Long Island, a secluded luxury ocean-view villa.
The salty sea breeze did nothing to dispel the muggy heat.
Matt Murdock stood behind the shrubs outside the villa, lightly tapping his cane against the ground.
"No heartbeats. No breathing, either." He tilted his head, his ears twitching beneath his dark red mask. "Not even a rat stirring. It's too quiet."
Frank Castle pulled back the bolt of his M4A1, chambering a brass round with a crisp clack. He glanced at Big Daddy, Damon, who stood beside him holding a katana.
"Three months. Ever since that night at Warehouse 13, that old bastard Damico has been hiding deeper than a maggot in a sewer." Frank sneered. "Let's take a look inside."
The three covered one another as they breached the villa.
No alarms went off, and all the bodyguards were gone. The spacious living room was deathly silent. A moldy tomahawk steak still sat on the dining table.
Frank kicked open the master bedroom door on the second floor.
An overpowering, nauseating stench of decay hit them. Swarms of green bottle flies buzzed overhead.
Chris D'Amico-the rich kid who called himself "Red Mist"-lay on his back on the large bed.
A black hole marked the space between his eyebrows. Blood and brain matter had dried dark brown on the silk pillow, and his eyes bulged from their sockets. He had clearly seen something utterly terrifying before he died.
In the bathroom, Frank D'Amico lay naked beside the toilet, a gold Desert Eagle clenched in his hand. He hadn't even had time to flick off the safety.
A large-caliber bullet had blown away half the back of his head, splattering the marble walls with red-and-white gore.
"Dead at least a week." Frank prodded Damico's stiff corpse with his gun barrel, his brow knotting