"Weasel, cappuccino. Extra foam," Noah called out, adjusting the wire-rimmed glasses perched on his nose as he settled onto a barstool at Sister Margaret's.
Weasel looked up from polishing a glass that had probably never been truly clean and did a double-take at Noah's appearance.
"Since when do you wear glasses?" Weasel asked. "Your vision problems acting up from all that bullet time?"
"This isn't a medical device," Noah replied with the solemnity of someone explaining advanced military tactics. "It's a disguise."
Weasel stared at him for several seconds, then set down his cleaning rag. "Are you seriously trying to pull a Superman? Because I hate to break it to you, kid, but Clark Kent only works in comic books."
"My disguise is perfectly effective," Noah protested. "The psychological impact of altered facial accessories creates significant recognition disruption in casual observation scenarios."
"Right," Weasel said slowly. "And I suppose when women put on makeup, that's basically witness protection program levels of identity concealment?"
A woman with long, dark hair sitting at the far end of the bar looked up sharply, her eyes narrowing at Weasel's comment.
"Vanessa," Weasel said quickly, "that was just an analogy. I have nothing but respect for the cosmetic arts and female self-expression."
Vanessa. Noah glanced over at Wade's girlfriend—the woman Wade was too ashamed of his appearance to approach, despite the fact that she'd been searching for him for over a year. She was beautiful in an understated way, with the kind of face that suggested intelligence and genuine warmth rather than magazine perfection.
Wade, you magnificent idiot, Noah thought. She's been looking for you this whole time, and you're hiding because you think she'll care more about scars than the fact that you're alive.
"Since you're so skeptical of my disguise," Noah said, turning back to Weasel, "how about we make a wager? My cappuccino against your professional opinion."
Weasel's eyes lit up with the gleam of someone who'd just spotted easy money. "You're on. But how exactly do you plan to prove that a pair of glasses constitutes effective identity concealment?"
Noah scanned the bar, spotting a bearded mercenary he'd had brief conversations with over the past week. "Hey, Brock!"
The man looked over, squinting at Noah with obvious confusion. "Yeah? Do I know you?"
Noah removed his glasses with the theatrical precision of a magician revealing his trick.
"Oh, hey!" Brock's face lit up with recognition. "It's you! Man, I almost didn't recognize you there for a second."
Weasel stared at the exchange with the expression of someone whose understanding of human facial recognition had just been fundamentally challenged.
"That doesn't count," Weasel protested weakly. "Brock's been drinking since noon, and his last three brain cells are probably fighting over who gets to process visual information."
"A bet is a bet," Noah replied, settling back onto his stool. "Cappuccino. With the good coffee beans, not the stuff you serve to people you don't like."
Grumbling about the declining standards of human observation skills, Weasel began preparing Noah's coffee with considerably more care than his usual beverages received.
"While you're making that," Weasel said, sliding a black card across the bar, "you might want to take a look at your recent publicity. Congratulations, Mr. Fifteen Million Dollar Man."
Noah picked up the card, his stomach sinking as he read the bounty posting:
TARGETS: The Punisher and unidentified Korean male
DESCRIPTION: Two individuals responsible for destroying joint operation between Scorpion Organization and Russian mob
BOUNTY: $15 million USD (dead or alive)
ADDITIONAL: $500,000 for actionable intelligence leading to capture
"They got Frank's identity but not mine?" Noah asked.
"The Punisher's been operating for months," Weasel explained, setting the cappuccino in front of Noah. "He's got a reputation, a pattern, witnesses who've seen his face and lived to describe it. You, on the other hand, are apparently a ghost who looks like every other Korean guy in New York."
Noah took a sip of his coffee, appreciating the irony. His immortality and healing factor made him nearly indestructible, but his most effective protection was the simple fact that witness descriptions of him ranged from "Korean guy" to "definitely Jackie Chan."
"Speaking of ghosts," Weasel continued, lowering his voice and glancing around the bar, "I did some digging on that warehouse contract. You were right to be suspicious."
"What did you find?"
"The warehouse was rented exactly two weeks before the transaction," Weasel reported. "Temporary location, minimal security, perfect for someone who wanted easy access for surveillance. The number of people who should have known about that meeting could probably be counted on one hand."
Noah felt the pieces clicking together. "So my employer was one of the organizers."
"More than that," Weasel said quietly. "Based on the timeline and the parties involved, I think your employer was someone with access to high-level intelligence from both organizations."
"You're saying it was either Vladimir or Fisk."
"Vladimir's been tearing the city apart looking for the Punisher," Weasel observed. "Meanwhile, Fisk has been very quietly consolidating control over his dead subordinate's territory. Draw your own conclusions."
Noah stared into his cappuccino foam, processing the implications. Wilson Fisk—the Kingpin of New York's criminal underworld—had hired him to disrupt his own operation, probably intending for Noah to die in the process while providing cover for whatever larger power play Fisk had orchestrated.
"Fisk hired me to blow up his own drug deal," Noah said slowly.
"That's my assessment," Weasel confirmed. "Which means you accidentally survived something you were never supposed to walk away from. And now the man who orchestrated the whole thing has fifteen million reasons to make sure you don't stay that way."
Noah pushed his glasses up his nose, suddenly feeling less confident about their protective capabilities. "Any advice for dealing with someone who apparently plays chess with criminal organizations as game pieces?"
"Don't get caught," Weasel replied. "And maybe invest in a better disguise than prescription-free eyewear."
"My disguise is perfectly adequate," Noah protested.
"Kid," Weasel said, "you're about to find out whether Wilson Fisk's people are as easily confused by glasses as the regulars at Sister Margaret's. For your sake, I hope they have the same observational skills as Brock."
Noah finished his cappuccino and pulled out a handwritten list, sliding it across the bar. "I need these components. Take the cost out of my warehouse payment."
Weasel scanned the list, his eyebrows rising. "Gun modification supplies? I didn't know you had weapons engineering skills."
"I'm a quick learner," Noah replied. "Turns out Ultimate Marksman comes with some interesting technical knowledge."
"Planning to upgrade your arsenal?"
"Planning to survive," Noah corrected. "If Wilson Fisk wants me dead, I'm going to need every advantage I can get."
As he left Sister Margaret's, Noah reflected on how his simple mercenary career had evolved into a supernatural arms race against one of Marvel's most dangerous criminal masterminds.
At least my disguise is holding up, he thought, adjusting his glasses as he walked into the New York night.