Chapter 20
Karen hadn’t said much.
But she hadn’t needed to.
Frank could hear it in her voice — the way her breath hitched when she said Matt’s name. Not with love, not with longing. Just… history. Concern. Something that still lived inside her, like a scar that hadn’t quite stopped itching.
Frank didn't like jealousy, so he tried his best to hide it. But there was an ache in his chest that was craving the care she was showing for Red.
“Fisk is mayor,” she had said, quiet like the words hurt to say aloud. “He’s got the whole city in his pocket, and now Matt—he’s hurt. He’s outnumbered. He’s still fighting but… Frank, he can’t do it alone.”
Frank hadn’t spoken right away. Had just stared at the wall, jaw clenched so hard it ached. He would help her, he would always help her. He would never say no to Karen Page. But god damn did it hurt to hear her in so much pain over another man. Fuck.
“You want me to go back,” he said finally.
“I want you to keep him alive.”
He’d nodded, even though she couldn’t see it.
And then, softer: “You’re the only one I can call.”
That part cut the deepest.
Because no matter what happened between them, no matter how messy the goodbye, she still reached for him when the world burned.
And he still answered.
New York was colder than he remembered.
Not in temperature, but in tone.
The city was rotting.
Frank could smell it the second his boots hit the pavement.
Hell’s Kitchen hadn’t changed — it had just grown worse. The decay wasn’t just in the brickwork or the busted neon lights. It was in the people. In their eyes. The way they moved too fast or not at all. The way they looked over their shoulders even in daylight.
He used to walk through these streets like a ghost. Now, the ghosts were all that was left.
And Fisk —
Jesus Christ, Fisk was mayor.
Frank hadn’t believed it until he saw it with his own eyes. Posters everywhere. “Rebuilding New York” like some goddamn empire slogan. Cops who looked more like mercs. Cameras mounted on every corner.
The city felt different now. Off. Like someone had sucked the oxygen out of it and left nothing but rot.
People walked faster. Kept their heads down. Didn’t talk unless they had to.
The streets weren’t safer. Just quieter.
Too quiet.
And Frank knew what that meant — people weren’t talking because someone had taught them not to.
Someone had made them afraid again.
It wasn’t just Hell’s Kitchen anymore. It was his city now. And Matt? Shot. Bleeding. Alone. He had never been the biggest fan of Red. Their ideologies on how to handle the scum on the streets were more similar than Matt wanted to admit and Frank wanted to push him to the point of no return.
He saw something in Matt, hope.
That infuriated Frank more than he was willing to admit. How dare he sit on his high horse and think he could save these people, these scum. They needed to go, and Matt didn't know how to handle business.
Frank stood in the empty apartment contemplating his life decisions. Here he was, in Matt Murdocks fucking apartment, because his ex-girlfriend (which still hurt to say) asked him for a favor. Frank was a bitch, to say the least.
He saw more patrols than usual — not NYPD, not really. These were hired suits. Private security. All wearing sleek uniforms and bulletproof vests with Fisk’s stupid “Rebuild NY” patch stitched into the shoulder like a flag.
It was like a version of New York he thought he'd already buried. One he bled to protect, died to defend.
And now it was back. Dirtier. Meaner.
It made his blood boil.
Frank needed this, he needed anger. It was the only thing distracting him from calling Karen and begging her to leave the damn city.
But he didn't, so instead he got pissed.
Frank sat in Matt Murdock’s apartment, lit only by the pale blue hue of an emergency light from across the street. The fridge door creaked closed as he leaned on the kitchen island, unmoving, listening.
Footsteps at the door. Steady. Controlled.
Of course Matt would hear his heartbeat. Probably already knew who it was before the knob even turned. Still, Frank stayed silent.
He wanted to see what kind of welcome he’d get.
The door creaked open. A beat of tension. Then—
“You’re pretty much the last person I expected to find here.”
Frank rolled his eyes.
“You know you’re a real wall-to-wall asshole, right?” he said, voice gravel-rough. "Power goes out, you got nothing to make a goddamn pot of coffee in this house."
He smirked without meaning to. Couldn’t help it. His mind flickered, uninvited, to Tuesday nights in that rundown café with Karen. The way she always teased him for being grumpy until he had his first sip.
Everything reminded him of her.
He pushed the thought away, buried it under steel and noise.
Matt didn’t laugh. He never did. But there was a shift in the air — a familiarity, a begrudging tolerance. Like old injuries aching in the same room.
Frank busied himself checking the rounds in his gun.
They traded a few more barbs (one about Frank's new haircut that he refused to admit he got for his ex-girlfriend) before the tone shifted — Matt’s voice low, edged with something serious.
“I thought this wasn’t your fight.”
Frank stilled. The question sat heavy between them.
He drew in a slow breath, heat crawling up his chest. Karen’s voice echoed in his head — “He can’t do this alone.”
Yeah. That was the moment everything changed.
He kept his voice even. “Yeah, well. I got a phone call that changed my mind.”
Matt tilted his head, that half-smirk half-glare look he always wore. “Care to be more specific?”
Frank shut the chamber with a click. “No, I do not.”
A pause.
“I made a promise I was gonna get you out of here alive. That’s what I’m gonna do.”
Matt sighed. "Northwest side of the house, there's a van full of sh¡t bags. You clocked that?"
"Yep." Matt said while groaning softly.
He leaned forward, voice sharp now. “I’ll tell you right now — they come up here, I’m not playin’ patty cake with these fanboys. I’m choppin’ ‘em up, you understand me?”
He didn’t sugarcoat it. He didn’t need to. The rage had been building in his chest for weeks — coiling, writhing. He needed release, and this was it.
Matt gave a short breath. “I’m not sure I want that kind of help, Frank.”
Frank’s eyes locked on his. Cold. Honest.
“Well,” he said, loading another round, “that’s the kind of help you’ve got.”
A metal battering ram slams the hinges, and three men surge in — Kevlar vests, tactical gear, AR-15s raised.
Frank moves first.
Like a storm.
One round to the leg — the first man drops screaming. Frank’s already halfway across the room when he swings the butt of his rifle into the second guy’s jaw, knocking teeth loose with a crunch.
Matt flips the coffee table just as bullets rip through the drywall. It crashes into the third man’s shins, sending him tumbling backward.
Before the merc can recover, Matt’s on him — one punch, then two. His knuckles bleed. His lip splits open. He doesn’t stop.
One of them tosses a flashbang. Matt flinches. Frank doesn’t.
He throws his body over Matt, shielding him as the light and sound explode behind them. Dullness rings in their ears, but Frank’s muscle memory takes over.
He grabs the dropped gun, rolls, and fires down the hallway — three shots, three hits. Legs. Arms. Not lethal. Not yet.
They fall back, regrouping. Frank yells over his shoulder, “Window, Red. Now.”
Matt doesn’t argue.
They move in sync — practiced, messy, but effective. Frank provides cover fire as Matt dives out onto the fire escape. The second wave’s coming fast — heavier armor, gas masks, night vision.
Frank grins.
He likes the challenge.
Frank’s knuckles were split open, dark blood smeared across the side of his neck. One eye was swelling shut, and his shirt clung to him — soaked in sweat, and more than a little blood. None of it slowed him.
Matt wasn’t faring much better. He limped slightly, ribs probably cracked, blood crusting along the edge of his temple. But he was upright. Breathing. Alive.
The alley was dim, the hum of streetlights buzzing like static overhead. Trash clung to the wind, and the city, despite the chaos they'd just left behind, didn’t stop moving around them. Somewhere, a siren wailed in the distance. A reminder: this war never ended.
Then—
Headlights.
Bright and sudden, cutting through the dark like twin spotlights. They both turned instinctively, hands twitching toward weapons.
The car rolled to a stop in front of them, low and quiet. Familiar.
Frank narrowed his eyes into the beams.
And then he saw her.
The door opened, and Karen Page stepped out into the yellow pool of light from a flickering streetlamp. Her hair was down, and her face was flushed. Her eyes scanned the street fast, sharp — but the second they landed on Frank, everything in her face softened.
She didn’t even glance at Matt at first — didn’t need to. She’d come for one reason.
Frank swallowed, the ache in his chest dull and low.
She was here.
For him.
“Jesus,” she said, striding closer, her voice taut with worry.
Frank didn’t respond. He couldn’t. Not when the look on her face was so goddamn full of feeling — of relief, of anger, of care she hadn’t been able to shake even after everything.
Matt looked between the two of them, and a confused look rose on his face.
Karen’s eyes flicked to Matt, just for a second — a subtle check for injury — before locking back on Frank.
“Come on, get in,” she said, already opening the passenger door like there was no room for argument. “Now.”
Frank hesitated.
It wasn’t the car. Wasn’t the pain.
It was the gravity in her voice. Like the space between them still mattered. Like maybe it always would.
But he knew the look in her eye. She was begging him.
And for the first time in what felt like forever, Frank Castle moved not toward war, but toward her.
He slid into the back seat without a word.
Karen got behind the wheel, hands tight on the steering wheel.
Matt opened the front door, climbed in slowly. “Thanks for the ride,” he muttered.
Karen didn’t respond.
Her eyes were still on Frank.
And Frank?
He just looked ahead, jaw clenched, heart loud in his chest.
She came for him.
And he didn’t know what that meant yet.
But he wanted to find out.
"How’s it look?" Matt’s voice cut through the silence from across the room.
Frank, furious to the point of numbness, barely registered the question. He was stitching up his own wounds, his hands trembling with both anger and pain, while Karen sat with Matthew Fucking Murdock.
"Well, you’ve been prettier," Karen’s voice floated over to him, dry and unbothered.
Damn it.
Frank jabbed the needle through his skin, wincing, the pain sharp enough to ground him for a moment. He could hear their conversation in the background, floating between the tension of the room.
"What's going on? You called Frank, huh?"
"Uh-huh. Poindexter escaped. Called Frank and hopped on a plane." Karen's tone was confident, but Frank could hear the faint strain in it—the little wrinkle in her voice that betrayed her nerves.
She didn’t mention it, but he knew she hadn’t told Matt about them. That they were something more than just this partnership they had with each other. They were a secret, and it hurt in a way Frank couldn’t describe. He understood why she hadn’t—hell, telling your ex about your other ex would be complicated—but the quiet ache in his chest didn’t go away.
He groaned softly as the needle slipped through skin once more.
"You couldn’t call me?" Matt’s voice was tight now, as though frustrated.
"I needed someone to look out for you. You definitely wouldn’t have liked that." Karen’s voice softened, but she quickly shifted her attention back to Frank. "You okay over there?"
"Never been better," Frank muttered, sighing. He didn’t know what else to say. Not with Matt here. Not when they weren’t alone.
"Come on. Let me take a look." She moved toward him, her gaze softening with concern, but Frank refused to let her in. He downed a couple painkillers, hoping it would dull the frustration, and shook his head.
"Nah."
A long silence followed, but Karen didn’t look away. Her eyes stayed on him, and Frank broke first, feeling the familiar crack in his resolve.
"You know, Karen," he began, trying to force some lightness into his voice, "nothing in this world a good cup of coffee can’t fix. You want one?"
It wasn’t much, but it was a peace offering. A weak one, but he wasn’t brave enough to do anything else, to actually apologize for the things that had happened between them.
"Uh, no thanks." She shot him a knowing look, the one that told him she saw right through his bullshit. She wasn’t letting him off the hook so easily.
Frank sighed and nodded, trying to shrug off the sting. "How about you, Red? You want some coffee?"
"Got any oat milk?" Matt’s voice interjected, breaking the moment.
They both chuckled, the tension easing for just a second, before business came back to the forefront.
"I think there’s something in the motion he was about to file," Matt said, his tone shifting to that all-business mode. "He was moving to dismiss the case, and Vanessa made sure he never got to it. I think maybe I missed something back then."
"You know, the files have been in storage as far as I know," Karen responded, her voice cool and professional.
"That’s right. Will you be my eyes?" Matt’s words were almost an order, but Frank didn’t have the energy to care.
"Hey, anytime," Karen said, smiling at Matt.
It felt like a knife to Frank’s gut. He could feel the jealousy creeping up, sour and bitter in the back of his throat. If he wasn’t careful, he might just throw his coffee cup across the room.
"Let’s go," Matt said, heading for the door. "You comin', Frank?"
Frank's jaw clenched. He couldn’t be part of this. He wasn’t going to be the third wheel to whatever was happening between them. It would break him.
"Got shit to do," Frank muttered, his voice hard.
"Fisk will be coming for you, too," Matt said, a quiet warning.
"That right?" Frank scoffed. "Tell you what. If he does, I’ll put a bullet in his fat head. How about that?" He didn’t care anymore. He was done. "You guys can show yourselves out."
Matt walked out without another word, but Karen lingered, her gaze still fixed on him. Frank turned to pour himself a cup of coffee, his hands steady as he tried to ignore the emptiness that was settling in his chest.
"You know what, Frank?" she said, her voice quiet but pointed. "I’m not buying it."
He didn’t look up from his coffee, but his heart rate spiked. "What’s that supposed to mean?"
"I don’t believe you don’t care," she said, the words biting. She knew him too well, knew when he was lying to himself.
Frank clenched his fists around the mug, but he couldn’t bring himself to argue. He wanted her forgiveness, but he wasn’t ready to give her what she asked for.
"Hey, Karen. You asked me for a favor. I did it."
She stood at the door for a beat, her eyes holding his. "Yes, you did. Thank you."
And then she was gone.
As she walked away, Frank whispered, almost to himself, "Stay safe."