Frank learned to run before he learned to fight.
Running was survival. Running was instinct. Running was the difference between making it home and not. In a town like this, speed mattered more than strength, and awareness mattered more than courage.
The first time he ran, it was raining.
It always seemed to rain when things went wrong.
He hadn't meant to stay late that day. The sun dipped faster than expected, dragging long shadows across the streets. Frank felt it before he saw it—that tightening in his chest, the warning every kid in town learned to obey.
Footsteps.
Too many. Too close.
He didn't look back. Looking back slowed you down.
Frank bolted.
His breath burned as puddles splashed under his shoes. His heart slammed against his ribs, counting seconds instead of beats. Left. Right. Alley. Fence. He knew the town like a second skin—every crack, every shortcut, every place not to go.
"Get him!" someone shouted.
The name came then, sharp and laughing.
"Run, Spenser!"
Frank didn't know why that hurt more than the threat behind him. The name stuck to his back like a target, like a challenge he never asked for.
He jumped a broken railing, scraped his arm, and didn't slow. Pain was background noise now. Fear was fuel. The shouts faded, replaced by the ragged sound of his own breathing.
When he finally stopped, he was shaking.
He leaned against a wall, rain washing blood and dirt down his arm. His legs felt weak, but they'd carried him far enough. That mattered.
Frank slid down and sat there, head in his hands.
He hated running.
Not because it saved him—but because it proved something he wasn't ready to admit.
That he could move fast.
That he could survive.
That maybe—just maybe—he wasn't as helpless as everyone thought.
The rain slowed. The street emptied. Frank stood again, wiping his face.
He walked home quietly, but the nickname followed him.
Spenser.
He didn't know it yet, but one day, he wouldn't run.
One day, the name would mean something else entirely.