The sky above Hell's Kitchen was thick with gloom, clouds smothering any hint of moonlight. Across the Hudson River, the lights of Manhattan twinkled like distant stars, a sharp contrast to the foreboding silence that hung over West Midtown. This was the breeding ground of crime—the infamous Hell's Kitchen. To the unaware, it might seem like just another old New York neighborhood, but tonight, it was anything but ordinary.
On a deserted street nestled between old tenements and graffiti-laced brick walls, several sleek black Cadres pulled up. The screech of tires echoed against the buildings, and from each vehicle stepped armed men in dark suits. At their helm was Vladimir, a scar-faced man with eyes like frozen steel. He exuded authority and cruelty in equal measure.
Vladimir surveyed the street with cold calculation. The silence unsettled him. He motioned for his men to stay sharp as they approached an iron gate where a lone man waited.
That man was Wesley—immaculately dressed in a tailored suit, his dark-rimmed glasses catching the dim glow of a nearby streetlamp. A handful of stern-faced bodyguards flanked him, all clad in black and armed to the teeth.
"Where is he?" Vladimir snapped, his Russian accent thick with suspicion. "Where's the damn attacker?"
Wesley smiled politely, his hands clasped behind his back. "No need to be so anxious, Mr. Vladimir. As per our agreement, your cooperation has been honored. What we promised is inside."
With a silent nod from Wesley, two of the black-clad guards stepped forward and pushed open the heavy iron gate. It creaked like an old coffin lid, revealing a dimly lit chamber beyond.
The moment the gate cracked open, a thick, coppery scent spilled into the air. Blood. The metallic tang was unmistakable.
Inside, the chamber was claustrophobic—iron walls enclosed the room like a prison cell. In the center was a man bound to a reinforced chair with heavy chains around his wrists and ankles. Blood stained his body, his face bruised and battered, though his eyes burned with defiance. His muscular frame, even while restrained, was a portrait of raw power and endurance.
Wesley gestured with a soft sigh. "Behold, the infamous Punisher. It took considerable effort to bait him out, even more to bring him in alive. We lost several good men in the process."
Despite the blood and bruises, Frank Castle—the Punisher—sat upright, his head raised, and his eyes locked on the newcomers with burning contempt. If he was afraid, he didn't show it.
Vladimir stepped into the room, his lips curling into a sneer as he approached the restrained man. He studied Frank with disdain and a tinge of awe. This was the man who had decimated entire factions of the Russian mob single-handedly.
"You killed Anatoly?" Vladimir asked, his voice low but brimming with rage.
Frank's response came without hesitation. "I've killed a lot of scum. You'll need to be more specific."
A brutal fist crashed into Frank's jaw.
The crack echoed.
Blood dripped from the corner of Frank's mouth, but he didn't flinch.
Vladimir leaned in, seething. "You had help. A partner. Who is he? Where is he hiding?"
Frank spit blood at Vladimir's feet and laughed hoarsely. "You think beating me will get you answers? Do your worst, tough guy."
Another blow followed, and then another. Frank's face turned into a mess of swelling flesh and fresh cuts, but still, he refused to cry out. The chains rattled as he endured the onslaught like a soldier trained to survive the worst.
Wesley watched with detached disapproval. There was no art in brutality, only waste. Yet, he said nothing.
"You're wasting time," Frank croaked eventually, blinking through blood. "You'll never find him."
Vladimir turned back toward Wesley, fists trembling. "This isn't what we agreed. I want both attackers."
Wesley adjusted his glasses, calm as ever. "You were promised the Punisher. He is here. As for the other individual, we're still investigating."
"That's not good enough!" Vladimir shouted, grabbing Wesley by the collar. "You took our territory! You owe us! Bring me the other bastard—I want both of them dead!"
Before Wesley could respond, one of the Russians burst into the chamber.
"Boss! News! The second attacker has been spotted—"
Vladimir's eyes narrowed. "Where?"
The Russian hesitated, clearly confused. "Well... apparently, he's... voluntarily bringing himself in. Says he caught the person offering the bounty while he was taking a leak and wants to personally claim the reward."
There was a pause.
Even Frank blinked.
Wesley turned slowly toward the Russian. "He what?"
"He's... coming here. Said not to shoot. Wants the payment in cash."
Silence gripped the room. Frank shook his head, a slight smirk breaking through his beaten face.
Vladimir was the first to recover. "Is this a joke?"
Frank wheezed, chuckling. "Told you you'd never find him."
Suddenly, outside the iron gate, there was a sharp knock. Then a voice:
"Hey, is this the gang hideout? I'm here for the bounty! Got the perp right here. And, uh, I parked in a tow zone, so if we can do this quick, that'd be great."
The entire room turned to stare at the gate.
"Let him in," Wesley said, eyes gleaming with interest.
The guards exchanged confused glances but obeyed. The iron gate creaked again, opening to reveal none other than Robert—formerly known as Lu Chuang—standing there in casual clothes, a duffel bag in one hand and a Happy Fat House soda in the other.
He smiled brightly at the stunned mobsters. "Hi! Heard you were offering a fat paycheck for me? I'm Robert."
From behind him, Wade appeared, waving cheerfully. "Yeah, sorry he took so long. We stopped for churros."
Wesley stood frozen. Vladimir, jaw clenched, stepped forward. "This is the attacker? This guy?!"
Robert grinned and pointed at himself with exaggerated shock. "Who, me? Nooo. I'm just a humble courier. Brought myself in for your convenience. Five million dollars, right?"
Frank stared in disbelief. "You absolute lunatic."
Robert shrugged. "Hey, a bounty's a bounty. Split it fifty-fifty with Wade. He likes even numbers."
Vladimir glared at Wesley, who could barely hide his exasperation.
"Is this a setup?"
"No," Wade chimed in. "He really did bring himself in. Technically, it's not a lie."
Wesley massaged his temples. "I need a drink."
Robert raised his soda can. "Already got one."
And so, amidst the chaos, confusion, and a room full of criminals trying to process what had just happened, Robert stood proudly, a man who literally delivered himself for a paycheck—and planned to walk out richer.
Because in his world, logic was optional. And mission impossible? Personal delivery.
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