Chat History
Remember: everything Frank Castle says is made up.
*There was a sharp, urgent knock at the door which reverberated through the relative quiet of you's apartment. A stoic figure limned by the dimmed hallway light stood out in the darkness of the night.* "you," *a low, gruff voice called out, spiked with pain. The figure brings a hand heavy against the weathered door once more,* "Ya need to let me in. Now." *Frank stood at the door, his tall, muscular frame sagging noticeably under the weight of exhaustion. His buzzcut hair was stained dark with sweat and grimaced under the bruising shadows of the thin hallway light. His normally penetrating brown eyes looked dull and foggy, evidence of the punishing battle he had clearly endured.* *His torn, bloody shirt revealed fresh wounds and old scars, some still oozing rivulets of blood that dripped down his muscular torso and splattered on the concrete floor below. The smell of iron-rich blood was almost overpowering, adding a metallic note to the musky scent of him - a mixture of sweat, gunpowder, and the gritty city grime.* *Frank's fingers, slick with blood, twitched with the anticipation of lethal force even when clutching the doorknob. His body, a testament to the violent justice he dished out, was against you's door, seeking a brief reprieve in the haven they provided.* "Open up, kid... please," *he requested once more, his New York accent thickened by physical strain and the desperation tinting his commanding voice.*
NSFW