A/N: The single one song that inspired my muse was Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds' 'Red Right Hand' which I think honestly goes along so well with the chapter itself.

Take a little walk to the edge of town,
Go across the tracks,
Where the viaducts loom, like a bird of doom,
As it shifts and cracks

Where the secrets lie in the border fires, in the humming wires,
Hey man, you know you're never coming back,
Past the square, past the bridge,
Past the mills, past the stacks,

On a gathering storm comes a tall handsome man
In a dusty black coat with red right hand

Thick dirty boots barely scraping against the hard cracked rooftop carried each step, strong and direct, with an air of purpose, moving with the kind of confidence that conveyed years of hard earned experience. The figure stopped by the edge of the roof and for a moment, didn't seem to move at all.

With a deep breath, chest expanding and shoulders rising, the Punisher felt the cold, filthy New York gas move through his respiratory system. He never stopped thinking about it, how defiled, ugly and tainted this sore excuse of a city was with shitbags and their shitbag trades. Smacking his lips, he pulled a cylinder container out of the dusty coat he was wearing. Unscrewing the top, he poured the dark steaming liquid into the porcelain mug that seemed to have survived every single outing he'd had.

Just leave me alone, Frank!

The nerves in his lips twitched. Thick lines creased between strong brows. Hmm-yah. The comforting familiar taste of coffee spilled between his lips, ran down his throat and straight into his system. Smacked his lips again with a bitter and weak laugh. Thought she was being punished by him, huh. Oh, if she only knew. He remembered. The first time he allowed himself to check on her, first time after she had poured all her hope and faith into him only for him to crush all of that under his boot - Jesus, the way she looked at him. And then he saw it, the cut on her lip, the kind that doesn't happen by just running into a wall or what the fuck normal people accidentally did to themselves. No. No, he knew and it made his blood boil. Whoever did that, whoever touched her - they would pay. He swore an oath to make sure of it. It didn't take long before he made a habit of it.

Distant voices came from an enclosure between the buildings in front of him. Job calling. With a grunt, Frank cracked the bones in his neck and swiftly reassembled his freshly cleaned and oiled rifle, handling every piece with as much gentle care that Frank was capable towards anything. Shit, even Frank knew he took better care of his guns than he did himself. He'd stopped reflecting on how perfectly his arms fit around it, how at ease he was in the carrier position. The weapon itself had stopped being an isolated object and had morphed into something of an extension of himself. It made more sense to him than anything had in a long time. Can't choose the things that fix you, can't choose the things that make you feel whole and driven.

I want you to stop what you're doing, Frank!

He grunted, a deep, raspy sound from his chest. Her voice.

Mumbling something indistinctive, finger on the trigger, he looked through the scope, watching two bulky men walk out the door into the enclosure, followed by his target; a disgusting asshat excuse of a human being. A man of wealth, was already filthy rich when he decided to take a dive into the criminal side of Hell's Kitchen. Dealing guns, guns that – when he traced them - had taken the life of 20 children and young adults, ever since he started with this extracurricular activity. Hadn't pulled the trigger, but sold it to the ones who did. Miss Page and her associates were sniffing around, a great story for the Bulletin, a dangerous risk that could be hard to come back from.

Is this what you do now?

A whispered curse. Focus.

Frank didn't let him out of his sight, when the target moved, the reticle moved along with him. The man was heading towards a waiting and steaming black car, entourage following closely behind.

He held his breath, braced his whole body for the kick-back.

And then – stroking the trigger with his finger - he did something he'd never done before; it had started as a spark somewhere deep in the part of his mind that remembered softness, he considered the other side of the story, the side that wasn't illustrated. This was a wealthy man, an man with a lot of money and ill intent to influence his power. But a family man all the same. Wife and kids back in a giant house, probably sleeping, expecting to see their daddy and husband with them the next morning. Breakfast together, smiling, laughing. They were probably good kids, smart kids.

A vision swam in his mind. A court filled with angry people, screaming, crying and asking, no, demanding blood, demanding his head on a platter for all his sins. And then Karen, Karen with her intelligent eyes, her knowing gaze. Karen who saw something good in him where everyone else saw a wicked, coldblooded killer. Could he be the good person she saw? Was he that person?

Black eyes on the target, a deep breath that expanded a strong, firm chest. Right then, a milisecond of peace and clarity.

Nah.

Bang.

A/N: I know, I know. Not so much Kastle interaction in this one. I wanted to write more in this chapter, but this piece felt so complete, I just couldn't ruin it by suddenly skipping to a new scene. I'm sorry! But I really hope you liked it. This was actually very tough for me to write, I had to really think and put myself a little bit in Frank's head and I have no idea if I've done a good job of it or not. in any case, I'm having a lot of fun writing this and I hope you're getting your kick out of reading it!

Thanks so much for all the reviews! You have no idea how helpful and fueling it's been for me! Please, tell me what the story and the chapters are making you feel, what are your thoughts! Thank you!

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