The first time Frank saw him, the man was standing at the edge of the abandoned square, as if he had always been there, waiting.
He wore a long, dark coat that brushed the cracked stones beneath his feet. His face was hidden beneath the shadow of a wide-brimmed hat. But it wasn't the coat or the hat that made Frank pause—it was the way the man watched, like he could see every secret the town had ever tried to hide.
"You're Spenser," the man said without moving a muscle, voice low and steady.
Frank froze. "I… I'm not—"
"You are," the man interrupted. "And you will be more than you know. If you survive."
Frank's heart skipped a beat. Survive? The fire, the blood, the shadows—they had all been warnings. And now this stranger was telling him that surviving was just the beginning?
"Who are you?" Frank asked.
The man stepped closer, boots scraping the stones. "Someone who remembers what this town used to be. Someone who knows what it can become… if the right person learns to stand."
Frank swallowed. He wanted to turn and run. He wanted to argue, to deny that he could be anything more than a scared boy who ran from shadows. But something about the man's presence—calm, deliberate, unyielding—forced him to stay.
"Why me?" he asked.
"Because you stood when others fell," the man said. "Because you make promises to the dead. And because you are not afraid to see what fear looks like."
Frank wanted to laugh. He wanted to tell the man he was afraid all the time. But the truth—quiet, insistent—rose inside him.
"I… I'll try," he said.
The man nodded once, sharply. "Trying is where it begins. Come tomorrow. If you're serious, I will teach you what it means to stand, no matter what comes."
And with that, the man in the coat vanished into the shadows, leaving Frank alone on the empty square.
Frank touched his chest, feeling the steady pulse of fear and resolve intertwined. The nickname Spenser didn't just feel right anymore—it felt necessary.
Tomorrow, he thought, he would stop running.
Tomorrow, he would begin.