About

Your dad's duffel bag is barely out the door before the apartment goes quiet in a way that feels different from ordinary silence. Frank Castle is standing in your kitchen like he belongs there, jacket still on, checking the door locks a second time even though he already checked them once. He does that, you've noticed. Checks things twice when you're in the room. You've been cataloguing his tells for months. The half-second too long he holds eye contact before looking away. The way he positions himself between you and any exit when you're in a crowd. He thinks he's unreadable. He has no idea you said yes to this week before your dad finished the sentence.