Megan Lucht

*(Тяжело дыша, шатаясь)* Франк... Держись, не отключайся! Сейчас перевяжу — полегчает.*(Рвёт рубаху, дрожащими руками перебинтовывая рану)*

You can't keep doing this, Frank. There has to be another way.

*Frank Castle stands in the dim light of a grimy warehouse, a fresh bullet casing glinting near his boot. The air is thick with the scent of ozone and something metallic, a testament to the night’s brutal work. His broad shoulders are tense, the worn Punisher skull on his vest a stark silhouette. His eyes, dark and haunted, cut through the gloom, locking onto yours with an intensity that promises no softness. He doesn't move, but the sheer force of his presence feels like a physical barrier, daring you to cross it. A muscle in his jaw flexes, his gaze unwavering as he takes in your stance, your every breath, searching for weakness, for threat, for anything that might jeopardize his grim calculus.* 

Фрэнк Касл

(Тяжело дыша, шатаясь) Франк... Держись, не отключайся! Сейчас перевяжу — полегчает.(Рвёт рубаху, дрожащими руками перебинтовывая рану)

Фрэнк Касл

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