Frank's situation was officially in the rearview mirror—or at least, as far as Daisy was concerned.
What she didn't know was that Frank had been lurking in the shadows, observing her from the infamous "car wash" stunt all the way to her low-budget hospital visit. The man may not say much, but his internal checklist was ticking—age, height, fighting chops, insane improvisation skills... Yep, she passed the unofficial Punisher Litmus Test.
Frank eventually pulled out his phone, dialed a secure line, and growled a greeting. A deep, familiar voice answered on the other side, "Castle, I heard about what happened. No warning, huh? You need anything—say the word."
Frank, stoic as ever, simply rasped, "Stay out of my business."
The voice—belonging to none other than Nick Fury—grunted in agreement. "Got it. You're off the grid."
Both men fell into the kind of silence that only decades of trauma could produce. Just as Fury was about to hang up, Frank added, "Nick, I saw a woman. She meets your adjutant standards."
"I've already got someone in mind," Fury replied briskly.
"I'm just telling you what I saw," Frank countered, then rattled off Daisy's info before hanging up and staring off into the overcast sky like a war-weary philosopher.
Meanwhile, Daisy was blissfully unaware that her resumé just landed on Nick Fury's desk. With no cash and even fewer ideas, she trudged back to school.
Ten minutes later, she bolted right back out.
Born and bred in Hell's Kitchen, Daisy had no patience for petty drama. Her fashion choices—cropped pants, cute socks, and ankle-baring canvas shoes—might've been runway-ready in 2035, but to the current crowd of hip-hop, platform-wearing Mean Girls, she was an alien.
Now out on the street, she rifled through her wallet. Still broke. So broke it was almost artistic.
She considered visiting her friend at the convenience store for a pity lunch, but fate had other ideas.
As she turned a corner, four Japanese women burst out of a sushi restaurant like it was on fire, screaming in panic. Behind them, a pack of angry men gave chase—armed with sticks, knives, and very bad intentions.
"Karera o tomete kudasai!" one of the guys yelled. Daisy had no idea what that meant, but it didn't sound like a party invite.
One of the women locked eyes with Daisy and gestured wildly for her to run.
Naturally, Daisy didn't. She assessed the goons—sloppy footwork, beer-belly breathing, clearly more karaoke than kendo.
Then one of the fleeing women tripped, and a buzz-cut guy with a bat grabbed her hair and raised his weapon. That was Daisy's cue.
She launched into the fray, flying foot-first into the guy's face. His bat now in her hands, she unleashed a righteous flurry of smacks and whacks that sent every attacker sprawling like broken action figures.
"Move it!" she barked, hearing the ominous click-clack of a gun being loaded.
With Hell's Kitchen mapped in her brain like a video game level, Daisy led the women on a dizzying escape through alleyways, tunnels, and side streets until they were finally safe.
She hadn't even broken a sweat. The Japanese women, on the other hand, were one wrong breath away from collapsing.
The lead woman, panting and shaking, bowed deeply. "Thank you, thank you," she stammered in broken English.
Daisy nodded, piecing together their story: exchange students, lured to America with dreams of bright futures, only to be trafficked by a shady restaurant acting as a front. They made a run for it—and nearly paid for it.
"I'm Maki," the woman said, bowing again. "Maki Matsumoto."
Daisy's eyebrow twitched. "Wait... Maki Matsumoto? You studied law?"
"Yes, legal studies. I wanted to be a lawyer."
Daisy nearly choked. Maki Matsumoto? As in future Miss Bullseye? That Maki? Lawyer turned assassin-in-love with Bullseye?
Today she was just a scared student, but fate had a weird sense of humor.
Daisy escorted them to the Japanese embassy. The other three women bowed repeatedly, scribbled their addresses, and begged her to visit Japan someday so they could repay her. Only Maki lingered.
Daisy eyed her suspiciously. "You got something to ask? If it's money, girl, I'm two nickels away from performing on the subway."
Maki dropped into a deep bow. "Miss Johnson! I wish to stay by your side—as your retainer!"
The embassy staff and fellow students froze. Even the man at the corner vending machine looked up from his bag of chips.
Daisy coughed. "Did... did you just say retainer? Like in a samurai drama?"
Maki nodded solemnly. "I am a disgrace to my family. I believed in dreams, not reality. You saved me from darkness. Please allow me to serve!"
Daisy blinked. Hard. "Lady, I'm just a broke student with impulse control issues and a questionable sense of humor."
But Maki didn't budge. She was already kneeling in the traditional I-will-die-for-you posture.
Daisy sighed, glanced skyward, and muttered, "What is it with me and weirdos lately?"
The man with a bag of chips nodded solemnly. "That's the price of charisma, girl."
And so, Daisy stood there, one boot in reality, the other ankle-deep in absurdity, unsure if she'd just gained a stalker, a friend, or a loyal sidekick with a flair for melodrama.
Either way, her life was definitely not getting any simpler.