The moon hung low over the town, pale and watchful. Frank stood on the rooftop near the square, every sense alert. Below him, the traps lay hidden in plain sight—barrels angled just right, ropes stretched across alleys, bells waiting for the slightest touch.
Tonight would reveal whether preparation truly mattered.
Leo crouched beside him, whispering, "It's too quiet."
Frank nodded. "That's how it always starts."
Then—clang.
A sharp metallic ring cut through the silence. One of the bells. Frank's eyes snapped toward the eastern alley. Movement followed immediately—dark figures slipping through the shadows, faster and more confident than before.
"They're coming exactly where the map said," Leo said, voice tight.
"Good," Frank replied calmly. "That means they think we're predictable."
The first attacker triggered a rope trap. A barrel rolled forward, forcing the group to scatter. Shouts followed—angry, startled. Another bell rang, then another, echoing through the streets like a warning heartbeat.
Frank moved.
He dropped from the rooftop with practiced precision, landing behind a stack of crates. Leo followed, staying close, exactly as trained.
"Left alley," Frank whispered. "Two of them."
Leo nodded and moved without hesitation, knocking over a prepared barrier that blocked the attackers' escape. Frank stepped out, stick raised—not wildly, not in rage, but with focus. One clean sweep forced the attackers back.
But then Frank felt it.
This attack was different. The hooded figures were adapting. They avoided certain traps. They hesitated before stepping forward. Someone had warned them. Someone was guiding them.
"Leo," Frank said quietly, "the leader is nearby. I can feel it."
As if summoned by the words, a slow clap echoed from the rooftops.
"Well done," a calm voice said. "Very well done."
Frank looked up. The cloaked figure stood at the edge of a roof, moonlight outlining their silhouette. Tall. Still. Confident.
"You've learned quickly, Spenser," the figure continued. "You turned a frightened town into a shield. That's rare."
Frank tightened his grip. "Then why attack it?"
The figure tilted their head. "Because towns like this don't deserve heroes. They grow weak, complacent. I simply remind them of fear."
"You're wrong," Frank said, stepping forward. "Fear doesn't build anything. Standing does."
For a moment, silence stretched between them. Then the figure laughed softly.
"This isn't over," they said. "Tonight was never about winning. It was about measuring you."
With a swift motion, the leader vanished into the darkness. The remaining attackers retreated, melting into the night.
The bells stopped ringing. The town slowly emerged—people peeking from windows, whispering, realizing they were safe.
Leo exhaled shakily. "We… we held them off."
Frank looked toward the rooftops where the leader had stood. "Yes. But now they know what we're capable of."
He straightened, shoulders squared. The fear that once lived in him was gone. In its place stood resolve—solid, unshaken.
Tonight, the town had not fallen.
Tonight, the enemy had not won.
And somewhere in the dark, the whisper returned, no longer mocking—but cautious:
"There he stands… and now he is a threat."