Frank's an early riser. He opens his eyes before the sun's properly come up over the jagged reaches of the city and he tries - hey, couch isn't bad - but his mind's already going. Red's apartment. Fisk's assholes. All his guns, his work.

So as dawn claws its way up over the buildings, the coffee's set to brewing and Frank's sitting in Red's sweatpants at the counter, intent on trying to sort out what's what but instead thinking about the last time he slept on a couch. Wondering how Amy's holding up. If Curtis and his girl are makin' do. He scrubs a hand over his face, looking at his jacket on the stool next to him. Instinct says go to ground, reassess, make a plan. Except his grounds been compromised.

He taps his phone screen awake to the headline from the Bulletin: Terrorist Attack Against Mayor Fisk's Task Force.