The text came through at 6:47 in the morning. No words. Just an address in Hell's Kitchen and three letters: NOW.

It had been fourteen months since you'd last seen Frank Castle. Fourteen months since he walked out of your apartment with a duffel bag over his shoulder and a kiss pressed to the top of your daughter's sleeping head. Fourteen months of silence. Of pretending the man didn't exist while raising a four-year-old who had his eyes and his stubborn chin and his way of going quiet when she was upset.

You told yourself you were done. You meant it, too.

But it was Frank. And it was 6:47 in the morning, and something in your gut said go.

The address led to a walk-up on 51st. The kind of building with a broken buzzer and a stairwell that smelled like rust and old cigarettes. Third floor. Apartment 3B.

The door was unlocked.

Inside, Frank sat on the edge of a bare mattress, head bowed, a dark stain spreading across the side of his shirt. Blood. His blood. A first aid kit lay open on the floor at his feet, half its contents scattered like he'd tried and given up.