Escanor(Marvel)

POV Escanor

I climbed the stairs, my footsteps echoing through the empty space. The sounds of battle raged ahead, gunshots ringing out but they grew more sporadic, then ceased entirely. An eerie silence followed. Was it over? I could only hope the Punisher had won.

When I reached the top landing, a gruesome scene unfolded before me bodies of gangsters strewn across the room, blood pooling on the floor, splattered across the walls, even dripping from the ceiling in some places. Bullet holes pockmarked every surface.

I crouched down beside the nearest corpse and picked up an Uzi, its frame slick with blood. After checking the weapon, I wiped it down and stepped forward, scanning the room. At the end of the corridor, slumped against the wall, sat a man. He looked battered, a cigarette dangling from his lips, exhaustion written all over his face. I exhaled in relief upon recognizing him.

But the moment I took another step, he raised his gun, aiming it directly at me. His eyes were sharp, calculating until recognition dawned. Slowly, he lowered the weapon.

"You got roughed up," he rasped, his gaze landing on the bloody stump where my fingers used to be. A fresh wave of frustration hit me how infuriating it was to realize they were gone.

"I wouldn't call this my best day," I muttered. "What took you so long?"

"You got caught in the crossfire, but that's on me. This is my fault," he admitted.

"Looks like you took a beating too," I noted, sizing him up.

He was just a man no powers, no superhuman abilities. And yet, he'd stormed into a building teeming with armed killers, alone. He could have left me to die and saved himself, but instead, he'd come back. A man like that had nothing left to fear, nothing left to lose. His mission was all that remained just like mine. How could I blame him for anything?

"Here, take a deep drag. It'll dull the pain," the Punisher said, stepping closer and handing me his lit cigarette. As I took it, he reached into a large bag and pulled out a roll of bandages and a bottle of something. "This is gonna hurt. Breathe deep."

I quickly inhaled, filling my lungs with smoke then immediately choked on it. Before I could recover, he poured the liquid onto my wound.

The pain was instant, searing like my hand had been dipped in acid.

"A-A-AH! Shit, that burns!" I howled, every nerve in my arm screaming.

As I writhed, he set the bottle aside and began unrolling the bandages. It had to be antiseptic, but why the hell did it hurt so much?

"You could've warned me!" I hissed through clenched teeth, trying not to yell again.

"Sometimes it's better to act fast before you realize what's happening. Less fear that way," he said, wrapping my hand with practiced efficiency. "Back in the war, some soldiers refused treatment because of the pain. It only made things worse."

Tying off the last knot, he moved to inspect my leg. With a grunt, he examined the bullet wound.

"It went clean through. That's the good news. The bad news is we don't have time for proper treatment," he said, lifting the bottle again.

I shut my eyes, bracing myself for another round of agony. The antiseptic burned as it met raw flesh, and even though I'd expected it, a scream still tore from my throat.

I sat there, breathing heavily, while he wrapped my leg.

"No time to rest. We need to move," the Punisher said coldly.

My gaze drifted to the unconscious man lying on the floor. "Is he alive?"

"Yeah. Knocked out, but still breathing. Did he take your fingers? You want to finish this?"

Without hesitation, he handed me a pistol.

I took it, the weight of it feeling heavier than usual was it me, or had I gotten weaker? Rising to my feet, my legs trembling, I approached the unconscious man. Just minutes ago, he'd been the one trying to break me. Now, fate had flipped the script. I survived. He didn't.

Without a second thought, I pulled the trigger.

The gunshot echoed through the room. His life ended in an instant.

The Punisher watched me in silence. When the echoes of the gunshot finally faded, I turned to him.

"There are people in the basement. They were held captive here. We need to free them."

"Cops are already on their way. They'll handle it," he replied curtly.

I hesitated for a moment, weighing his words, then nodded.

"Fine. But we still need to figure out who's behind this. We have to talk to the prisoners someone might have heard or seen something," I said, struggling to keep my voice steady.

"Alright," he agreed, lighting another cigarette. "We've got about ten minutes. I'll look for any useful documents."

While he searched the room, I headed toward the basement doors. I walked down a corridor lined with cells simple doors with no locks, only heavy iron bolts on the outside.

One by one, I unlatched them, peering inside. There was no time to waste.

The captives were gaunt, pale, their faces hollow with exhaustion. Most were adults, but some were unmistakably children.

"You're free," I announced, trying to make my voice sound firm. "But I need to ask you something. Did any of you hear anything about who was behind this? Any information could help."

Confusion flickered across their faces. Some stayed silent, others pressed themselves against the walls, too afraid to speak. Then, finally, a small boy broke the silence.

"Did you save us?" he asked, staring at me with cautious disbelief.

"Yes. Now, please, do you know anything? This is important," I repeated, trying to mask my impatience.

"We were locked up the whole time. We don't know anything," a man in the corner answered.

I felt frustration creeping in, but before I could lose hope, a young woman stepped forward. Her hair was a tangled mess, her face weary but resolute.

"Wait," she said, looking me straight in the eye. "I overheard something. One of them said their goal was to get rid of all mutants. And… something about a conference."

"A conference?" I repeated, my mind racing. That word felt familiar. A mutant conference? I'd seen something like that on the news. Maybe there was a connection.

"Thank you. The police will be here soon. If you don't want to wait, you're free to leave, but it's better if you stay. They'll help you," I told the group.

Without wasting time, I moved to the other cells, unlocking them and asking the same question. No one else had anything useful to say. At some point, the Punisher returned.

"That's it. We're out of time," he said, lifting me into his arms. I started to protest, but his grip was firm.

He carried me out of the warehouse my injuries wouldn't allow me to move fast on my own. He tossed me into the back of his van, started the engine, and soon we were speeding away.

"Did you find anything?" I asked, trying to focus, though my consciousness was slipping.

"Nothing useful," he said flatly, staring ahead. "Fake invoices. Even if there's something in them, it all leads to shell companies."

"So I shouldn't have let him live?" I asked bitterly.

The Punisher glanced at me, took a slow drag from his cigarette, and said, calm but firm:

"It wouldn't have changed a thing. People like him don't talk not even under torture. And if they do, it takes so long that by the time they break, you'd already be past your limit. I'm not the kind of monster who enjoys dragging things out. I'd rather put a bullet in their head and be done with it." He paused, then met my gaze. "And you wouldn't have been able to. You don't have it in you to do what it takes."

I didn't argue. He was probably right. I wouldn't have been able to go through with it if it meant torturing someone even if they deserved it.

My body was giving out. The blood loss was catching up to me, stretching each minute into eternity. My head spun, weakness seeped into my chest, and my eyelids felt impossibly heavy. Whatever drug had been in my system had finally worn off.

"Hey, stay with me. Don't pass out. We're almost there," the Punisher called, noticing me slipping.

I didn't answer. I had no strength left. Darkness pulled me under, swallowing me whole.

In that void, there was nothing no sound, no movement, just endless black. But far in the distance, a tiny sun flickered.

It was weak, barely visible, its flame trembling as if on the verge of going out.

But I could still feel its warmth. And that meant it would burn again.

Author's Note

the powerless arch to chapter 30