The town had grown quiet again, but Frank—Spenser now in every thought—knew better. Danger didn't announce itself. It crept. It waited. And tonight, it had arrived.
A group of older boys, bigger and crueler than the ones from his training, were harassing a street vendor near the market. They knocked over crates, shouted, and laughed at the frightened man who tried to protect his goods. People watched from windows, silent, unwilling to interfere.
Frank's stomach twisted. He had run from shadows before. He had trained to stand. Now was the moment to see what he had learned.
He approached slowly, blending with the darkness, keeping his movements quiet but deliberate. His heart pounded, but he remembered the lessons: strength is not loud; courage begins with stillness; fear only has power if you obey it.
"Hey!" he shouted suddenly, stepping into the open. His voice cracked, but it carried.
The boys turned, surprised. "Who are you?" one sneered.
"I'm someone who doesn't stand by while others suffer," Frank said, gripping his stick.
A laugh came, cruel and mocking. "And what are you going to do about it, little Spenser?"
Frank didn't answer. He moved. Not recklessly, not with anger, but with precision. One boy lunged at him, and Frank sidestepped, using the stick to redirect him into his friends. The others hesitated, confused by the boy who didn't panic, who didn't shout, who didn't run.
Then he struck—not to kill, but to stop. One quick jab, a sweep of the stick, and the leader of the group stumbled and fell to the ground, winded. Frank held his stance, ready, watching every reaction.
The boys stared at him, uncertain. They had expected fear. They had expected flight. But he did not move. He stood.
Finally, the tallest one spat on the ground and muttered, "This isn't over," before dragging the others away.
Frank let his shoulders relax, barely believing what had just happened. He had done it. He had stood.
The street vendor approached, eyes wide. "I… I don't know what to say."
"Just… be safe," Frank said quietly. No one needed thanks tonight. What mattered was that he had taken the first stand.
The night air was heavy, but Frank felt lighter. Something had shifted inside him. The boy who had run from shadows was gone. In his place was Spenser—the boy who stood when others could not.
And somewhere, deep in the darkened alleys, someone—or something—was watching.
It had taken notice.