The Punisher raised his gun. He carefully observed the young man across from him. Years spent walking the edge between life and death had given him insight far sharper than that of ordinary people. With barely a glance, he could tell that the other man was his kind—or rather, even more dangerous than him.
Over years of living with a blade at his throat, The Punisher had learned one thing: those covered in muscle, looking strong and vicious, were often bluffing. He could not deny that he himself needed muscles, scars, and the stench of gunpowder that would not wash away to make himself seem invincible. It made his enemies afraid, threw them into panic, and brought them death.
But there was another kind of person. They worked hard to rein in their sharp edges, hiding every dangerous trait away so thoroughly that they looked no different from office workers cramming into the subway in the morning or college students who had stayed up all night finishing assignments. No fierce appearance, no icy aura—they looked as ordinary as everyone around them—yet they circled overhead.
Before seeing the muzzle of a gun, no one would imagine that they could kill. Even veterans who had spent most of their lives crawling through battlefields did not know when they might suddenly strike.
The Punisher tensed every nerve, his muzzle never leaving the other man's body. Through a scope, people always seemed tiny, their lives from birth to death insignificant; but sometimes they seemed immense. Focused attention made the target fill the field of vision, as if it were the only thing left in the world.
"Who are you?" he asked.
"An Assassin. Looks like you've already dealt with Kyle. I made this trip for nothing tonight." The other man's tone sounded lighthearted.
"Who