Nolan's slaughter lasted the entire night.
He wasn't even sure how many people he had killed by the time dawn threatened the horizon. His body was tired, but it was his mind that carried the heavier weight.
"Damn it, Fisk… you've hidden yourself deep," Nolan muttered, his expression grim.
He had practically wiped out every gang that dared to crawl out of Hell's Kitchen that night. Yet no one, not a single terrified survivor, had the faintest clue where Wilson Fisk the Kingpin was hiding.
It was frustrating. He began to wonder if he was approaching this the wrong way entirely. Perhaps Fisk had already severed ties with Hell's Kitchen, pulling his strings from somewhere else, far beyond Nolan's immediate reach. That would explain the silence. That would explain the emptiness.
Still, just as he was considering giving up on this method, a new lead surfaced.
Word reached him that a major drug deal was going down later that night. One of the factions involved? Fisk's men.
The corner of Nolan's mouth finally curled into a thin smile. A chance.
The deal was large, bigger than most. Two groups, at least twenty to thirty men on each side. Every one of them armed to the teeth, their bodies tense and alert.
They thought they were cautious. They thought their weapons gave them control.
But Nolan was already there, watching from above like a silent reaper.
He crouched on the edge of a crumbling platform, eyes sharp, heart steady. His killbots those mechanical monstrosities he called Slayers slipped quietly into the shadows below, forming a slow, suffocating circle around the deal.
The Delta-6 exo-suit he wore could withstand small-caliber fire, but Nolan wasn't foolish enough to throw himself recklessly into a hail of bullets. The Slayers would do the bleeding for him.
The tension in the night grew heavy. Then, without warning, the silence shattered.
Gunfire ripped through the air loud, sharp, merciless. Tracers lit up the darkness as one side of the deal crumpled under the sudden onslaught. Screams followed, men collapsing in agony.
The first barrage was devastating.
The gangsters scrambled, instinctively diving for cover, returning fire in blind panic.
And in that chaos, the attacker revealed himself.
"The Punisher…" Nolan's eyes narrowed.
Frank Castle.
He had no superpowers, no mutated gifts or divine blessings. What he did have was a soldier's body, honed through years of brutal training. He had instincts sharpened by countless firefights and wars. And he had the kind of relentless will that made men fear him more than death itself.
Since arriving in this world, Nolan had kept one eye on these so-called street-level heroes. He had studied them from afar.
But the truth was, at this point in time, most of them were still nobodies.
Jessica Jones? Just a teenager, barely an adult. Because of her earlier dealings with Nolan helping him dig into the Aryan Brotherhood she had even begun entertaining the idea of opening a detective agency. Her path had already shifted, her future uncertain.
Spider-Man? Still a kid, barely old enough to drive.
Daredevil? Rumors said he was starting to move in the streets, but it was nothing more than whispers.
And Frank Castle… the Punisher had only recently left the military. The tragedy that would define him the massacre of his family hadn't yet happened in this timeline. Not exactly. But the seeds of vengeance were already there. Nolan's actions in Hell's Kitchen had accelerated the man's descent, giving Castle something to fight for, something to kill for.
And now here he was, gunning down Fisk's men without hesitation.
That, Nolan could not allow.
If the Punisher killed them all, there would be no one left to interrogate. No one left to squeeze for Fisk's location.
The command in Nolan's mind shifted. The Slayers that had been circling the gangsters suddenly turned, their red eyes glowing as they charged toward Frank Castle instead.
Down below, Castle was a machine of his own. His face was stone, his rifle spitting death. Nolan wasn't wrong Frank's instincts were sharper than a blade.
Years of war had carved him into a predator.
But even predators bleed.
As his bullets tore through gangsters, he suddenly felt it. A disturbance. Movement in the shadows. Something was coming for him.
He reacted instantly, without hesitation. His hand yanked a grenade from his vest, pulling the pin, hurling it toward the darkness.
Boom!
The explosion shook the night.
Nolan cursed under his breath, shielding himself behind a wall.
As expected of Frank Castle. The man's battlefield sense was frightening. That one grenade had just destroyed two of Nolan's Slayers in a single blast.
But the others pressed on.
Castle's world narrowed as the shadows closed in. Shapes emerged monstrous, mechanical forms with glowing crimson eyes.
Most men would have panicked. Most men would have hesitated.
Frank Castle did not.
His rifle roared.
Man and machine clashed violently, sparks flying, bullets tearing through steel.
Meanwhile, the gangsters who had been struggling against Frank's firepower noticed the sudden shift. Another force had entered the fray. Relief spread across their bloodied faces.
"Forget the deal! We pull out now!" one shouted.
No one argued. Their numbers had already been cut in half. They weren't staying to be chewed apart.
They turned to scatter.
But Nolan's Slayers cut them off, descending on them like a pack of wolves.
And Nolan himself, clad in his modified Delta-6 suit, moved like a phantom.
He appeared in front of one gangster, a scorpion tattoo etched across the man's forehead.
"Where is Fisk?" Nolan's voice was low, dangerous.
The man froze, startled. Then his bravado cracked. "Screw you! You think I'll "
Nolan's fist drove into his gut, cutting off his words with a strangled gasp. He doubled over, coughing blood.
This wasn't a world of invincible tough guys. Pain still broke men. Fear still made them talk.
And soon enough, the words Nolan wanted spilled from the gangster's mouth.
Nolan smiled. He had it. At last.
"You can go," he said coldly, turning his back.
Relief washed over the gangster's face. He staggered to his feet, clutching his stomach, stumbling into the night.
And then
Shhhk!
A blade pierced his chest.
Slayer-1's mechanical arm skewered him clean through, lifting him off the ground.
The machine's programming had no mercy subroutines. Nolan hadn't coded forgiveness into their steel hearts.
Nolan's expression softened for only a moment. A flicker of pity.
Did the fool really think he'd be allowed to live?
Around them, the Slayers swept the battlefield clean, wiping out the last of the gangsters.
Meanwhile, Frank Castle still fought, his body battered and bleeding, but not broken. He had taken wounds, but nothing fatal. And he refused to stop.
"Damn it, whoever you are… I'll find you. I'll drag you out of the shadows!" Frank roared, voice thick with fury.
Then, just as suddenly as they had appeared, the Slayers withdrew.
Like a tide pulled back to sea, they vanished into the darkness, carrying even their broken parts with them. Within seconds, the night was silent again.
Frank stood in the aftermath, chest heaving, blood dripping down his arm. His eyes narrowed.
"What the hell were those things?"
He spat to the side, his vow already sealed in his heart. Next time, he'd be ready. And next time, he'd find the puppeteer behind those monsters.
Elsewhere, Nolan surveyed the wreckage. Seven Slayers destroyed. He let out a low whistle.
Frank Castle was no ordinary man.
He hadn't come away unscathed, but the fact that he had managed to destroy seven of Nolan's machines on his own… that was terrifying strength.
But Nolan wasn't angry. He wasn't even disappointed. The Slayers were cheap to produce, expendable. He could lose seven, seventeen, seventy it didn't matter.
Instead, his mind turned to something else.
Frank Castle.
A man with no ties. A soldier with nothing to lose. A survivor with instincts honed in blood.
Roxon Technologies needed a new head of security. Someone ruthless. Someone sharp. Someone who could hold the line when chaos came knocking.
Nolan's eyes gleamed.
Frank Castle would be perfect.
And the first seed of an idea began to take root.
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