At first, when the muscle-bound bouncer heard someone came in for a car wash, he didn't think much of it. Business is business, right? But when he turned around and saw the customer was a woman—in the middle of two mobsters mid-negotiation—his brain did a full blue screen. Seriously, what kind of woman strolls into a Russian gang meet-and-greet to wash her car? Either she's fearless or a few fries short of a Happy Meal.
His instincts screamed "not normal" and told him to get his weapon ready. Unfortunately for him, Daisy was already halfway through turning him into a cautionary tale.
With the force of someone annoyed they missed breakfast, Daisy flung the car door open—DUANG!—right into the guy's face. If she hadn't worried about denting the rental, she might've knocked his head clean off. He stumbled like a drunk trying to find the exit, but before he could say "vodka," Daisy zapped him in the neck with her trusty stun gun. Lights out.
She nudged him over with her toe, checked for weapons, and all he had was a brass knuckle. Useless. Not even worth a pocket. She rolled her eyes and turned to the five other goons.
"So… car wash, yes?" she asked innocently.
James Wesley, still dressed like he'd just come from a TED Talk on laundering money, stepped back with a raised brow. Even the thin Russian guy running the deal was briefly stunned.
"I don't care who sent you, get out," Thin Guy hissed, clearly trying not to hyperventilate.
The surrounding muscle moved in with the subtlety of a Broadway chorus line. Chains, bats, knives—like an armory fell into a Halloween shop.
"Paranoia much?" Daisy muttered, before darting left. One of the bald brothers (and there's always a bald brother in a Russian gang, it's like a requirement) came at her with a chain. But his technique was... let's call it 'improvisational.'
Daisy juked him with a feint, rushed past, and gave him a farewell kick to the rear that sent him flying into his own teammates like a makeshift bowling ball. She used the momentum to charge straight at James Wesley, who looked like he just realized brunch was canceled.
She kicked him in the gut—gently and snatched the pistol from his coat. M1911, seven bullets. Nice taste. Collector's edition.
"Is this vintage? Mr. Wesley, you spoil yourself," she teased, then pointed the gun at him. "Tell your boys to wash my car. Now."
"Are you insane?!" Wesley barked. The Russians just stared. Even in their line of work, this was weird.
The thin man did some quick mob math: Wesley dies = Kingpin flips out = war. Car wash = weird day, but survivable.
"Wash her car," he sighed, visibly aging five years in the process.
The Russians obeyed. Inside, they saw the blood-splattered back seat and grimaced. Still, they sprayed, scrubbed, and replaced the upholstery like pros. Not even a CSI team could find a trace when they were done.
Daisy gave Wesley a little nudge with the gun. "Get in the car. Five-star service, no?"
Wesley grumbled something in legalese, but got in. Daisy, now practically broke, didn't mention payment and they didn't ask. A win for the budget.
As she drove off with Wesley, he studied her. "You're wearing a mask because I've seen you before, right?"
Daisy ignored the question. "You're smart, Mr. Wesley. Multilingual, savvy, capable. Why not go corporate? Why the gang life?"
He raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.
"Imagine this—sunlight, bonuses, media love. Ever thought about going legit?"
He stared at her, confused. What headhunting firm leads with kidnapping and electrocution?
"What's your deal?!" he finally asked.
"Just chatting. Driving is boring," she replied cheerfully.
Once out of sight of the gang, she gave him a one-way ticket to Napville with a stun zap, then dumped him gently on a sidewalk bench. She thought about recruiting him—talented guy, unfortunate employer—but between his loyalty to Kingpin and her own net worth of $4.78, she passed.
She wiped her prints off the pistol, slipped it back into his jacket, changed the plates, hit a respectable car wash for cosmetic touch-ups, and finally returned the rental.
Her funds? Let's just say her wallet wept.
Taking the bus (because gas money was a myth now), she checked in on the future Punisher. Maybe he'd be awake. Maybe he'd thank her with some cash or at least a sandwich.
But the apartment was empty.
Frank was gone. No heartbeat vibes, no note, not even a crust of toast.
"Recovered already? Not suspicious at all," Daisy muttered, stepping out into the street with a shake of her head.
She really needed a new side hustle. Maybe something with less blood.