There he stood.
Not because he was fearless—he wasn't.
Not because he was strong—he didn't feel strong at all.
He stood because there was nowhere left to run.
Frank's boots were soaked, the cold ground biting through worn leather as smoke curled behind him like a living thing. The street was empty now. Too empty. The kind of silence that screams louder than chaos.
Someone whispered his nickname from behind shattered glass.
"Spenser…"
He hated that name once.
Now, it was the only thing keeping him upright.
Frank swallowed, fists clenched, heart pounding so hard he was sure the world could hear it. Across the street, shadows moved—slow, confident. They thought he would break.
Everyone always did.
But something inside Frank shifted.
A memory.
A promise.
A fire that refused to die.
There he stood.
And for the first time in his life, he didn't step back.