Before the war ended and before the world called him The Punisher, Frank Castle was a legend.
A former top CIA field operative and Marine Corps instructor, Frank's record was the stuff of myth.
He'd earned the Medal of Honor, the Navy Cross, three Silver Stars, and four Purple Hearts.
Even Nick Fury, that old one-eyed spymaster, once called him a Level 10 Agent — the highest combat value assigned to a single human operative.
Frank wasn't good at making money. If it weren't for the government's hush-hush "retirement commission," he probably couldn't have supported his family.
Otherwise, he wouldn't have been playing with his wife and kids in some forgotten park the day everything went to hell.
But when it came to combat — when it came to killing — Frank Castle wasn't just an expert.
He was a damn Grandmaster.
The Setup
The target: a villa spanning about 800 square meters, three floors, and possibly a basement.
When Owen laid out the blueprint on the table, Frank barely glanced at it before assigning positions to the seven gunmen accompanying him.
He didn't waste words. No rousing speeches. No hesitation.
Just action.
Frank pulled four or five grenades from his tactical bag, yanked the pins, and lobbed them over the wall into the villa's courtyard — without even looking.
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
A wave of fire and shrapnel tore through the air.
Then, before the echoes had even faded, Frank moved — fast, low, lethal — charging in like a panther unleashed.
Da-da-da-da!
The M249 SAW in his hands spat out death. The kind of firepower that normally required a prone position to control.
For Frank, it was just another extension of his arm.
The First Kill Zone
Gunfire and explosions merged into chaos.
The Cent Family's guards — those who survived the grenades — scrambled in panic, running like chickens in a fox den.
Four grenades, one SAW, and seven gunmen covering the escape routes.
It was over before it began.
The Sullivan crew outside didn't even have to move much. They aimed at the pre-designated exits, pulling the triggers like clockwork.
One by one, the Cent Family's men dropped into bloody heaps.
The courtyard went silent in less than two minutes.
"Holy hell…" one of the gunmen whispered, staring in awe.
Frank's voice cut through their radios — cold, steady, commanding.
"Owen, the front yard's clear. Move to the villa. Begin Phase Two."
The comms crackled once, then went silent.
Owen blinked, then snapped back into focus.
"What the hell are you staring at?!" he barked. "Didn't you hear Mister Frank? Move to the next point!"
Funny thing about gangs — the toughest guy in the room automatically became "sir."
And after tonight, Frank Castle was the man.
Frank didn't hear any of that.
He tossed aside the SAW, picked up an M4 carbine, and kicked open the door.
Power cut.
Door breached.
Grenade thrown.
Take cover.
Roll in.
Every motion — clean, efficient, lethal.
Inside, the villa turned into a slaughterhouse.
The guards barely fired a few rounds before Frank's bullets tore them apart.
They were amateurs playing soldier.
He was the real thing.
Three minutes later, the ground floor fell silent.
Frank slid his dagger across the throat of a wounded gunman trying to crawl away, then wiped the blade and sheathed it in his boot.
He pulled a Remington shotgun from his back and popped the pin on a flashbang.
Clink—clatter—BOOM!
Screams erupted upstairs.
Frank, now wearing ENVG night vision goggles, moved like a ghost through the darkness.
Throat slashed. Skull crushed. Neck twisted.
Each kill was a heartbeat.
By the time one man's vision cleared enough to fight back, Frank's shotgun answered with a deafening BANG!
A slug the size of a thumb punched straight through his chest.
The boom of the shotgun echoed louder than the assault rifle earlier — brutal, final, and unmistakable.
And for anyone foolish enough to try a sneak attack, Frank's instincts kicked in faster than thought. His sidearm flashed, and another body hit the floor.
Five minutes later, silence reclaimed the second floor.
The Basement
Frank advanced to the third floor — the living quarters.
Oddly quiet.
No guards, no movement. Empty bedrooms.
Something was off.
A minute and a half later, he found it — a hidden elevator behind a bookshelf in the master suite. It led straight down to the basement.
Frank didn't trust it.
He wired two C4 charges with 30-second timers, set them inside, and pressed the call button.
As the elevator began to descend, he reloaded calmly.
Click, click, click.
Each shell slid into the Remington with mechanical precision.
RUMBLE!
The blast shook the floor, dust raining from the ceiling. A chorus of screams rose from below.
Frank didn't wait.
He fired a grappling line, hooked the frame, and dropped down the elevator shaft through smoke and flame.
Landing lightly amidst the debris, he scanned the dimly lit underground chamber.
Then his eyes widened.
"...What the hell is this?"