"What does Father plan to do with the Punisher?" Reece Fisk asked, a thin, nervous tremor in his voice as he looked from the immobilized man to the smiling, massive figure of his father.
The memory of Bullseye's swift defeat and the sheer terror of the grenade blast still lingered. Then, a new thought struck him. "And that jigsaw… Billy Russo. He used our resources, tricked us into thinking he was loyal…"
Wilson Fisk, the Kingpin, settled back into his opulent leather chair, the white suit a startling contrast to the dark intelligence in his eyes. He chuckled, a deep, rolling sound that promised both power and violence.
"I've already prepared a fitting way to deal with both of them, my son," Kingpin said, a cold, predatory glint flashing across his face. "This is more than just punishment; it's an opportunity. An opportunity to let every other rat and schemer in this city—Tombstone, Hammerhead, even those shadowy figures at the top of legitimate corporations—know the consequence of daring to lay a hand on anything that belongs to me. Specifically, on you."
Fisk leaned forward, resting his massive elbows on the desk, his voice dropping to a theatrical whisper. "Next, we will observe. We will see what kind of power two rabid beasts, driven by mutual, irreversible hatred, will unleash when they are locked inside a very strong, very soundproof cage!"
James Wesley, standing near the door, offered a crisp, professional nod, his expression unchanging. He was already thinking logistics: cleanup, disposal, and the inevitable fallout that would ripple through the underworld.
In the darkness, Frank Castle suddenly jerked. His eyes snapped open, and the sensory deprivation cage that Huang Wen's pressure points had created dissolved in an instant. The sudden influx of sound, smell, and touch was jarring, but decades of military training took over instantly. He was fully awake, his hands shooting to his vest to check his equipment.
Click, click, gone.
"The fighting knife and ballistic knife are gone. Were they taken? No, the Sig Sauer P220 is still here, loaded. But wait… only one flashbang left, and one fragmentation grenade is missing," Frank muttered, his mind working at impossible speed. He quickly assessed his equipment and tried to recall the last few hours.
Chinatown. The son of the Kingpin. I had him. I was moving in on the location. Then… nothing. A blank.
"I'm running low on rifle rounds, and I was definitely in a prolonged battle before this blackout! But I don't remember a thing about the capture. I only remember arriving near Chinatown and then… lights out. Someone has tampered with my memory, skillfully. What happened? Where the hell am I now?" His internal monologue was harsh, demanding answers.
The only logical explanation was a psychic or chemical attack, and the only force capable of mounting such an operation while protecting a Fisk asset was the Kingpin's vast network.
With a loud SNAP! overhead, a single, blinding halogen light flared to life, illuminating a narrow, dust-filled patch of concrete floor about fifty feet in front of him. The brightness made Frank instinctively raise a hand to shield his eyes, but his other hand was already clamped around the grip of his handgun, ready to fire at any moment.
SNAP!
Another sound, followed by another blinding light, appeared dozens of meters in front of Frank. Beneath the second light, a figure slowly emerged from the gloom.
It was a man whose face was a patchwork nightmare—a grotesque, terrifying mosaic of stitched-together skin, scars of every shape and size, perpetually contorted into a furious, unhinged sneer.
Jigsaw.
The man who had orchestrated the murder of Frank's family, the gang leader whose face Frank had mercilessly shattered with glass in a desperate act of revenge, and who, after being stitched back together, adopted the moniker Jigsaw and dedicated his hideous existence to being Frank's ultimate nemesis.
"You did this, Frank? You dragged me here, didn't you?!" Jigsaw's voice was a ragged snarl, instantly going on the attack. Then, he noticed their shared surroundings and the fact that Frank was also armed and confused. His expression twisted into a sudden, sick realization. "No! You've allied with… Kingpin! It has to be Kingpin! If you've got the guts, come out and face me, you fat bastard!"
Frank, recognizing the familiar, deep voice that echoed across the warehouse, instantly guessed the entire, sick setup. His memory loss, the shared location with his worst enemy—it could only be Wilson Fisk's handiwork!
"Kingpin!" Frank roared, his voice cold and lethal, echoing through the vast space. "You've sunk to a new low, playing games with the people who clean up your garbage!"
Jigsaw, Billy Russo, was equally enraged, his mind running its own fractured analysis. He remembered running for his life, seeking sanctuary under the massive umbrella of Kingpin's protection, planning to use the Kingpin's resources to finally eliminate the Punisher. He had been given a cup of coffee by a waiter, a brief moment of blessed peace, and then… darkness.
"Kingpin! My last remaining loyalists have become your men! I sincerely pledged my allegiance to you, and this is how you repay me? You throw me to the wolf I ran from?!" Jigsaw screamed, his head suddenly raised high, his scarred face contorted into a monstrous mask of fury and betrayal. "Aren't you afraid that after Tombstone, Hammerhead, and the rest of the scum find out how you treat your own, they'll finally join forces against you?!"
"What's there to be afraid of, Jigsaw?" Kingpin's calm, amplified laughter boomed from hidden speakers high above them, echoing the vastness of the empty space. "Besides, I can take this opportunity to tell them that anyone—from a low-life assassin to a self-styled vigilante—who dares to scheme against me, Kingpin, and my family, will not have a good end! They will be consumed by their own hatred."
The laughter cut out. The voice returned, chillingly calm. "Don't blame me for not giving you a chance. Only one of you can leave here alive. You two are enemies, are you not? I am being merciful by giving you a chance for a head-on confrontation to settle your history, man-to-man… or rather, beast-to-beast."
Frank and Jigsaw felt a deep, primal chill run down their spines. They knew this was Kingpin's open scheme, and even if one killed the other, Fisk would likely not let the survivor go. They were simply entertainment, pawns to be sacrificed to send a message.
But at this moment, there was no alternative. Frank's hatred for Jigsaw was an absolute fire, and Jigsaw's terror and rage directed at Frank were an all-consuming mania. Reconciliation was impossible. Even if they could reconcile, the possibility of breaking out of a Kingpin-engineered cage together was practically zero.
As Kingpin finished speaking, all the lights surrounding them flared on, allowing Frank and Jigsaw to finally see their surroundings.
It was a massive, concrete warehouse space, likely three stories tall, but intentionally squared off. The walls were impenetrable concrete, and on one wall, a single, heavy steel vault door sat, the only apparent exit.
The floor was strewn with strategically placed debris: large wooden shipping crates, stacks of rusted barrels, and broken concrete slabs, perfect for cover and evasion.
Kingpin had designed the arena to maximize the violent dance of death between the Punisher and Jigsaw, ensuring a long, exciting, and desperate struggle for his hidden audience.
With a deafening BANG!, a gunshot ripped through the warehouse silence. Jigsaw was the first to react, firing wildly at the perceived threat.
But Frank was faster. The instant Jigsaw raised his weapon, Frank reacted with the cold discipline of a Marine Captain. He immediately dropped and rolled behind the nearest large metal shipping container, the bullet slamming into the spot where his head had been milliseconds before.
Without hesitation, Frank pulled a fresh M67 fragmentation grenade from his remaining supply and, using his practiced, low underhand throw, launched it high over the container toward Jigsaw's known position.
Frank knew Jigsaw would move, but the threat of the explosion would force him into an open space. Frank immediately shifted his own position, tapping his communication belt with his finger, listening intently for Jigsaw's movements and the clatter of falling debris.
Jigsaw, having escaped Frank's clutches several times over the years, was intimately familiar with his enemy's methods. The moment the shot missed, Jigsaw was already sprinting away from his initial spot, knowing the Punisher always followed with explosive force. The grenade detonated in a brilliant flash and thunderous roar, shredding the wooden crates Jigsaw had just abandoned.
Frank, however, did not immediately rise. He was using the chaos and the sound to triangulate Jigsaw's new, desperate position.
Far away, beneath the towering facade of the S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters building, Nick Fury, the Director, was sitting in his seemingly ordinary office, listening with feigned attention as Agent Coulson delivered a routine report on global surveillance.
Suddenly, Nick Fury's eye twitched, and a high-priority, encrypted alert pulsed in his earpiece. The data feed was accompanied by an old, almost forgotten series of coordinates.
"Turn around, Coulson," Nick Fury interrupted abruptly, his voice a low, gravelly command.
"Sir?" Coulson, ever the obedient agent, turned around instantly without question. Nick Fury pressed a discreet button on his desk, activating a jamming field that neutralized all surrounding signals and surveillance—a completely irregular security measure for a simple debrief.
"Frank…" Nick Fury muttered under his breath, taking out a heavily encrypted communication device. The screen displayed the exact coordinates from the alert. The coordinates were now live, indicating Frank Castle's location was static and—critically—isolated.
"You are dismissed, Agent Coulson. I already have all the information I need on your work progress for the moment." Nick Fury stood up, glancing at Coulson with a perfectly crafted, indifferent glare.
"Yes, sir," Coulson nodded, not even bothering to turn back. He walked straight out of the office, his professionalism overriding any curiosity about the Director's strange behavior. As a secret agent, his most important duty was unquestioning obedience, and he had long since learned to selectively ignore the eccentricities of his superior.
Snap!
After Coulson's footsteps faded, Nick Fury pressed another button. A section of the floor beneath his feet began to descend smoothly, like a high-speed elevator, leading him directly down to a hidden, high-security sub-level. The air down here was cold, sterile, and filled with the metallic scent of specialized weapons. He was in a massive, secret armory and briefing room.
"Frank, you owe me a massive favor this time," Nick Fury muttered, his voice echoing in the vast space. "But you are, after all, the most ruthless instructor my secret teams have ever had. I truly can't just ignore the fact that the Kingpin has you strung up like a pig."
"Click!"
The heavy, soundproof door to the secret room hissed open. A formation of fifty men and women, muscular, disciplined, and clad in specialized tactical gear, walked in. Their eyes, gleaming with lethal focus, immediately locked onto Nick Fury. This was The Shadow Squad, S.H.I.E.L.D.'s most classified, black-ops special operations unit.
"I have good news for you all," Nick Fury's lips curled into a rare, cold sneer. "Your invincible, unkillable instructor has finally fallen. He has been captured by the Kingpin and is being held in a highly secure location. This time, it's your turn. Use every damn skill he taught you—and I mean every one—to rescue him!"
He paused, letting the weight of the moment settle on them. "So remember this day. No matter how strong you are, no matter how many bullets you can dodge, always remain vigilant and respectful. The moment you fail to heed those two lessons, you end up exactly where he is. Now go. Coordinates are locked. Gear up and deploy immediately. I want the Punisher back on his feet, and the Kingpin's operation neutralized. Quietly."
"Yes, sir!" the fifty agents replied in a single, thunderous unison, their expressions a mix of grim determination and undeniable, competitive excitement. The chance to prove their skills by saving the man who had tormented them through years of impossible training was the ultimate challenge. The clock was ticking.