After dealing with the gang members who had been guarding Curry's freezer warehouse, Robert didn't waste a second.
He quickly ducked into the shadows of the nearby alley, keeping his head low and his steps light.
The heavy truck that the Russian Ross gang had parked earlier still sat across the street, abandoned. Its engine was cold, and the street around it eerily silent.
However, the Ross gang member who had been left on lookout duty had mysteriously vanished.
Robert slowed, a slight frown creasing his brow.
"Slap!"
Before he could step out of the alley, a dark shadow fell heavily from above.
Instinctively, Robert stopped and shifted into a guarded stance.
A twisted, mutilated corpse lay sprawled in front of him.
It was the missing Ross gang lookout.
The man's limbs were grotesquely tied with thin steel wire, and from the look of the deep, bloodied grooves cutting into his skin, it wasn't done after death — he had been tortured brutally while still alive. His lifeless body now dangled loosely, like a broken puppet, from a battered streetlamp.
The sight was grim even for someone like Robert, who had just blown up half a warehouse without blinking.
Tread... tread... tread...
Heavy, deliberate footsteps echoed through the darkness.
Robert's eyes narrowed.
A towering black figure emerged from the shadows.
He was built like a tank — easily over six feet tall, with broad shoulders and an intimidating presence that filled the narrow alleyway.
As the figure approached the dim light, Robert got a clearer look.
The man's weathered face was partially hidden under the rim of a black skullcap, his jawline sharp, nose broken and healed badly from old injuries. But what caught Robert's attention immediately was the man's outfit.
A heavy black combat vest stretched across his chest — and emblazoned on the front was an enormous white skull.
Robert's heart skipped.
He didn't need a second guess to recognize the legend standing before him.
Frank Castle.
The Punisher.
Once a decorated Marine, now a relentless vigilante who hunted criminals without mercy.
After the brutal murder of his family during a gang war, Frank had waged a one-man war against all crime — an unstoppable force of cold-blooded retribution.
No superpowers.
No magic.
Just endless rage, military-grade weapons, and iron will.
Robert licked his dry lips.
This was bad luck.
Very, very bad luck.
Frank's boots stopped just a few feet away, the blood still dripping from the combat knife he held loosely in his gloved hand.
"Son," Frank said, his voice a low growl, roughened by years of violence and smoke.
"You shouldn't be wandering alleys like this. Especially not tonight."
Up close, Frank was even more terrifying — a walking storm cloud of violence and death.
Robert fought the urge to step back.
It wasn't that he was afraid of fighting.
He was more afraid of accidentally getting taught a life lesson by this literal monster of a man.
For someone like Frank Castle, Robert, looking like an eighteen-year-old scrawny high schooler, must have appeared as harmless as a rabbit.
Unfortunately for Robert, he was physically eighteen now — courtesy of his Danganronpa system, his real age matched that of a high school senior.
Against Frank, he might as well be a child.
Robert considered his words carefully.
Meanwhile, Frank's steely gaze shifted past him, eyeing the warehouse ruins and the burning debris curling smoke into the night sky.
"Tell me," Frank said coldly, wiping blood off his blade with a casual swipe across his pant leg.
"What the hell happened to Curry?"
Robert scratched his head, pretending to think hard.
"In short?" he said brightly. "We were playing cards. I threw a tantrum, set off a bomb, and... well. You can see the results."
Frank's expression didn't change.
Not even a twitch.
Only his eyes, deep and dark under the shadow of his brow, seemed to grow colder.
Robert spread his hands innocently.
"I mean, seriously, it's their fault. Who plays Landlords that badly?"
Frank's jaw tightened slightly. He wasn't following the details — but he understood two things: explosions and dead gangsters.
Still, he needed to confirm something.
He stepped closer, standing over Robert like a looming mountain.
"Clearer," Frank ordered. "Now."
Robert weighed his options.
Lying was pointless. Frank had a built-in BS detector more sensitive than any lie detector on Earth.
Shrugging, Robert pulled out the remote detonator from his pocket and dangled it lightly.
"I blew up their little party," he said plainly. "You're late. I already handled it."
Frank stared at the device in Robert's hand for a long moment.
Then, to Robert's relief, the veteran vigilante simply grunted — a sound that could mean anything from approval to 'you're lucky I'm not in the mood.'
Apparently, in Frank's moral code, blowing up criminals was acceptable behavior.
Robert internally let out a long breath.
Frank wiped his knife clean, tucked it away, and without a word, turned to leave.
Robert almost sagged in relief.
But just as Frank reached the mouth of the alley, he stopped dead in his tracks.
Robert's heart lurched.
Following Frank's sharp gaze, he saw it too — the approaching roar of engines.
A convoy of black jeeps barreled down the street, their tires shrieking as they fishtailed into position, boxing off the alley entrance.
Doors slammed open.
One after another, a dozen heavily armed men poured out.
Automatic rifles glinted under the streetlights, aimed squarely at Robert and Frank.
Robert instinctively ducked behind Frank's broad frame.
"Be careful," Robert hissed urgently. "They're after us!"
Frank gave him a sideways glance.
"Us?"
Frank's raised eyebrow said everything.
Robert laughed awkwardly, feeling Frank's unspoken judgment like a physical weight.
Technically, yes — the guys were here for Robert.
Technically, Frank had just been standing nearby.
But now?
Now Frank was just as much a target as Robert.
Robert tightened his grip on the remote detonator, ready to pull something stupid if necessary.
Frank, meanwhile, slowly rolled his shoulders, the heavy muscles shifting under his black vest.
His hand dropped casually to the sidearm at his belt.
The skull across his chest gleamed pale and ghostly under the streetlights.
A faint, dangerous smile tugged at the corners of Frank's mouth.
Robert swallowed hard.
Shit.
The real nightmare was about to start.
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