Chapter 1
Karen Page left New York in the middle of the night.
She hadn’t packed much. A couple of bags, enough cash to get her through the first few weeks, and a burner phone she picked up at a convenience store before getting on the plane. Her old number was gone. She hadn’t told anyone where she was going. Because there was no one left to tell.
Foggy was dead. Matt—Matt was still out there somewhere, but he wasn’t the same. And she couldn’t be around him anymore, not after everything. Not after they tried and tried and she knew they would never work.
So she ran.
She was always good at that. Running. She left home as soon as she could, her brother's death was something she couldn't face that young. Leaving New York was surprisingly harder, this time she left a different body in her wake. Being in Hell's Kitchen was comfortable. Despite the death and violence on every street, she knew it well. She knew the people in the shadows fighting to make it safer, and she knew the people who liked the mess that came with the place she called home.
Saying goodbye to Ellison was hard. She had never had a job she loved as much as reporting but she couldn't take it anymore. Writing stories about broken families only reminded her of what she had lost. Ellison understood, he was good that way. Genuine in a way most people in the city weren't.
California was different. The air was lighter, the people were easier, and the weight on her shoulders dulling just enough that she could breathe. She felt like she was escaping all of her problems. And sure, she wasn't really facing her grief, but Karen had been through enough and her pain would just have to take a backburner because she couldn't take much more of it.
She found an apartment in a quiet part of town, the price didn't scare her as much as she thought it would. California was expensive but not as bad as New York. She got a job writing freelance investigative pieces that paid just enough to keep the lights on. It was boring, with no crime families or giant rings to take down, but it got her writing juice out one way or another. She told herself this was a fresh start. A way to build something new, something without ghosts.
But ghosts always had a way of finding her anyway.
The first few weeks were quiet. She kept her head down, avoided the news, and avoided thinking about what she left behind. Karen was an expert at running by now. She knew what worked and what didn't.
But at night, when the silence stretched too long and the memories crept in, she found herself scrolling through the contacts on her new phone. There was only one number saved. One she had hesitated to type in, and yet one she couldn't bear to delete.
She didn't know why she did it. Maybe because he was the only person left who wouldn’t try to fix her. Maybe because, in some strange, twisted way, she knew he would understand.
Karen: You still alive?
She stared at the screen, half-expecting no reply. It had been months since she’d seen Frank Castle. The last time, he was walking away from a city that didn’t want him anymore. Just like she had.
Her phone buzzed.
Frank: You tell me.
She let out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding. She didn't know that she was waiting for him for so long. But she felt it at that moment. Relief. Relief that the man she prayed for was alive and cared enough to respond to her.
Karen: Still breathing.
Frank: That makes two of us.
She smiled at that. She didn't know she could do that anymore.
Karen: Where are you these days?
Frank: Here and there. You?
Karen: California.
Frank: Huh. Thought you would never leave the Kitchen.
Karen: Thought you would too.
Frank: Touché.
Some nights, the messages came quick, back and forth like they used to talk when things were simpler, when she was trying to get a story out of him, when she still believed in the fight. Other nights, the silences stretched between them, but he always answered eventually. And she always replied. After a few weeks, she grew more comfortable pushing him again. Their relationship kind of relied on her pushing and him resisting but eventually giving small parts of himself to her. She wanted that back.
Karen: You ever miss it?
Frank: The city?
Karen: No. The fight.
A long pause. Then—
Frank: Sometimes.
Karen: Yeah. Me too.
Frank: What are you doing out there, Page?
Karen: Trying to live. You?
Frank: Same.
It became a habit, something steady in the unsteady rhythm of her new life. Late at night, phone in hand, waiting for the buzz of a reply, proof that she wasn’t the only one still looking for something in the dark.
Then one night, she was sitting in her bed after another long nightmare with only Foggy's face on her mind, and she did it. She just called him. The Pushier. No, Frank Castle.
She didn’t think. Just hit the button, and listened to the ring. Once. Twice. Three times.
Then—
“Page.”
His voice was rough, like he’d just woken up, or maybe he never slept at all. She swallowed.
“You picked up.”
A low chuckle. “You called.”
She didn’t know what to say. The silence stretched between them, not uncomfortable, but full. Like the things they weren’t saying mattered more than the ones they were.
“You still keeping your head down?” he asked finally.
Karen let out a breath. “Trying.”
Another pause. Then—“You eating?”
That made her smile, small but real. “Are you?”
A grunt. “Touché.”
Another silence. Then—
Karen: “We should meet up.”
She didn’t expect him to agree. She just wanted to push. But instead of resisting,
“Yeah,” Frank said. “Yeah, okay.”
And just like that, they weren’t just voices in the dark anymore.