Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The next breath I take feels like drowning.

I gasp, sharp and messy, air dragging into my lungs like it doesn’t belong there. The light above me is blinding. Cold sheets under my skin. Beeping. Machines. My arm’s got something stuck in it.

I choke.

My throat is dry. My chest aches like it’s full of lead. I try to sit up and the pain hits hard, like a wave crashing down. Everything in my body screams don’t move.

“Sydney?”

A woman’s voice — unfamiliar. Gentle. Close.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay. You’re in the hospital. You’re safe.”

I blink up at her. She’s in scrubs. Brown eyes. Soft hands.

“You’ve been asleep for a while,” she says. “Don’t try to talk yet.”

I want to ask where my family is.
I want to ask what happened.
I want to know if I’m still dreaming.

Because I still feel it — the fire in my gut. The fear in my chest.
Lisa’s voice in my ears.

I blink again and try to speak.

“…my mom and dad?”

“Your dad is on his way,” the nurse says softly. “We called him. He’ll be here soon.”

Why are they only mentioning my dad? I think nothing of it and I nod. Or try to.

And then I wait. Eyes half-closed. Drifting in and out of sleep that doesn’t feel real. My mind still stuck in that day, replaying the sound of the shot over and over and over.

Chapter Text

Someone’s hand lands on mine. A nurse, maybe. Her face is soft and kind, but I don’t know her. She tells me he’s coming. That I’m safe. That I shouldn’t try to move.

But I don’t feel safe.

I read the sign on wall it reads
METRO GENERAL HOSPITAL JULY 25 2016

PATIENT:
Sydney Castle

I re-read the sign over and over again. The last date I remember is April 4th 2015. Over a year since I got shot. I’m 13 now, Lisa couldn’t wait for us to become teenagers. I wonder how she feels?

I’m pulled out my thoughts by the noises around me.
A door opening. Heavy steps.

And then he’s there. My dad.

He looks different but somehow the same. His eyes lock on mine like I’m the only thing in the world.

He crosses the room in two steps. I can smell the blood on his clothes before he says anything.

“Hey,” I breathe. “Daddy…”

His face crumples. Not all at once—just the eyes first, then the corners of his mouth, and then he kneels like his body can’t hold him anymore. He’s crying. My dad is crying. Frank Castle is crying.

“I got you,” he chokes out. “You’re okay now. You’re here, baby.”

I feel my own chest squeeze. “Where’s Momma?”

He freezes.

“Dad,” I say again, sharper. “Where is she?”

He doesn’t answer.

“Where’s Lisa? Frankie?”

The beeping beside me gets louder. My whole body goes cold. He’s right in front of me, but I feel like I’m falling again. Like whatever was holding me together just snapped.

He puts his hands on either side of my face, trying to anchor me. “Sydney,” he whispers. “Just breathe, okay? You’re gonna pass out.”

“No,” I say. “Tell me. Tell me where they are.”

He doesn’t lie. That’s the thing about my dad. He never lies. Not even when the truth hurts more.

“They’re gone,” he finally says. And the way his voice cracks?
I already know.

He pulls me into him like he can protect me from it, from the past, from the truth, but I know better.

My mom is dead.
Lisa. My little brother.

Gone.

Whoever got me got them too.

Chapter Text

I’ll always remember that night.

Lisa was lying across my bed like it belonged to her.
Legs kicked up. Hair in a lazy bun. One of my hoodies stretched across her arms like she didn’t just steal it from my dresser ten minutes ago.

“Seriously,” I said from the doorway. “Why is it always my clothes?”

She didn’t even look up from her book. “Because mine suck, and yours are better. Also, you never wear this one anymore.”

“I was gonna wear it today.”

“Yeah, but you didn’t.” She finally looked up. Smirked. “So technically, that makes it fair game.”

I rolled my eyes and flopped down beside her, face-first into my pillow. “I hope it swallows you whole.”

Lisa snorted. “You’re so dramatic.”

“And you’re a thief.”

She nudged me with her elbow, then gently tugged the pillow from under my face so I could breathe. Her fingers brushed my hair out of the way like she used to when I was little and afraid of the dark.

I let her.

I always did.

“Mom’s making pasta” she said. “The good kind. With the crispy cheese on top.”

“Frankie’s probably already eaten half the tray,” I mumbled.

Lisa laughed. “I caught him sneaking shredded mozzarella out of the fridge like five minutes ago. He looked me in the eye and said he was helping.”

I let out a small chuckle

We were quiet for a minute. The window was cracked open, and I could hear cars passing outside. Someone was mowing their lawn down the street. The whole world felt like it was holding its breath .

Lisa broke the silence first. She always did.

“You okay?”

I shrugged. “Yeah.”

She gave me a look.

“I just… feel weird,” I said. “Like something’s coming, and I don’t know what. Like when the sky turns yellow before a storm.”

Lisa didn’t laugh at that.
She didn’t tease me or call me poetic.

She just laid back, head on the pillow beside mine, and said, “Well, if the world ends tonight, I want to go out in your comfiest hoodie.”

That made me laugh—really laugh.

“You’re the worst.”

“You love me.”

“Unfortunately,” I muttered, but I curled closer anyway. Our shoulders touched. Our hair tangled. She didn’t move away.

Lisa had always been cooler than me. More sure of herself. Louder in rooms I shrank in. But she never made me feel small. Never made me feel like I had to be someone else.

She was just there.

On days when Dad wasn’t.
When Mom was stretched thin.
When I was quiet and closed-off and sharp.

She was there.
Lying across my bed. Stealing my hoodie. Letting me breathe.

And I never once thought I wouldn’t have a hundred more days like that.
I never thought that moment would be the last normal one.
That this would be the last time we’d lie there, side by side, in my room, just breathing the same quiet air.

If I had known, I would’ve told her.
I would’ve said it out loud.

You’re my favorite person.
I don’t know how to do this without you.

But I didn’t.
Because I thought we had time.

Chapter Text

I must’ve drifted sometime after my dad arrived and dreamed of Lisa.

When I wake up again, my dads still there.

Sitting beside me, head bowed, hands loosely clasped like he’s been waiting a long time. There’s a crease in his forehead that wasn’t there before. More grey in his stubble. More weight in his shoulders.

“Dad…”

His head lifts immediately, and something in his expression breaks apart when he sees me awake. He leans forward in the chair like he wants to pull me into a hug but doesn’t want to hurt me.

“Hey,” he says, voice low and steady. “There you are.”

It’s all I need to hear.
I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding.

“You stayed.”

“Course I did.”

I try to move, but everything in my body feels heavy and fragile. He notices and shifts, reaching for the cup on the tray and holding it steady while I sip. His hand brushes mine.

“I missed you,” I whisper.

Frank’s eyes flick away for a second, like it’s hard to hold that. “I missed you too, kid. So much.”

We fall into silence again. But it’s not uncomfortable. It’s the kind of silence that feels like a blanket — something shared, something safe.

“How long have I been here?” I ask, voice barely above a breath.

“A long time,” he says gently. “You’re healing. That’s all that matters right now.”

I nod slowly. “Okay.”

He watches me carefully, like he’s memorizing every blink, every breath. Then he shifts, rubbing the back of his neck.

“I, uh… I started working again,” he says. “At a car shop. Just fixing engines, brakes, that kinda stuff.”

I blink at him. “You did?”

“Yeah,” he says, and there’s a quiet smile behind the words. “Turns out I’m decent with a wrench when I’m not losing my temper.”

I smile, soft and small. “That’s good.”

“It’s peaceful,” he says, and I can tell he means it, even if I don’t quite believe the word fits him. “Honest work. Keeps my hands busy.”

“Do you like it?”

He nods. “I like coming home smelling like grease instead of—”

He stops himself.

“I think that sounds nice,” I say quietly.

He looks at me for a long time, and something in his shoulders eases just a little. Like hearing that matters more than he’ll say.

“Oh,” he adds, like he almost forgot, “I’ve got someone I want you to meet. Name’s Max.”

I tilt my head, confused. “Max?”

“My dog,” he says, with the gentlest smile I’ve seen from him in a long time. “Picked him up a few weeks ago. Big guy. Got a weird ear and he drools, but he’s good company.”

“You have a dog?”

Frank nods. “Didn’t plan on it. Found him one night, wouldn’t stop following me.”

I let that settle in. Frank Castle, dog owner.
There’s something quiet and good about that.

“I’d like to meet him,” I say, my voice almost shy.

“You will. He’ll love you.” He pauses. “He’s real gentle.”

“Like you?” I murmur, eyes closing.

He laughs softly under his breath. “Something like that.”

His hand is still on mine.

And even though the weight of everything we’ve lost is hovering between us, right now it feels a little easier to breathe.

Chapter Text

The days start to blur together.

Hospitals do that, erase time. The lights are always on. The hallways never sleep. Meals come on the same tray, in the same shape, at the same hour. The only difference is the clock.

And Dad.

He comes every day, but never at the same time. Sometimes he slips in just after dawn, smelling like coffee and cold air. Other times it’s late, close to midnight. With the hood of his sweatshirt still damp from rain. He never says why. Never explains where he’s coming from or what he was doing before. Just sits down in that same chair and rests his hand gently on mine.

He doesn’t talk much. Not at first.

Some days, I’m too tired to keep my eyes open. Other days I manage a smile. A word. A whisper. Eventually, though, the words start to come back.

So does the pain.

Week one of recovery is all about breathing.

My lungs ache. My side burns. The wound is healing, but it pulls with every cough, every shift in bed.

Dad says nothing when I cry. He just sits closer. Holds a straw to my lips. Brushes hair from my forehead with a hand that’s too big to be this gentle. I fall asleep to the sound of him breathing steady, calm, always close.

Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night and he’s still there, head tipped back in the chair, asleep with one hand on my arm like he’s afraid I’ll vanish if he lets go.

Week two is harder.

The doctors want me sitting up more. Moving. I hate it. Every muscle feels like it’s made of glass. I cry during physical therapy, more from frustration than pain. I don’t want to be touched. I don’t want to try. I don’t want to feel how weak I am.

Dad doesn’t push.

He just shows up later that night with a cherry danish and a bottle of ginger ale, like it’s an apology for everything he can’t fix.

“I ate half,” he admits, holding out the crumpled bakery bag. “Had to make sure it was good.”

I take the other half with shaky hands. “Still warm.”

“That’s how you know I didn’t steal it.”

I smile, barely. He doesn’t push for more.

That night, I sleep a little better.

By week three, I ask him about Max.

“Is he real?” I whisper, curled up under too many blankets.

Frank chuckles under his breath. “You think I made up a dog just to cheer you up?”

“Wouldn’t be the worst thing you’ve done.”

“He’s real,” Dad says, leaning back. “Big mutt. Looks like he lost a fight with a raccoon and a garbage truck.”

I laugh. It hurts, but I do.

“He likes peanut butter,” Dad adds. “And naps on the couch. Thinks he’s a lapdog.”

I close my eyes and picture it. “Sounds like you.”

“Hey,” he murmurs, and I open my eyes to see him watching me. “You’ll meet him. When you’re ready.”

I nod. I believe him.

Sometimes he tells me stories. Soft ones. Ones I know are edited, cleaned up. But they still sound like him.

He tells me about the shop. How he doesn’t like the other guy’s music but lets it play anyway. How he’s learned how to rebuild an alternator with one hand. How the kid who brings them lunch reminds him of Frankie always asking questions, always loud.

He never talks about Mom. Or Lisa.

He doesn’t have to. I feel it in the pauses. The places where their names should be.

Sometimes, I think I see it in his eyes when he thinks I’m asleep.

At the end of the fourth week, the nurses start talking about progress.

“You’re healing,” one says. “Faster than we expected.”

I want to be happy. I nod and thank her. But all I feel is tired.

That night, Dad comes late again. It’s raining. His hoodie’s soaked at the edges, and he smells like engine grease and wet pavement.

He brings me a hot chocolate.

“Didn’t have marshmallows,” he says gruffly, handing me the cup. “But it’s real.”

I take it with both hands. It warms my fingers. My chest.

“Thanks,” I whisper.

He nods. Looks around the room like he hates it. Then sits beside me, like always.

The lights are dim. The only sound is the rain.

I turn to him, finally, and ask, “Do you stay because you don’t want to be alone?”

He doesn’t answer for a long time. Just watches me.

Then he says, softly, “No, sweetheart. I stay because I don’t want you to be.”

I don’t cry. I just lean my head against his arm, and let the moment settle between us.

It’s not everything. But it’s enough.

Chapter Text

The therapy room is bright, wide, and smells like lemon disinfectant and rubber mats.

I hate it.

Everything here is too open. Too loud. Too awake. The therapist is nice. Her name is Jordan, and she wears scrubs with tiny golden retrievers on them. But even her smile makes me feel like I’m being watched too closely.

“Let’s start with standing today,” she says gently, “but just for a few seconds, okay?”

Frank’s standing behind me. His hand hovers near my elbow, not touching, but close enough to catch me if I fall. He never leaves the room when I do this. I don’t think he could if he tried.

I nod.

The pain doesn’t surprise me anymore. It’s like static running underneath everything. Not sharp, but constant. My legs shake a little as I push up. My ribs pull tight. My head spins. But I do it.

I stand.

Just for a few seconds.

“Good,” Jordan says. “That’s really good, Sydney.”

Dad doesn’t say anything. He just gives this small nod.

I lower back down into the chair, breath shaking.

“I’ll grab the foam roller for the hip stretch,” Jordan says. “Be right back.”

She walks across the room, and for the first time, I let my eyes drift to the TV hanging in the corner.

It’s tuned to the news. Some morning show.

The words at the bottom catch my eye first:

"PUNISHER SIGHTING IN QUEENS — POLICE DENY INVOLVEMENT"

And then the video changes. It’s grainy, shaky cellphone footage. A man in a black vest, fast, brutal. There’s screaming in the background. Someone’s bleeding. And for a second, the camera catches his face.

The screen flickers.

But I see enough.

“Wait—”

Before I can even blink, Frank moves.

He’s across the room in two strides and snaps the remote off so fast the screen cuts to black mid-sentence. The whole room seems to go silent.

I stare at the blank screen. My heart stumbles.

Dad doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t look at me.

“Who was that?” I ask quietly.

“Doesn’t matter,” he says, without even turning his head. His voice is even, but it sounds like it’s being held in place by a thread.

“You turned it off really fast.”

“Because it’s garbage,” he mutters. “News like that just makes people scared.”

I nod slowly. But something’s itching under my skin now. I glance down at my lap, suddenly colder than I was a moment ago.

Dad finally turns to look at me. His eyes aren’t angry. They’re just… tired.

“Don’t worry about it,” he says, softer this time. “You’ve got enough to focus on. You’re doing good, kid. Okay?”

I nod again, smaller this time. I don’t know what I believe.

When Jordan comes back, Dad steps away from the TV like nothing happened.

But I keep thinking about the way his hand moved fast, practiced. Like someone who’s been in a room like that before. Like someone who knows how to cut off a threat before it can reach someone they love.

I don’t ask him again.

But I tuck the moment away.

Just in case.

Chapter Text

The room is still when I wake in the morning.

Still and pale and empty.

No Dad.

No chair pulled close to my bedside. No lukewarm coffee cup. No greasy paper bag folded once and left at the foot of my bed like a quiet “I was here.”

It’s early. Maybe 6 a.m. The sky outside my window is washed out with soft, bluish light, and I can hear a nurse wheeling a cart down the hallway. A monitor beeps beside me, slow and steady. Everything feels normal.

Except he’s not here.

I sit up slowly, dragging the thin hospital blanket higher around my shoulders. My body aches in all the familiar places. The bruises are fading now, but they still bloom yellow and sickly around my ribs, and the scars tug when I breathe too deep.

He’s probably just grabbing breakfast. Or coffee.
Or maybe traffic.

I don’t let myself think anything else.

Still, when the nurse comes in to check my chart and adjust my IV, I glance behind her. As if maybe Dad will walk in with that quiet guilt on his face, muttering something about parking or the weather like I don’t notice how tightly his jaw’s always clenched.

But he doesn’t.

I wait another hour before I stop pretending I’m not waiting.

The silence starts to stretch.

I click on the little TV mounted to the wall. I flip through a few channels until I land on some old cartoon. It’s easier than the news. Easier than the way the nurse keeps glancing at the empty chair by my bed like she’s thinking what I’m thinking.

I lie back. I tell myself I’m fine.

Eventually, I fall asleep again.

I dream of Lisa.

And Frankie.
And Mom.

It’s one of those soft, blurry dreams where everything feels brighter than it ever did in real life, like the sun in Central Park, too golden to be true, and Lisa’s laugh echoing in my ears like music. She’s walking ahead of me, long-legged and confident, with that yellow sundress she always wore when she wanted attention and pretended she didn’t.

Frankie’s carrying our old beat-up cooler, the one with half the handle missing. He’s swearing under his breath about pigeons and sand getting into the food, but he’s smiling. Mom and Dad are behind me. Mom’s trying to take a photo, her voice warm and teasing.

“Smile, Syd. You’re going to want to remember this.”

I turn back, and I want to tell her I already do. I remember everything.

I remember what happened after.
The scream.
The sound.
The blood.

But in the dream, nothing bad has happened yet.

Lisa is still laughing.
Frankie is still here.
Mom is still alive.
And I feel safe.

I don’t want to wake up.

But I do.

Because the nurse shifts my pillows. Because the hallway gets louder. Because reality doesn’t care how hard I’m trying to stay asleep.

I open my eyes.

And Dad still isn’t here.

This time I don’t pretend it doesn’t bother me.

I sit up. Slowly. My heart beats faster, even though I don’t move much. I try not to think the word disappeared. That’s not him. That’s not what he does. He shows up. He always shows up.

I press the call button for a nurse, but no one answers right away.

I drink the tiny cup of water by my bed and feel the air shift around me, like the room’s a little colder now. I don’t cry. I don’t even sigh. I just stare at the blank TV screen for a while before I reach for the remote again.

I don’t know why I do it. Maybe just for the noise.

This time, I land on the news.

I don’t notice it right away. It’s a reporter standing in front of a building in Queens, bundled in a red coat, holding a mic with too much makeup on.

There are flashing lights behind her. A crowd. Cameras.

“…police confirming late last night that the man known as The Punisher was taken into custody following a late-night standoff…”

My stomach drops.

I sit forward, blood roaring in my ears.

The screen flashes to a photo, grainy and too familiar, of a man in black body armor. A white skull spray-painted across his chest. The kind of image you don’t forget, no matter how fast someone tries to shut the screen off.

The reporter’s voice is too loud now.

“…identified as Frank Castle, former Marine, previously presumed dead. Officials believe Castle may be responsible for multiple vigilante-style killings across the city over the past year”

I can’t breathe.

The blanket falls off my shoulders.

I stare at the screen, unmoving, even as my hand begins to shake.

The photo changes.

A mugshot.

It’s him. It’s him.

Dad.

I don’t say anything.

Not even when the nurse finally walks in and tells me gently that my vitals are still improving.

Not when she asks if I want to change the channel.

Not when she glances at the screen, her mouth going tight when she sees the name Frank Castle.

I just nod like I’m listening. Like I’m fine.

But inside, everything is breaking open again.

And this time, I don’t know how to put it back together

Chapter Text

It took two nurses, three phone calls, and one exhausted physical therapist who whispered “don’t tell anyone I okayed this” for them to wheel me down the hall.

Technically, I wasn’t supposed to leave my room.

Definitely not supposed to go there.

But I had asked quietly. Politely. Then not-so-politely. And when that didn’t work, I just sat in silence and stared through them until someone finally cracked and called upstairs.

They said I could have ten minutes.

I planned to take twenty.

The elevator ride was quiet. I sat hunched forward in the wheelchair, the thin hospital blanket clutched around my legs, trying to ignore the way my hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

He was just two floors down.

Frank Castle.
The Punisher.
My dad.

I wasn’t sure what I was going to say. Or if I’d say anything at all.

But after seeing his face on the news, after feeling my whole world split in half again. I knew I had to look him in the eye and make him say it.

Make him stop pretending.

The guards flanking the room gave me tight nods when we reached the security wing. One of them was tall, older, eyes too tired for how alert he had to be. He raised a brow at the nurse, then glanced at me.

“This her?”

The nurse nodded.

“She family?”

“I’m his daughter,” I said before she could answer.

He studied me a second longer. Then nodded once.

“All right. Ten minutes.”

The door opened with a hiss.

It wasn’t a cell exactly, more like a converted hospital room with extra restraints and fewer windows. Still sterile. But the light was dim, and the air was heavier.

Frank was sitting up in bed, one arm in a sling, IV lines trailing from his hand.

He looked… smaller than usual.

Not weak. But not larger-than-life either.

His head turned the second I entered. His whole body tensed.

“Syd—”

“No,” I said, sharper than I meant. My voice cracked halfway through, and I hated that it did. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“That thing where you say my name like it’s gonna fix everything.”

He went quiet.

The nurse wheeled me in further and stepped out without a word.

The door clicked shut behind me.

And then it was just us.

He cleared his throat. “You weren’t supposed to see that.”

“The news?” I asked flatly.

He nodded.

“Too bad,” I said. “You should’ve thought about that before you let yourself get arrested.”

“Syd—”

“You lied to me.”

“I didn’t—”

“You lied to me,” I repeated, louder now. My voice echoed in the small room. “Every day. Every time you sat next to me in that hospital room and asked how I was doing. Every single time you told me it was gonna be okay—”

“It is gonna be okay—”

“No, it’s not!” My hands gripped the sides of the wheelchair now. “You told me you were a mechanic.”

He winced. “That part was… kind of true.”

I laughed. It came out hard and cold.

“Are you kidding me? You’re the Punisher, Dad. You’re not changing spark plugs. You’re blowing up buildings. You kill people.”

His jaw clenched. “I kill bad people.”

“Oh, good,” I snapped. “So you’ve got a system. That makes it fine.”

“It’s not fine,” he said. “It’s never been fine. But it’s the only thing that keeps worse people from doing worse things.”

“You could’ve told me,” I whispered. My voice was shaking again, but I couldn’t stop it this time. “You could’ve just told me the truth. After everything… after losing Lisa and Frankie and Mom… I needed you. And you let me believe you were someone else.”

“I was trying to protect you,” he said

“Well look how that ended up”

He looked away at that.

The silence between us stretched.

“You know what the worst part is?” I said after a long moment.

Frank looked back at me.

“I kept thinking maybe I’d done something wrong. That you didn’t come see me that morning because you were scared to. Or because I reminded you of what you lost. I thought… maybe I wasn’t enough for you to stay.”

His face crumpled a little at that.

And for a second, I saw my dad again — not the Punisher, not the ghost who haunted newspaper headlines. Just him.

“I never left because of you,” he said hoarsely. “I left because I didn’t think I deserved to be your dad anymore.”

“Then why come back?” I asked

He met my eyes. “Because I couldn’t stay away. You’re the last good thing I have in this world Syd.”

My chest hurt in a way that had nothing to do with healing ribs.

I dropped my gaze.

“I still dream about them, about that day.” I admitted.

His voice was soft. “You were so happy that day.”

“I was.”

I looked back up at him. “But I’m not that kid anymore.”

“I know.”

“And I don’t know how to be okay with who you are now.”

“I don’t either.”

We sat in silence again.

It wasn’t comfortable.

But it wasn’t angry anymore either.

Just… hollow.

Real.

After a long minute, I shifted in my seat. “Is Max okay?”

He smiled a little, and it made something twist behind my ribs.

“He’s fine. Whined like hell when they took me in.”

“You lied about him too,” I said, but my voice was softer now.

“I didn’t lie. I just… left out the part where I found him guarding a biker gang.”

I huffed a breath that might’ve been a laugh if my throat didn’t burn so much.

Frank leaned back against the pillows. “I don’t know what happens next.”

“Me either.”

“I don’t want to lose you again.”

“You might.”

He nodded slowly. “I know.”

I looked down at my lap, fingers tracing the hem of the blanket.

“I’m not saying I forgive you,” I said. “Not yet. Maybe not ever.”

“I get it.”

“But I came here. That has to mean something.”

He nodded again.

“It means everything.”

The door opened suddenly behind me.

I turned just as the nurse poked her head in — and then paused.

“Oh—sorry. Some lawyers are here to speak to Frank.”

I blinked. “Who—?”

But before she could answer, the door swung wider.

A blonde woman stepped in first, her hair pulled back, face pale but calm. She didn’t look surprised to see me.

A man who I assume to be blind followed, sunglasses on, cane tapping softly. A shorter man walked just behind, visibly unsure if he should be here.

The blonde stepped forward.

“You must be Sydney” she said gently. “We need to talk.”

I looked back at Dad, who sat a little straighter in bed.

He didn’t look surprised either.

The room felt like it was about to shift again.

I wasn’t ready.

But I nodded anyway.

“Okay.”

Chapter Text

I had barely touched my breakfast when the knock came.

It was soft and polite, almost like the person on the other side didn’t want to startle me. But after the last few days, everything startled me.

I didn’t say anything right away. I just stared at the door.

The knock came again.

Then the handle turned.

Two people stepped inside.

A woman first the blonde one from before. She smiled gently, but didn’t step in too far. Behind her came the short man in a suit that looked like it had been slept in. His tie was crooked. His expression wasn’t.

“Hi,” the woman said quietly. “You’re Sydney, right?”

I blinked once.

“Yeah.”

“I’m Karen Page,” the woman said. “This is Foggy Nelson. We’re not here to hurt you.”

“Okay,” I said, barely above a whisper.

“We work with your dad’s lawyer,” Foggy added, his voice lower, softer. “We’re not the police. We’re not here to interrogate you. We just wanted to talk… if that’s okay.”

I glanced toward the window, then back to them.

I barely know these people.

But something in the way they stood, not too close, not pushing, made me nod once.

Karen took a careful step forward.

“You’ve been through a lot,” she said. “We won’t stay long. But… we saw you were listed as Frank Castle’s daughter. And we thought you deserved to know what’s happening.”

“I already know,” I murmured. “He’s the Punisher.”

Foggy’s face tightened. Not in anger, more like sympathy.

“Yeah,” he said. “That’s what the press is calling him. That’s what the trial will call him, too.”

I look down at my lap. My fingers twisted in the edge of the blanket. “You’re here to ask me to talk about him.”

Karen’s voice was careful. “We’re here to ask what you want to do.”

I don’t speak.

Karen tried again. “No pressure. Honestly. But if you wanted to say something — anything — about the time he spent with you these past few weeks, it might help him.”

“Help how?” Sydney asked. Her voice stayed small, but her eyes were sharp. “Help him… what? Not go to prison?”

“Help people see that he’s not just what the headlines say,” Foggy said gently. “That he came back for something. For someone. That he tried.”

“He lied to me,” I said, barely audible.

Karen nodded. “I know.”

“I didn’t even know he was alive. And then when he was… I thought—” I shook my head. “It felt like I got my dad back. But it wasn’t really him.”

“No one’s asking you to pretend,” Foggy said. “We’re not asking you to protect him. We’re just… giving you the chance to tell your side of things.”

“Even if it’s not perfect,” Karen added. “Even if it’s hard.”

I stared down at the blanket again.

“I don’t know what I’d say,” she admitted. “I don’t know if I could.”

“That’s okay,” Foggy said. “You don’t have to decide today.”

Karen stepped forward and placed a manila envelope on the tray beside the untouched breakfast. “This is just for you. Case files. Some details about what’s coming. It’s dense, but… I didn’t want you to hear about all of it on the news.”

I didn’t reach for it.

Karen also set down a card.

“If you do want to talk… or ask questions… you can call me. Anytime.”

I nodded once. Still quiet.

Foggy gave her a gentle smile. “We’ll get out of your hair.”

They turned to go, but just before Karen reached the door, Sydney said, “Did he ask you to come?”

They both paused.

Karen looked back.

“No,” she said. “He doesn’t even know we’re here.”

That answer made something in my chest ease. Just a little.

When the door shut behind them, she sat in silence for a long time.

Then, slowly, she looked down at the file.

I didn’t open it.

Not yet.

Chapter Text

I waited until the hallway was dark and the machines around me beeped softer.

Then I opened the file.

I thought it would feel like watching someone else’s life. Like reading about a stranger who happened to have my father’s face.

But it didn’t.

It felt like looking at someone I used to know. A version of him caught in freeze-frame, all teeth and rage and that cold calm that used to show up right before he'd yell at Frankie for saying something stupid again. It felt like stepping into something I didn’t ask for.

Photos. Headlines. Statements.

There were dates I recognized. Streets we walked down. I remembered one night we got ice cream on the corner of 52nd and there it was that same corner, circled on a map, bloodstained and scanned.

There were bodies. Names. Charges. “Multiple counts.” “Unlawful.” “Excessive force.”

A hundred different ways of saying: your dad is not just a liar. He’s dangerous.

I didn’t sleep much that night.

Didn’t cry either.

I just lay there trying to hold the two versions of my dad in my mind at once.

The one who read to me after physical therapy.

And the one who made people disappear.

Karen came back the next morning.

She just stood in the doorway until I nodded. Then she came in.

“Morning,” she said, casual but cautious.

“Hey.”

She sat down beside the window, not too close, but not far either. She didn’t ask if I read it.

She just said, “How’re you feeling?”

I told her the truth “Like someone hit pause on my whole life.”

She nodded. “Yeah. That doesn’t go away overnight.”

Then she asked if I wanted to talk about it.

I didn’t.

So we didn’t.

We talked about the news instead. Then about Max. Then about the sandwich they gave me for lunch that was definitely not turkey, even though the label said it was.

And then she left, just as quietly as she came.

She came back the day after that.

And the day after that.

Always when it was quiet. Always asking first.

Some days we talked about the file. About the trial. About what Dad had done or hadn’t. About what the press was blowing up and what they weren’t even touching.

Other days we talked about books. Or the Knicks. Or how weird hospital vending machines smell. Once she brought me a crossword and we did it together.

I kept waiting for her to bring up court again. To press me.

But she never did.

She just kept showing up.

Until eventually, I got used to her being there.

One afternoon, maybe a week after she first visited, we were watching reruns of some cooking competition I didn’t even like. She was sitting in the chair by my bed with her feet pulled up, a bag of gummy bears balanced on her knee.

“Y’know,” I said, poking at my Jell-O, “You don’t have to keep coming.”

She didn’t look away from the screen. “I know.”

“I’m not gonna, like break apart if you miss a day.”

“I know.”

“…Are you being paid to be here or something?”

That got a smile. She finally looked at me. “Nope.”

“So why are you?”

Karen paused, then looked down at the bag of candy.

“Frank asked me to.”

My stomach pulled tight. “What?”

“When they brought him in… before the charges, before everything got locked down… he asked me to check on you. Said you’d probably be scared. Said you’d pretend you weren’t.”

I swallowed.

“Why’d you say yes?” I asked.

Karen leaned back in the chair, voice soft. “Because I know what it’s like to lose family. And I know what it’s like to find out someone you love has been lying. And because I think sometimes the world throws people together for a reason. Even if it’s messy. Even if it hurts.”

We sat in silence for a while.

Finally I said, “I don’t know what I’m supposed to feel about him.”

“You’re not supposed to feel anything,” she said. “You just… feel. That’s enough.”

The next day she brought me a real sandwich from outside. Turkey that was actually turkey.

And after that we were kind of just a team.

Karen and me. The weirdest pair in the hospital.

She told me about her old newspaper job. About the guy she used to work with who ran off to be a priest. About how she never meant to end up in courtrooms or helping vigilantes.

I told her about Lisa. And my mom. And Frankie. And how the last thing I remember is laughing in the middle of Central Park.

I told her how I dream about that day all the time now. How I wake up before the shot. How sometimes I wish I didn’t.

She didn’t try to fix it. She just listened.

That’s why I think I let her stay.

Because she didn’t try to save me.

She just let me be someone worth staying for.

Chapter Text

I knew something was different the second I saw her face.

Karen knocked like usual. Same rhythm. Same quiet care. But when I looked up, she wasn’t alone.

Foggy stood next to her, tie straight for once, but still looking like he hadn’t slept much.

I didn’t say anything. Just nodded.

They came in.

Karen gave him a little scratch behind the ears, then sat in her usual spot. Foggy stayed standing, eyes flicking between us like he wasn’t sure where to begin.

He cleared his throat. “Hey, Sydney.”

“Hey.”

Karen leaned forward a little. “We wanted to check in. Together.”

I already knew what this was about. I didn’t say that. I just waited.

Foggy rubbed the back of his neck. “The trial’s moving fast. Jury selection’s coming. And… we still don’t know what kind of story the prosecution is going to tell about your dad.”

“And you want me to tell mine,” I said.

Karen didn’t jump in. She let Foggy handle it.

He nodded. “Only if you’re ready. Only if you want to.”

I looked down at my hands.

I’d read every word of that file. Every timeline. Every statement. Every photo. I’d listened to the things Karen hadn’t said directly, about war, about loss, about rage.

I didn’t know if my dad was a hero or a monster. I didn’t think he even knew.

But I knew the man who’d sat next to my bed every day for two weeks. I knew the way he looked at me when I caught him watching like he was trying to memorize my face in case he didn’t get to see it again.

He’d lied.

But he’d come back.

And that had to mean something.

I met Foggy’s eyes. “What would I have to do?”

He didn’t smile. He didn’t relax. He just got very serious, very still.

“You’d be called as a character witness. The defense would ask you about your time with him. What you saw. What he told you. How he treated you. The prosecution might ask harder questions, things about your family, your injuries. You’d be under oath.”

“Would I have to say he’s innocent?”

Karen shook her head. “You’d have to say what you believe. That’s it.”

I thought about Lisa. About Frankie. About Mom. About the fact that their names were printed in black ink on a death certificate now, while my dad’s name was on trial.

“I can’t lie,” I said.

“We wouldn’t want you to,” Foggy said.

I was quiet for a long time.

Karen reached into her coat and took out another envelope thinner than before. “We made you a packet. Just the stuff you’d need to know for the stand. I didn’t bring it to pressure you. Just… in case.”

I didn’t reach for it. Not yet.

But I looked at her, and then him.

And I nodded.

“I’ll do it.”

Karen exhaled, almost like she’d been holding her breath. Foggy blinked a few times too fast and smiled, soft and real.

“Okay,” he said.

Karen passed me the envelope. This time I took it.

“You sure?” she asked, quieter now. Just for me.

I nodded again. “He didn’t come back to fix things. But he came back for me. That’s the part I can tell.”

She smiled. “That’s enough.”

Chapter Text

That night, after Karen and Foggy left, I told the nurse I wasn’t tired.

That was a lie.

I was exhausted my body, bones, heart, all of it. But I wasn’t ready to let the day go just yet. Not after saying I’ll testify out loud.

I thought I’d lie awake forever, staring at the soft green light of the monitors blinking beside my bed.

But sleep came anyway.

And with it, memory.

We’re all in the apartment on 87th.

I’m five, maybe six. My legs are swinging off the side of the old couch that still smelled like pizza and Dad’s aftershave. Lisa’s beside me in one of Mom’s T-shirts, eyes wide, knees pulled up to her chest.

The front door opens.

And there they are.

Mom’s got her hair pulled back in a messy ponytail and a hospital band still around her wrist. She’s glowing in that way people always say moms glow, except it’s real. I remember thinking she looked like someone out of a movie. Dad’s behind her, careful, quiet, carrying this tiny bundle of blue.

I think I actually gasped.

Lisa did too.

“You girls ready to meet your baby brother?” Mom asked, beaming.

Dad looked at us, the first time I ever saw him look nervous. Really nervous.

“You sure you’ll be gentle?” he said, like Frankie might shatter in our hands.

I hopped off the couch before Lisa could even move. “I promise!”

Mom helped me climb up onto the edge of the bed they’d set up in the living room for her. She knelt beside me, gently adjusting the baby’s blanket, revealing this squishy, wrinkled face that looked half-asleep and slightly annoyed.

“This is Frank Jr.,” she said softly. “Your brother.”

I blinked at him. “He’s small.”

Dad huffed a laugh from behind her. “He was bigger than you when you came home.”

“No way.”

“Yes way,” Lisa chimed in, finally joining me. She reached out, her pinky grazing the baby’s tiny fingers. “He looks like a potato.”

“He’s my potato,” I whispered.

Frankie yawned, big and dramatic, and I remember the sound Mom made this tiny, overwhelmed “oh” like her whole heart was breaking just from that one sound.

“Wanna hold him?” she asked.

I must’ve nodded too fast, because Dad immediately stepped in like I was about to drop the baby. But Mom just steadied me, placing Frankie in my arms, guiding my hands.

And just like that, I was holding my baby brother.

He was warm and a little wiggly, and he made this soft noise kind of like a sigh and nuzzled into my shoulder. I swear it felt like he already knew me.

Lisa leaned her head against mine.

“You have to be nice to him,” she whispered. “Even when he cries.”

“I will,” I promised. “I’ll be the best sister ever.”

“You already are,” Mom said, kissing the top of my head.

Dad sat down on the floor beside the bed, watching us, quiet and still. His hand was on Mom’s knee, and I remember thinking it looked heavy, like he needed her to hold him in place.

Everything was warm.

Everything was good.

I woke up crying.

Quietly, just a few tears.

They were so alive in that dream.

So close I could almost reach them.

I didn’t know what tomorrow would bring, the courtroom, the questions, the weight of my words.

But right then, I let myself have the warmth of a dream, and the memory of a blue blanket in my arms.

Chapter Text

The sunlight hit me like a memory.

It was warm, and real, and loud somehow, like the whole world had been on mute behind the hospital windows and someone had finally turned the volume back up.

I hadn’t realized how small I’d made myself inside those walls.

How long I’d gone without breathing real air.

Karen was next to me, one hand on the back of the wheelchair, the other holding a large iced coffee like it was armor.

“You okay?” she asked, already crouching down a little so I could see her face.

I nodded, slowly. “Yeah. Just… give me a sec.”

We were in the little garden courtyard outside the hospital there was a rectangle of cracked pavement and a couple offers trees. There was a stone fountain in the middle and there were benches. There were birds.

And there was sky.

God, I’d missed the sky.

Karen wheeled me to the edge of the sun, letting me decide if I wanted to be in it.

I stayed right at the line. Not quite in the shade, not quite in the light.

“I forgot how good outside smells,” I said, which made her laugh.

She pulled a folded manila envelope out of her tote and didn’t hand it to me. Not yet.

Instead, she sat beside me.

“Foggy and I wrote up a few possible lines of questioning,” she said, like we were talking about the weather. “Mostly stuff from tithe defense. Stuff we can prep for. You’re not on the stand long, but they’re going to want the emotional picture. What kind of father he was to you. What you saw in the hospital. That sort of thing.”

I nodded.

“Will Matt ask about my mom and Lisa?”

“He might. But you can say you’re not ready to talk about”

“Will I have to look at him?” I asked.

Karen blinked. “Frank?”

“Yeah.”

She hesitated, just for a beat then nodded. “Most likely. He’ll be there. But he won’t be allowed to say anything while you’re on the stand.”

My throat was tight, but not with fear. With knowing. Knowing he’d see me, and I’d see him, and we’d both be carrying this version of our family no one else in the courtroom would ever understand.

“I think I want to look at him,” I said.

Karen didn’t answer that, but I saw it in her eyes, a flicker of pride. The kind that doesn’t come with compliments, just presence. Just being there.

She finally handed me the envelope.

Inside: outlines of questions. A brief for the ADA. A few transcripts from other witness prep interviews. And a short handwritten note in Foggy’s clumsy scrawl:

"You’re braver than I’ve ever had to be. I promise we won’t be too hard on you" — FN

I let the papers sit in my lap for a minute.

Karen offered me a pen.

“I can’t promise I won’t panic,” I said.

“Then we’ll take it slow,” she replied. “We have the rest of today. I’m not here to turn you into a lawyer. I’m just here to remind you that your voice matters.”

I shifted in the wheelchair, back aching, legs stiff.

“I don’t feel strong.”

“Most people who survive what you did don’t,” she said gently. “Strength doesn’t always feel like strength.”

I looked over at her, and for a moment I saw it. Something tired behind her eyes. Something lived-in. Something like mine.

“Did you ever testify?” I asked.

Karen blinked, once, and gave a small smile. “Yeah. A long time ago. It broke me a little. But I got back up.”

“How?”

“People who stayed,” she said. “And people who left but left something behind.”

I didn’t ask what that meant.

We spent the next hour reading through the questions together. Sometimes we paused. Sometimes I cried without meaning to. Sometimes I couldn’t answer at all. She never pushed.

Eventually, I rested my hand over the envelope and looked up.

“Thanks for bringing me outside,” I said.

Karen looked at me with this softness that didn’t feel like pity. It felt like choice.

“Thanks for letting me.”

Chapter Text

The courtroom is cold.

Not freezing, not bitter. But cold like a place that doesn't care how you feel.

I sit with my hands folded tightly in my lap, wrists aching from the tension.

Foggy’s voice is the first thing I hear once I’m sworn in.

“Please state your name for the record.”

“Sydney Castle.”

“And your relation to the defendant?”

“He’s my dad.”

There’s a rustle behind me, someone scribbling on a legal pad, a cough, a shift in a leather seat. The white noise of people who don’t really know you but are about to judge every word you say.

Foggy keeps his voice steady, soft. He’s not pushing.

“You’ve recently been hospitalized, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Would you mind telling the court why?”

I swallow hard. I had practiced this with Karen. Rehearsed until I could say it without crying.

“I was shot.”

“Can you detail your injuries for the jury?”

“I was shot twice in the head, 3 times in the leg and once in the abdomen.”

“Where were you?”

“In Central Park. With my family.”

“Who was with you?”

“ My Dad, My mother, Maria Castle. My twin sister, Lisa Castle. And my younger brother, Frank Castle Jr.”

“And you and your father are the only survivors ?”

A pause.

“Correct.”

Silence spreads. Wide and unmovable.

I don’t look at my dad. I can feel his presence, like a sun behind clouds.

Foggy doesn’t rush me.

“You were in a coma for over a year correct?”

I nod

“The nurses said that he visited you everyday until his arrest, is this also correct?”

I nod

“Can you describe what it felt like seeing him again after you woke up?”

I pause again, trying to decide how much of the truth to give.

“It was confusing. He looked older. Tired. But he didn’t cry or fall apart or… he just sat there. Every day.”

“During your childhood and/or more recently has he ever threaten you?”

“No.”

“Raised his voice?”

“No.”

“Hurt you in any way?”

I meet Foggy’s eyes for the first time. “Never.”

He nods, takes a breath.

“Can you describe what kind of father he was, before the attack on your family?”

I let out a breath through my nose. “He was... loud. Protective. Goofy, sometimes. When he would come home from deployment He’d pick me up, spin me around, and say, ‘Miss me, peanut?’ like he hadn’t missed a single beat.”

A few people chuckle, awkwardly. Even the judge looks like she wants to smile but doesn’t.

Foggy’s voice gets softer. “Did he ever make you feel unsafe?”

“No.”

“Even after you found out… about what he’d done?”

I pause.

“No. Not unsafe. Upset and hurt. But not afraid.”

He nods slowly. “What was it like, when you found out he was the Punisher?”

“It was like finding out your dad is a story people tell around campfires to scare each other. Only it’s real.”

“Did you feel betrayed?”

“I felt like I didn’t know anything anymore. But he… he didn’t run from me. He stayed.”

“And did he explain why he did what he did?”

I shook my head

Foggy clears his throat, eyes glassy but steady.

“One last question, Sydney. Do you believe your father is a danger to you? Or to anyone else?”

I don’t even hesitate.

“No.”

“Thank you.”

He nods, gives me the smallest, grateful smile, and steps back.

Then I hear the click of heels.

Samantha Reyes rises like smoke, controlled and slow, walking toward me in a deep red blouse like a blade wrapped in silk.

“Miss Castle,” she begins, “I’m sorry for your loss.”

I don’t answer.

“You’ve been through a great deal. But we need to get to the truth here. You say your father didn’t make you feel unsafe. But you also testified you were unaware of who he truly was. Wouldn’t you agree that makes your judgment… limited?”

“I don’t think you have to know someone’s body count to know if they love you,” I say, quietly.

A few eyebrows raise. Reyes’ lip curls, amused.

“Let’s talk about what your father did. Are you aware of the number of people he’s killed?”

“No.”

“Thirty seven. That we know of. And yet you say you’re not afraid of him.”

“I’m not.”

“But you acknowledge he’s capable of lethal violence.”

I nod. “Yes.”

“Do you believe vigilantes should be above the law?”

“No.”

“But you’re asking us to excuse one?”

“I’m asking you to look at all of him. Not just the part that made the news.”

Reyes steps closer.

“And what about your mother? Your sister? Your brother? Did they get to see this ‘whole’ version of him? Or were they casualties of his war?”

My stomach

“That had nothing to do with my dad.”

“Didn’t it?” she fires back. “Do you know who shot you? Who targeted your family?”

“No.”

“Then how can you be sure it wasn’t connected to your father’s actions?”

The air leaves my lungs. My pulse hammers in my throat.

“I can’t be sure,” I say. “But I know he wouldn’t put us in that kind of danger on purpose.”

“On purpose,” she echoes. “So it’s possible you were collateral damage.”

“I was a kid,” I snap, voice shaking now. “I didn’t choose any of this.”

“No, you didn’t,” Reyes agrees, voice softening. “But you’re here, testifying for a man who might’ve caused it.”

I blink back the heat behind my eyes. “He didn’t cause it. He survived something. Then he broke. And then he tried to make sense of it the only way he knew how.”

“And do you think that’s justice?”

“I don’t know what justice is anymore,” I whisper. “But I know what it feels like when someone sits by your bed every day, hoping you’ll wake up. I know what it’s like to see someone carry guilt like it’s welded to their bones. I know he loves me. That’s not nothing.”

Maria tilts her head. “And is that love enough to erase what he’s done?”

“No,” I say. “But it’s enough for me to sit here and tell the truth.”

Silence.

The courtroom holds its breath.

Reyes nods once and sits back down.

Chapter Text

Karen walks into my hospital room with her eyes already heavy. That’s how I know something’s wrong.

Not the kind of wrong that breaks your bones but the kind that empties your stomach before you even ask why.

I’m sitting up, half-heartedly flipping through the TV channels. I freeze when I see her face. “What happened?”

She closes the door behind her before answering.

“I wanted to tell you before you saw it on the news.”

That’s never a good sign.

I reach for the remote and shut the TV off entirely, the room going too-quiet in its wake.

Karen walks over and sits in the plastic chair next to my bed. She doesn’t take her coat off.

“Frank… lost it. In court. When he took the stand he just kinda… snapped.”

My stomach lurches. “Is anyone hurt?”

“No,” she says immediately. “He didn’t hurt anyone. But he yelled. Knocked over the defense table. Security came in. It was a mess.”

I blink. It’s not that I can’t imagine it, I can. Too easily, actually. Him, face flushed, voice like thunder, fury crackling just beneath the surface.

“And?”

Karen doesn’t answer right away.

I already know what’s coming.

“The jury came back fast. Guilty on all major counts. No room for appeal.”

The room spins a little. My fingers tighten around the blanket on my lap.

Guilty.

Like a sentence I didn’t realize I was still hoping not to hear.

Karen shifts, and now her eyes are gentler. Like she’s holding something more delicate.

“He wanted me to tell you something.”

I look at her.

“He filed a motion last week from jail, had it notarized and everything. He made me your legal guardian.”

My head snaps toward her. “Wait what?”

“It’s already been approved. Given your situation and your injuries, the court fast-tracked it. You’re still a minor, Sydney. Someone had to step in.”

I stare at her. “But… why you?”

She shrugs a little, her mouth tight.

“He trusts me. Said I’m the only one he does.”

I don’t speak for a minute.

It doesn’t feel bad, exactly. Just… strange. Like something final was decided while I was stuck behind glass.

“He didn’t tell me,” I say quietly.

“He didn’t want to put that weight on you before the verdict.”

I nod slowly, trying to breathe around the pressure in my chest.

Guilty.
Gone.
Guardian.

I blink down at the blanket and realize my hands are shaking.

Karen reaches forward, gently stilling them with hers. She doesn’t say anything like it’s okay or he did what he thought was best. She just holds my hands like that’s all she can do right now.

And maybe it is.

“I think he still sees me as a baby.”

“Maybe,” she says softly. “Or maybe he sees someone stronger.”

Silence settles between us again. Outside the window, the sun’s starting to dip behind the rooftops.

I don’t know what comes next.
But he left me something.
And for now…
I’m not alone.

Chapter Text

Dear Dad,

I don’t know how to start this letter.

Every time I try, my hand freezes halfway through the first sentence like my body still hasn’t caught up with everything my heart’s been holding.

But I guess you probably understand that feeling better than anyone.

So I’ll just start simple.

Hi.
I’m okay.

They finally took out my stitches last week. The physical therapist says I’m walking better but i’m still shaky, still slow. Karen got me these socks with grippy little bears on the bottom, and I’ve been wearing them nonstop like I’m five. I think it makes her feel better. It kind of makes me feel better, too.

The doctors came in this morning. They said I’m being discharged soon, maybe even in a few days. I guess that’s good news. It should be.

I should be excited.

But mostly, I’m just scared.

Scared of what comes next. Scared of waking up in a room that isn’t sterile and white and humming with machines. Scared of being outside again. Of breathing air that doesn’t taste like hand sanitizer and loneliness.

Mostly, I’m scared of going home when I don’t have one anymore.

Karen says we’ll figure it out. She’s been good — better than I expected. She leaves me space but never too much. Always shows up when I need her. Like she’s already decided she’s going to protect me, no matter what.

(You picked well. I won’t say that out loud. But you did.)

Still, I miss you.

And I’m mad.
And I understand.
And I don’t.

You said nothing for so long. Carried the weight by yourself like that was better than letting me help carry it too. I don’t know if I’ll ever really forgive that. But I’m trying.

I don’t know what your cell looks like or how many minutes they give you to read mail or if you’re still having those awful dreams that used to wake you up shaking. But I hope that you sleep better knowing I’m still here.

Still standing.

And when I walk out of this hospital, I’ll walk for both of us.

I love you. I hate what you’ve done. I wish I could go back. I’m proud of you. I’m still angry. I miss you so much it aches.

All of it’s true at once.

—Sydney

I stare at the letter for a long time.

It’s messy. The paper’s wrinkled where my hand shook and pressed too hard. One corner is a little damp from when I blinked too slowly and a tear smudged the ink. But it’s honest.

It’s the most I’ve said to him since the trial.
Maybe the most I’ve ever said, period.

Karen walks in while I’m folding the letter. She raises an eyebrow.

“Want me to mail it?” she asks.

I nod, handing it over like it’s something holy. She doesn’t unfold it, doesn’t peek. Just tucks it into her bag without another word.

Then she grins. “You ready for some good news?”

My stomach flips. “Am I going to like it?”

“I hope so,” she says. “They’re clearing you for discharge. Three days from now. You’re free, kid.”

Free.

The word hits me strange. Like it has too many meanings.

Karen crosses the room, taps the wall beside my bed with mock ceremony. “Better start saying goodbye to this wallpaper.”

I laugh, just a little.
Just enough.

I don’t know what my life’s going to look like outside this room.
But at least I know I won’t be walking out alone.

Chapter Text

I thought leaving the hospital would feel more like freedom.

Instead, it feels like a wrong turn. Like stepping out into a world that kept spinning without me and now I’m chasing after it barefoot, half-healed.

Karen wheels me out the front doors. I can walk, kind of, but not far without getting winded, and she insists on using the chair just this once. I let her, mostly because I don’t want to make her nervous. She’s been calm all morning, but I can tell she’s holding something in. She does that when she cares.

The sunlight hits different out here. Too bright. Too real. I blink behind the pair of sunglasses she gave me, clutching my duffel like it’s armor.

“Come on,” Karen says. “Let’s go meet your new bedroom.”

Her apartment is smaller than I expected.

It’s not fancy. There’s a scratch on the entryway floor that she swears was there when she moved in, and the kitchen faucet drips if you don’t twist it just right. But it’s clean. Cozy. Hers.

Now mine, too, apparently.

My room smells like lavender and laundry. There’s a desk in the corner, a pile of books on the nightstand, and a thick blue blanket on the bed I don’t recognize.

“You didn’t have to buy all this,” I murmur, touching the edge of the comforter.

Karen shrugs. “I didn’t. Some of it’s from storage. Some is Foggy’s mom’s fault. She’s been nesting on my behalf.”

I smile at that.

We eat dinner on the couch, it’s leftover pasta Karen made the night before. The TV plays some old sitcom neither of us is really watching. Every few bites, she asks if I need anything. I shake my head each time.

I haven’t felt this quiet in weeks.

But I also haven’t felt this safe.

That night, I wake up once around 3 AM.

The apartment is dark and silent, the hum of the city muted outside the window. I stare at the ceiling and wonder if Dad’s sleeping somewhere this quiet. If he even can sleep anymore.

I almost reach for my phone to check for news.

But I don’t.

Instead, I roll onto my side and let the weight of the blankets pull me under again.

The next morning, I wake to the sound of Karen’s voice, low and urgent, coming from the living room.

At first, I think she’s on the phone.

Then I hear the words clearly:

“—escaped last night. No sign since—no, I’m telling you, they don’t know how—”

My stomach drops.

I pull myself up slowly, limbs still stiff, and shuffle into the hall in my socks.

Karen’s standing in front of the TV.

I don’t have to ask what’s happening.

It’s all over the screen: EX-MARINE FRANK CASTLE ESCAPES FEDERAL CUSTODY.

The footage cuts between a blurry shot of the prison yard and grainy photos of my dad, looking like a ghost with fury behind his eyes.

Karen hangs up and turns to me fast.

“Sydney—”

I hold up a hand. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine.”

She’s right. My heart’s beating like a drum in my throat, and my fingers won’t stop shaking.

“How?” I whisper.

“They’re still piecing it together. Two guards injured. Frank’s gone.”

I sink onto the couch.

Karen crouches in front of me. “He didn’t hurt anyone. Not fatally. But they’re calling it a manhunt.”

“Of course they are.”

I rub my hands over my face. It’s too much. Too fast. The normal I barely stepped into is already crumbling.

“Why would he run now?” I whisper. “After all that?”

Karen’s quiet.

And then: “Because maybe he couldn’t stand the idea of never seeing you again.”

I don’t answer.

But I don’t stop shaking.

Chapter Text

I get the call just after midnight.

Blocked number. I only pick up because something in my chest twists too hard to ignore.

“Peanut.”

I don’t even breathe.

“Dad?”

“I’m okay. I’m safe. I need you to listen.”

I press my back against the wall of Karen’s tiny hallway, knees buckling just enough to hurt. The phone shakes in my hand.

“How are you calling me?” I whisper.

“Doesn’t matter. I just needed to hear your voice.” A pause. “I couldn’t leave it like that. Not forever.”

My heart pounds in my ears. I glance toward the closed door of Karen’s room. She’s asleep.

“You shouldn’t have called me,” I say, even though I don’t mean it.

“I didn’t have a choice.”

His voice sounds older than I remember. Like each word has to fight its way out of him.

“I’ve got a safe place. It’s clean, no one’s watching. You’ll be protected.”

I blink hard. “What are you saying?”

“I need you to come with me.”

My lungs stop working.

“I can’t—”

“You can,” he says. “I don’t trust anyone else to keep you safe. I’m not asking you to do anything illegal. Just… come be with me. Until it’s over.”

I press my hand to my chest. It feels like something is caving in.

“What about Karen?”

“She’ll be fine.”

I don’t answer right away.

He speaks again. “I’ll be there at 3 AM. Out front. If you don’t come, I’ll go. I won’t force you. It’s your choice.”

And then the line goes dead.

I don’t sleep after that.

I just sit on the edge of my bed with the weight of everything I’ve rebuilt pressing down on me.

Karen’s voice echoes in my head. Her steady hands, the way she made tea at night, how she always put two blankets on the couch even when I swore I wasn’t cold.

She’s safe. She deserves to stay that way.

And deep down, I know that if I tell her, she’ll do what she’s always done.

The right thing.

So I don’t tell her.

At 2:57, I slip out the door.

I don’t look back.

Frank’s waiting in an old pickup down the block. Hoodie up, engine running low.

When I slide into the passenger seat, neither of us speaks.

He just puts the truck in gear and drives.

Karen wakes to a cold apartment and a missing girl.

Within the hour, the feds have been contacted.

Karen’s placed under immediate police protection — her name flagged for risk due to her association with Frank Castle and the belief that Sydney was coerced.

But she knows better.
She knows Sydney left on purpose.

She doesn’t cry until the door shuts behind the agents and the apartment goes quiet again

Chapter Text

The next few days pass like smoke.

I remember things in flashes — cracked linoleum under my feet, the scrape of an old space heater in the middle of the night, my dad’s voice low on the phone, always careful. Always planning.

Sometimes he disappears for hours. Once for an entire day. He comes back with bruises and tension in his jaw that won’t let go. I don’t ask where he goes. He doesn’t offer.

I think he’s trying to keep me safe.
I think he’s also trying to keep something inside from detonating.

Neither of us is good at pretending this is normal.

We move again on the fourth night.

The new place is a cleaner hideout — abandoned apartment, far from the city. There’s still hot water. A mattress on the floor. Two folding chairs. My stuff I left at Karen’s is there somehow like a silent message that she’s still watching, still part of this even if she’s not in the room.

That’s the first time I break down. It’s because everything we’re doing still feels like we’re running from the fire instead of putting it out.

“I don’t want this to be our life,” I whisper into the quiet. “I wanted a home.”

Dad’s quiet for a long time. Then he says, “You still got one. It’s me.”

It doesn’t fix it.
But it’s something.

He doesn’t tell me he’s meeting Karen.

I know only because he’s gone longer than usual and comes back smelling faintly of her perfume and blood — not hers, I know that, but it still makes me flinch.

“She okay?” I ask, curled up on the mattress.

He doesn’t answer at first. He pulls off his hoodie, sits on the floor with his back to me like whatever happened between them is a wound he’s not ready to show.

“She’s not safe,” he says eventually. “But she’s alive.”

That’s all I get.
That’s all I need.

I imagine them together in the dark — two people who never stop carrying ghosts, even when they try to hold each other instead. I wonder if she cried. I wonder if he did.

They don’t see each other again after that.

He kills Schoonover the next day.

I hear it on the radio before I hear it from him. Former Marine, decorated officer, retired general — shot twice in the chest and once in the leg. Pronounced dead at the scene.

I don’t need to ask. I already know.

When he finally walks in, his hands are steady for the first time in days. His eyes aren’t.

“You said you wouldn’t kill anyone anymore,” I whisper, standing just barely on my own.

“I said I wouldn’t hurt you,” he says. “I didn’t lie.”

I don’t know how to explain the feeling in my chest. It’s not anger. It’s not pride.

It’s mourning.
It’s inevitability.

“You started the war,” I murmur.

He looks at me like he’s already deep inside it.

“No,” he says. “I’m just finishing it.”