God has indeed not reached down his hand. Nothing Frank has met yet has ever smote him. And still, as they both make their way through the ranks, those bodies that the Daredevil leaves unconscious and broken - Frank doesn't come back to clean them up. He knows better but he leaves them to sort their own sins with their maker. Maybe they'll understand they were spared by a better hand. Maybe they won't and he'll find them later, send them to hell where they belong.

Despite that; it's always worth it. A few rounds of ammo, a few less shitbags waving their cocks around on the street like they're worth something.

He ignores the familiarity of the space as he steps into Red's apartment through the patio door. This isn't home, isn't real. It's like a safe house - enough, for now. A place to expand, for a while. Not forever. Red's at the counter already, white box in hand. "Aw honey, you waited up."

Frank's alright, the cops were too confident and too off-guard to be much of anything at close-quarters. He's got a graze on his shoulder that cauterized itself at range, a bruised knee that'll need ice, a busted lip. But getting the drop on them turned the tables. Frank looks at the coffee maker and then lets it go. "Shame I missed out on the little red number, though."