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A door was violently forced open, followed by the intense stomping of various sets of feet shuffling into the chaotic bustle of the suburban streets. The horizon spun briefly as Narguile Ashford’s slim frame crashed through the evening air, his worn-down dress shoes losing purchase on the grimy sidewalk.
He landed hard against two overflowing trashcans, sending a cascade of takeout containers and oily paper sprawling across the pavement. The impact knocked the cigarette off his lips, its ember trailing a lazy arc through the twilight before disappearing into a puddle with a soft hiss.
“And don’t you fucking dare come back, you motherfucker!” The manager’s voice sparked with a pathetic attempt at rage, his silhouette partly obscured by two goons in the backdoor of the Dragon House’s neon-bathed entrance.
Narguile didn’t bother raising his head, instead watching the cockroaches scuttle with urgency between the discarded fortune cookies. What a bunch of overexaggerating busybodies. All he came to do was demand the deserved hours he hadn’t gotten paid.
So what if he had snuffed out a cigarette on a customer once. And on a coworker. And on his boss. It had all been in good faith, certainly no reason to deny him his payment, much less award him this treatment. Besides, watching their skin sizzle had been the most entertainment he’d gotten since starting this dead-end job three weeks ago.
His hands traveled to his vest pocket, methodically slapping each fold until he found the familiar crumpled shape of his cigarette box. A rat squeaked and darted past his feet as he extracted the final smoke inside it, and the flame from his lighter cast hollow shadows across his gaunt features as it lit up. Coming right up, a ceremonial farewell to yet another failed attempt at employment in the cesspool called Cretierfield.
The vest and tie had been Lieta’s idea, back when he still gave a damn. Now the outfit was just another joke. A careful costume to fool the next batch of suckers into thinking he was anything more than what he’d become. Sometimes it even worked, if they didn’t stop to look too closely at his overgrown, disheveled hair; or notice how the stench of tobacco had seeped into his very pores.
It was usually his eyes what gave him away —uncaring and lightless. Windows into an empty room.
He pushed himself up, one hand bracing against the wall pointedly ignoring the suspicious wetness that soaked into his palm. The cigarette remained firm between his teeth even as he exhaled, watching the smoke dissipate into the gathering dusk. Might as well call it a day. He had some five-finger shopping to do anyway. The nicotine supplies weren’t going to replenish themselves.
Tomorrow marked seven years since Cruel took them. Seven years since he watched Lieta and Aria crumble like autumn leaves. He’d visit their graves, like always. Bring flowers stolen from someone’s garden, pretend for a few hours that he was still the man they’d loved.
Having a job or not mattered little. The world could be burning up and he wouldn’t miss that day for a visit.
Mhm. For now, he’d be merciful on this miserable joint. They better not assume it was over, though. He’d return to get what was due, even if he had to raise it down to achieve it. After all, his Punisher wasn’t the only one who knew how to leave things in ruins.
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The atrium towers pierced the skyline like a monument to the excess of human ambition, their brutalistic architecture deviating from the city’s usual aesthetic. Sheets of dark glass intersected with harsh concrete at twisting angles, creating an impression of perpetual shadow despite the morning sun. No other building in the metropolitan area reached the height these three had, let alone their presence.
Callista couldn’t contain a small shiver as they crossed the central skyscraper’s revolving door, though she was unsure if it was from the building’s aggressive air conditioning or her own apprehension instead. The lobby was like a cathedral, in clean, cold surfaces and lines almost designed to make any visitor feel insignificant in comparison.
“Did my homework, you know. On this Genessier guy?” Alain’s voice carried a forced casualness that did little to mask his growing unease. Though he was dressed in civilian clothes, his hand kept straying to his hip where a gun would normally rest. “Makes a man wonder.”
>> “What does he have to do with these Punisher things?”
She merely crossed with her head, not trusting their surroundings enough to hold such a conversation now. The air around them felt charged, somehow, as if the very walls were aware of what they were —of what they carried within them.
A security station dominated the center of the lobby, staffed by personnel whose bearings suggested special forces rather than typical guards. They were escorted to the executive elevator bank with unsettling efficiency, their names already on some invisible list. The glass capsule swiftly shot upwards with disquieting smoothness, offering vertigo-inducing glimpses of the diminishing city below.
During their ascent, Callist caught Alain stealing furtive glances at her in the elevator’s reflective surfaces. That familiar look caught her vulnerable, twisting something in her gut. It was too reminiscent of those unwanted stares in her immediate past. She knew she should probably address it someday, but right now, she was too pathetically grateful for his presence regardless of the motivation.
How could she complain when he had come at her request?
The top floor opened to an uncontested vista of endless sky, the harsh white light of the sun creating a sharp contrast to the dark wood paneling the corridor before them. And at its end stood one final obstacle —a woman who commanded attention like a blade demanded respect.
She stood in front of an obsidian door, taller than any person Callista had ever seen before. A tailored charcoal suit hugged her muscular frame, its severe lines barely softened by a blood-red silk blouse beneath. Her ash-blonde hair was pulled back in a loose chignon-haut that emphasized her rough features… And the network of scars that claimed their home there, framed between orphan strands.
A ragged crescent split her upper lip and clawed up her right cheek, stopping just shy of her eye as if something had tried to tear her face in two. Her right ear was a mangled ruin, missing its lower half as it had been bitten off. Yet these marks of violence only amplified her poise, the disfigurements becoming a loud proclamation of fierce survival.
“Deficient.” Her voice was smoke and steel, more of a warning than any sort of welcome. “Madame Wilhelmina’s time is worth more than your lives combined. And you’ve already wasted three minutes of it.” Wine-dark eyes fixed them with an unblinking stare, capable of stripping away every pretense on the spot. “The first thing you’ll do is apologize to her.”
>> “Is that understood?”
At that moment, Callista knew with bone-deep certainty that this woman could see their Punishers as clearly as they could. And it would be wise to assume everyone they encountered from here onwards would share that sight.
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