Several miles away, a phone slammed down with purpose. General Robert Whitaker, a man who carried the weight of command with grace, was incensed. The idea that a veteran, especially one like Bobby, could be treated with such disdain was unacceptable. With swift determination, he donned his uniform, each button fastened with righteous indignation. His mission was clear: to stand by Bobby and ensure that his service, and that of countless others, was recognized and respected.

The drive to Summit Ridge was swift. As the General approached, the flags lining the street seemed to salute more crisply, aware that a guardian of the very values they stood for was near. Inside the bank, the atmosphere shifted from one of casual disregard to anticipation, as echoes of the General’s formidable presence preceded him.