Vito's piercing gaze lingers on each member in turn, his frustration mounting with each passing moment. And then, breaking the tense silence, a voice rings out from the shadows, cutting through the palpable tension like a knife. "His name is Frank Castle, AKA the Punisher," I announce, my voice steady and unwavering. All eyes turn to me, surprise and curiosity mingling in their depths as they register my presence. In that moment, I become the focal point of their attention, a silent observer thrust into the spotlight by the gravity of the situation. Vito's gaze narrows as he fixes me with a penetrating stare.
The man is under the assumption that his snake-eye has an intimidation effect. I can't help but stifle a chuckle beneath the concealment of my mask, finding amusement in his delusions of power. In truth, his attempts at intimidation are as feeble as they are laughable. If I were so inclined, I could obliterate his entire organization with little effort in a matter of hours. But that isn't the mission. Vito Costellos inquires about the source of my information; I offer him a cryptic smile, my lips twisting into a sardonic grin beneath the mask. "Let's just say my employer has a knack for staying well-informed about the inner workings of this city," I reply, my voice laced with a hint of menace. With deliberate steps, I make my way toward the head casket, casting a critical eye over the lifeless form within. The chessboard of scars that mar the corpse's flesh tells a gruesome tale of a prolonged and agonizing demise, each wound a testament to the brutality of the Punisher's methods. "Punk didn't die easily. It was slow and agonizing," I remark aloud, my voice carrying across the room with chilling clarity. Vito's expression darkens with rage at my words, his features contorting into a mask of fury as he struggles to contain his anger. With a terse nod, he issues a silent command to one of his henchmen, signaling retaliation against the perceived insult to his family's honor. Without breaking stride, I pivot on my heel, intercepting the approaching thug. In one swift motion, I seize him by the throat. There's a sickening snap as bone gives way beneath the pressure of my hand.
The display forces them to take a step back, their faces contorted with a mixture of fear and awe as they bear witness to the swift and merciless demise of one of their own. The sudden violence of my actions sends shockwaves through the room, shattering the fragile veneer of civility that had prevailed mere moments before. As the lifeless body of their fallen comrade lies on the ground, a heavy silence descends upon the room, broken only by the sound of labored breathing. It's a stark reminder of the precarious balance of power that exists within the criminal underworld, where the strong strive and the weak die. With a mocking salute, I make my leave, the gesture laden with thinly veiled sarcasm as I turn on my heel and disappear into the shadows. Behind me, the Costello Crime Family watches in seething silence, their collective gaze burning holes into my back as I retreat from their midst. It's a calculated display of bravado, a deliberate taunt aimed at stoking the flames of their simmering rage. There's no doubt in my mind they're going to use this rage in their hunt for The Punisher. The fury simmering within the hearts of the Costello Crime Family members is a potent fuel, igniting a firestorm of vengeance that threatens to consume everything in its path.
[Spartan POV]
[Bar, New York City]
Out on patrol, EPYON tags a 9-11 call, alerting me to a potential emergency situation. With a sense of urgency coursing through my veins, I waste no time in deliberation, knowing that every second counts in a city where danger lurks around every corner. Without even sparing a glance at the details of the call, I rev the engine of my motorcycle and peel out onto the bustling streets, the roar of the engine drowning out the cacophony of city sounds. Finally, arriving at the waypoint, I take in the chaotic scene before me. Police cruisers line the street, their flashing lights casting an eerie glow over the surrounding buildings. Without hesitation, I dismount my motorcycle and stride purposefully into the perimeter.
Inside a sleazy bar, I catch sight of a body sprawled on the grimy floor; the stench of stale alcohol and cigarette smoke fills the air. My first instinct is to assume that this is the handiwork of the Punisher. But as I activate the ECHO system, a different story begins to unfold. The digital display overlays the scene with a web of intricate data, analyzing the trajectory of each bullet and mapping out the sequence of events with pinpoint accuracy. Studying the holographic reconstruction of the crime scene, patterns begin to emerge that paint a picture. A simulation starts to play, projecting a vivid reenactment of the events that transpired within the confines of the sleazy bar. The holographic display flickers to life, casting eerie shadows against the dimly lit interior as the scene unfolds before my eyes. A group of armed men burst through the door, their faces obscured by masks as they move with ruthless efficiency. Two of them seize the owner, dragging him forcibly behind the bar counter and pinning him in place with brute strength.
The leader of the gang steps forward, his presence commanding attention as he levels the barrel of a shotgun at the trembling man's face. His voice is a low, menacing growl as he interrogates the owner, demanding information on a man named Frank Castle. The air crackles with tension as the gang leader's words hang in the air, each syllable dripping with menace and malice. Despite the owner's protests of innocence, he folds quickly under the weight of the gang leader's threats, spilling whatever information he possesses in a desperate bid to save his own life. But it's clear from the hollow desperation in his eyes that his knowledge of Frank Castle is limited. And yet, even as the gang leader gets what he came for, his thirst for blood remains unsated. With a callous disregard for human life, he raises the shotgun and pulls the trigger. The owner's body slumps lifelessly to the ground, a grotesque tableau of violence and cruelty. The simulation fades, leaving behind nothing but the haunting echo. The worst-case scenario comes to fruition. Collateral damage in the wake of the Punisher's actions.
[Hours Later, New York City]
Half a day in, and bodies have been piling up like discarded garbage bags, their lifeless forms serving as grim reminders of the gang's relentless pursuit of the Punisher. Hellbent on their mission, they prove themselves to be nothing more than a ruthless hit squad driven by a singular purpose that knows no bounds. With each passing hour, the streets run red with the blood of innocent victims caught in the crossfire, their cries for mercy falling on deaf ears as the gang shows no remorse for the devastation they leave in their wake.
Traveling the street via motorcycle, my comlink rings from a call from Murdock, the sound slicing through the rush of wind and the hum of the engine. Murdock's voice is tight with emotion as he delivers the grim news, each word heavy with the weight of disappointment and anger. Grotto is dead, killed by the Punisher. The news hits me with conflicting emotions. On one hand, Grotto was undeniably a criminal, his hands stained with the consequences of his choices and actions. Yet, on the other hand, he was also a human being, flawed and vulnerable, with the capacity for change and redemption. Despite the darkness that shrouded his past, Grotto had shown glimpses of remorse and regret for his deeds, moments where his humanity broke through the facade of indifference. He had faltered along the way and stumbled on his journey towards a straight and narrow path, but the possibility was there, a flicker of hope in the shadows of his past. Unfortunately, that chance has been cruelly snatched away. Before ending the call, Murdock tells me to stop by his law office. "Jessica dug up some new information on the Punisher," he says, his voice tinged with a sense of urgency that demands my immediate attention. The mention of Jessica Jones, a private investigator with a penchant for uncovering secrets, piques my interest, leaving me curious about the nature of the information she has unearthed. "I'm on my way," I tell him, the words slipping easily from my lips as I end the call and rev the engine of my motorcycle, speeding off the street.
[Nelson & Murdock Law Office, New York City]
Without knocking, I set foot into the law office to find the blind lawyer, Jones, and Nelson engaged in a tense, whispered conversation that seems to reverberate off the walls like a muted symphony of secrets. Jones holds an image of an x-ray, her expression grim as she scrutinizes the ghostly image. "Guy is lucky to be alive," the PI says, her voice low and filled with a mixture of disbelief and awe as Jones pores over the intricate details of the image. "This is all the stuff Reyes is collecting for her case," she continues, "Most if not all of it is about the Punisher's victims. But nothing is mentioned about the Punisher himself or the gunshot to the head he sustained." Nelson's brows furrow in concentration, and he offers a tentative suggestion, "He's insane, maybe he shot himself." But Jones dismisses his theory with a shake of her head, her expression hardened by years of experience and a keen intuition honed by countless investigations. "Opinion aside, no, he didn't shoot himself," Jessica states matter-of-factly, her voice unwavering in its certainty, "The man was shot in the head during the massacre of his entire family." The reveal shocks everyone in the room, a collective gasp escaping our lips as we grapple with the implications of Jessica's revelation. In that moment, the pieces of the puzzle begin to fall into place, painting a chilling portrait of a man driven to the brink of madness by unspeakable tragedy and loss.
[Frank Castle POV]
[Central Park, New York City]
I sit in silence on a park bench, my eyes fixed on the carousel. The last moment of happier times with my family etches my mind like a photograph, offering a fleeting respite from the darkness that haunts me, if only for a moment. But even as I cling to those precious moments, I know that they are nothing more than a fragile illusion, a mirage in the desert of despair. As the sun sets on another day, casting long shadows across the park, the lights of the carousel flicker and die, signaling that the park is closing. The world around me grows eerily silent, the sounds of laughter and chatter replaced by the ominous rustle of leaves in the wind. And then, out of the corner of my eye, I catch sight of a man staring at me from another bench. Two more men enter the scene, their footsteps echoing against the pavement. They block off the only exit. My eyes shift back to the man on the bench, his demeanor oozing with confidence as he pulls his jacket slightly to the side, revealing the glint of a pistol nestled against his side. "I'm not alone," he says, his voice a low growl. Two other men approach on my right. A boxing-in tactic. "You want to come with us or you want to make a mess?" the man taunts, his words dripping with venom.
Keeping my eyes locked on the man before me, I rise from the bench and stalk toward him. He draws his gun with lightning speed, but before he can take aim, I spring into action. With quick reflexes, I trap his arm in a vice-like grip, twisting it with brutal efficiency until I hear the sickening crunch of bone beneath my fingers. A savage headbutt to the nose sends him reeling backward, blood gushing from the wound as he crumples to the ground in a heap. Turning on my heel, I use him as a shield, his body providing cover as I draw my 45. In one swift motion, I unleash a hail of bullets, dropping the four goons before they can even react, their bodies falling to the ground in a tangled mess of limbs and blood. Out of nowhere, multiple wires strike at my body with vicious precision, their metallic tendrils snaking through the air like serpents poised to strike. The sudden onslaught catches me off guard, sending a searing wave of pain coursing through my veins as electricity surges through my body with an intensity that threatens to consume me whole. With a grunt of agony, I'm forced to drop onto my knees, the world spinning around me as my senses reel from the overwhelming shock. The crackle of electricity fills the air, drowning out the sounds of the bustling city as everything fades to black.
[Spartan POV]
Back on patrol, Daredevil and I respond to a 9-11 call. With a sense of purpose driving us forward, we arrive at the carousel area within Central Park, the scene of the reported disturbance. As we step into the clearing, the sight of four lifeless bodies strewn across the ground grabs our attention. Members of the Costello Crime Family. The air is thick with the metallic tang of blood and the acrid scent of gunpowder, a stark contrast to the serene beauty of the surrounding park. But amidst the carnage, a faint sound catches my attention, a low grunting noise emanating from somewhere nearby. Following the sound, I make my way around the carousel. Huddled against the base of the carousel, I find him—a lone figure struggling to crawl towards the exit, his face twisted in pain as he clutches at his broken nose. Without hesitation, I move to intercept him. In a swift motion, I grab hold of him and push the man down onto a nearby bench. His eyes widen in fear and confusion as he meets my gaze, the realization dawning on him that his escape has been thwarted. Thinking he has me fooled, he pretends to pass out from the pain, his body going limp as if succumbing to the agony that courses through him. I catch the subtle movement of his hand as it snakes towards the pistol at his waistband, his fingers closing around the grip. Before he can carry out his treacherous scheme, Daredevil moves with lightning speed and grabs hold of the man's arm, disarming the pistol from his grasp with a swift motion. The weapon clatters to the ground.
"What happened here?" Daredevil demands, his voice a low growl that brooks no argument as he pins the gangster beneath his unyielding gaze. But the man remains defiant, his lips curled into a sneer. "I'm not telling you shit, freak," he states, his voice dripping with venom as he spits out the words with a snarl. While Daredevil engages the suspect, I turn my attention to the surrounding area, activating the ECHO system. With a series of rapid scans, the system feeds me a stream of data, mapping out the scene and analyzing every detail with unparalleled precision. As I sift through the information, a picture begins to form—a mosaic of clues and evidence that paint a grim portrait of the events that transpired. The carousel stands as a silent witness to the violence that unfolded, its once vibrant facade now marred by the stains of blood and the echoes of gunfire. Bullet casings litter the ground like morbid confetti, each one a testament to the deadly exchange that took place.
"This was an ambush for The Punisher orchestrated by the Costello Crime Family," I tell Daredevil. The masked defender of Hell's Kitchen takes a sniff of the air, confirming my words. "Punisher was definitely here, but he didn't leave under his own power. He was taken," Daredevil states. He turns his head back to the gangster, a silent challenge burns in his gaze, daring the criminal to defy him, "Where did they take him?" The gangster recoils, the fear in his eyes betraying the facade of bravado he had so desperately clung to moments before. Sensing his vulnerability, I step forward, my presence a silent reminder of the consequences that await should he choose to withhold information. The gangster hesitates for only a moment before the floodgates of his confession burst open. With trembling lips, he spills forth the details of the abduction and the clandestine meeting point.
[Frank Castle POV]
[Costello Crime Family's Hideout, New York City]
[Cellar.] Blinking awake, I'm disoriented, the dim light of the cellar casting eerie shadows across the damp walls. As my eyes adjust, the realization hits me like a sucker punch: I'm tied to a chair. Panic briefly flares within me, but I quash it ruthlessly, focusing instead on assessing my situation. The cellar reeks of mold and decay, a fitting atmosphere for the nefarious activities of the Costello Crime Family. This must be one of their hideouts, nestled within Hell's Kitchen. I strain against my restraints, feeling the rough bite of rope against my skin. In front of me stand two men. Their presence exudes menace. They watch me with cold, calculating eyes, thinking they have me at their mercy, but they couldn't be more wrong. As I bide my time, waiting for the perfect moment to strike, I can't help but smile grimly. They may have caught me off guard, but they'll soon learn that crossing the Punisher comes with a price. And it's a price they'll pay in blood. The Don of the Costello Crime Family enters the room, his presence commanding respect and fear in equal measure. He sizes me up with a mixture of disdain and grudging admiration, his eyes burning with a hatred born from the loss I've inflicted upon his organization. The man strides toward a nearby chair, stripping off his jacket with a casual nonchalance. "You're quite an artist with an M4," he remarks, his voice dripping with venom as he acknowledges the carnage I've wrought upon his ranks. He places the jacket down and starts rolling up his sleeves, each movement a calculated display of dominance and control. The Don starts to list off names—targets I've taken down, each one a testament to my relentless pursuit of justice—I meet the man's gaze with a steely resolve, silently vowing to continue my crusade.
The last name Don Vito Costello mentions belongs to his son, William Costello, a major drug pusher whose notoriety spreads like a dark stain across the city streets. Despite being heir to the Costello empire, William's legacy is marred by a toxic blend of ambition and insecurity. While he possessed the cunning intellect to orchestrate the intricate machinations of the drug trade, his lack of fortitude left him perpetually teetering on the edge of his father's shadow. Fuelled by a volatile mix of power and inadequacy, William's insecurities manifested in cruel and sadistic ways. Unable to assert his dominance in the cutthroat world of organized crime, he sought refuge in the twisted pleasure of inflicting pain upon others. In his twisted mind, their suffering was a means of asserting control, a perverse display of power in a world where he felt powerless. When I put an end to William Costello, I made sure the punishment fit the crime, a swift and decisive blow that extinguished his life without prolonging his suffering. It wasn't about inflicting pain for the sake of cruelty; it was about delivering justice in its purest form.
Don Vito Costello strides toward me, "My son is gone because of you." He delivers a brutal smack across my face, the force of it rattling my senses. Despite the faint pain shooting up my jaw, I keep a steel gaze fixed on the man before me, refusing to show any sign of weakness. "Make no mistake, you're going to die here tonight," he continues, his words laced with a chilling certainty, "The hole has been dug. But I'm going to give you a chance to meet your maker with your limbs still attached. Generosity is my defining trait." The man's lips curl into a cruel smirk, "I want the money you stole from me." I arch a brow, "Your son is in a box, and all you care about is the money." Enraged beyond reason, Vito Costello unleashes a storm of fury upon me, his fists raining down with merciless intensity. Each blow is a testament to his burning rage. "We Irish may have not invented revenge but we sure as fuck perfected it!" Vito bellows into my face, his words dripping with a venomous blend of anger and pride.
His grip on my head is like a vice, fingers digging into my skin with a punishing force. In a moment of defiance, fueled by a primal instinct for survival, I summon every ounce of strength within me and drive my forehead into Vito's face with a resounding crack. He staggers back, a stunned expression crossing his features as he clutches at his throbbing skull. "Boys, hold him down!" Vito's command echoes through the cellar, a signal for his loyal goons to spring into action. They converge upon me, their hands grasping at my limbs. Meanwhile, Vito, his face contorted with rage and pain, advances towards me with a menacing swagger. As he closes in, I brace myself for the onslaught to come, "BRING IT ON!"
Suddenly, a flash grenade is tossed into the room, its blinding light and deafening blast disorienting everyone within its radius. Amidst the chaos, I strain against my restraints, momentarily blinded by the intense light. Gradually, as my vision begins to clear, I discern a shadowy figure storming into the room with a rifle aimed squarely at my captors. In swift movements, he dispatches the two goons flanking me, their bodies crumpling to the ground. As the haze of the flash grenade dissipates further, I make out the unmistakable silhouette of Daredevil. With unmatched agility and martial prowess, he engages Vito Costello in fierce hand-to-hand combat, each blow delivered with the precision of a seasoned fighter. Despite the Don's formidable size and strength, Daredevil moves with a fluid grace, ducking and weaving around his opponent's attacks with effortless ease. With a hard right-hook-punch, Daredevil delivers the blow to Vito's face, sending him crashing to the ground, where he lies motionless. Meanwhile, the figure who breached the room first rushes to my side. He cuts my restraints, freeing me from the chair that held me captive. As I rub the feeling back into my wrists, I recognize him from the countless news reports covering the Battle of NYC – Spartan.
I grab a pistol from off the floor, the weight of the weapon familiar in my hand as I move with purpose toward Don Vito Costello. His eyes widen with a mix of fear and desperation as he raises his hand like a shield, a feeble attempt to ward off the inevitable. I tighten my grip on the pistol; every muscle in my body tense with resolve. But before I can pull the trigger, Spartan intervenes and smacks the weapon out of my hand. "That's enough," Spartan's voice cuts through the air like a blade, "It's over. He's beaten." I meet Spartan's gaze with a mixture of frustration and defiance, my jaw clenched in stubborn determination. "It's only over when he's dead," I bark back, my voice laced with the simmering rage that has fueled my quest for justice. Spartan's expression softens, a hint of sympathy in his eyes as he takes a step closer. "Do you really want to fight this out or get out of this shit hole?" he states, his tone a voice of reason. His words give me pause, the weight of his question sinking in as I glance around the dimly lit cellar, taking in the grim reality of our situation. Despite my burning desire for vengeance, a part of me knows that engaging in a prolonged battle here would end in my favor. Reluctantly, I relent, a heavy sigh escaping my lips as I begrudgingly leave with Spartan and Daredevil. The taste of unfinished business lingers bitterly on my tongue.
[Outside.] Exiting the Costello Crime Family's Hideout, I face two masked heroes. "I doubt the two of you are going to let me go, huh," I say. Spartan and Daredevil exchange a silent glance before shaking their heads in unison. "No," Spartan responds plainly. In spite of the exhaustion that weighs heavy on my limbs, a stubborn resolve still burns within me, refusing to be extinguished even in the face of overwhelming odds. Every fiber of my being yearns to continue my mission, to see justice served no matter the cost. But before I can even take a step forward, before I can summon the strength to defy the inevitable, Spartan raises his pistol and fires. The sharp crack of the stun round cuts through the air. Pain erupts through my body as the electric shock courses through my veins, my muscles seizing up in protest as I drop to the unforgiving floor below. The world spins dizzily around me, the edges of my vision blurring as darkness creeps in from the periphery. With a final, defiant gasp, I fight to hold onto consciousness, to cling to the flickering ember of awareness amidst the encroaching shadows. But it's a losing battle, and as the blackness consumes me, swallowing me whole, I surrender to its embrace.