Frank didn't sleep that night.
He lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling, replaying the fire, the blood, the figure who had watched it all unfold. The town seemed smaller now, fragile. Every alley, every street corner, felt like it held shadows waiting to strike.
He thought of the man on the road. The one who had warned him. And most of all, he thought of the little girl.
She had survived because of him. But others hadn't.
Frank clenched his fists. His nails dug into his palms, and his heart hammered like it would burst.
"I… I won't let them die for nothing," he whispered to himself.
The words felt strange, heavy, like they had been waiting in his chest for years. He didn't know what "them" meant exactly—people he didn't know, shadows he hadn't yet seen—but he knew he could not ignore the feeling.
It was a promise.
A promise to the dead.
He didn't tell anyone. He didn't have to. Some promises are not meant to be spoken—they are meant to shape you from the inside out.
From that night on, Frank walked differently. His steps were measured. His eyes scanned every shadow, every doorway, every street sign. He began to notice patterns in the town: which streets were safe, which corners held danger, and which buildings hid secrets.
And somewhere in the darkness of his mind, the name Spenser began to feel right. Strong. A shield against the fear that had always held him back.
The promise to the dead became a guiding light.
He didn't know how he would keep it. He didn't know if he would even survive.
But he would stand.
Because he had no other choice.
Because there he stood.