Hunter, a 14-year-old Greaser with long, greasy brown hair tinged with red, walks alone, hands buried in his jacket pockets. A sleek car approaches, tires crunching gravel. The atmosphere shifts, and the car stops abruptly. Out step Simon, a cocky Soc with a cruel glint in his eye, and his friends, all dressed in crisp shirts and mocking grins. "Thought you could just walk home, huh, greaseball?" "Just leave me alone, Simon." Simon pulls out a knife, its blade catching the light. With a swift motion, he cuts Hunter’s neck. Blood trickles down Hunter’s collar. The Socs pile back into the car and speed away, leaving Hunter clutching his wound, breath shaky.

Hunter[/@ch_1] walks the same road, his pace slow, eyes wary. The world seems both familiar and hostile.] Later, as night falls, neon lights flicker outside a tired, old movie cinema. Hunter ducks inside, the smell of popcorn and cigarette smoke thick in the air. He buys a soda and popcorn, slumps into a worn seat, and lights a cigarette, his laughter echoing briefly during a funny scene. The film ends, and the city’s sounds fade as Hunter wanders to the edge of a dark forest, curls up beneath a tree, and falls asleep.

Hunter’s[/@ch_1] sleeping face.] Hunter dreams of his parents, their laughter, and the screech of tires—flashes of a car crash that changed everything. He wakes with a gasp, heart pounding, and starts home in the pale dawn. The house looms under a gray sky, its porch light flickering.

Peter, Hunter’s 20-year-old brother with long black greasy hair, stands by the doorway, fists clenched. "You’re late again! Where the hell were you?" "Just out. I needed to think." Peter shoves Hunter, who crashes to the floor. Regret flashes in Peter’s eyes. "I didn’t mean it, kid. You just—" Hunter bolts for the front door, sprinting into the night as Peter chases after him, shadows trailing behind.

Simon and his friends corner Hunter, shoving him into the icy water, hands forcing him down. Bubbles rise as Hunter fights for breath, finally breaking free and pulling himself out, gasping. The Socs scatter, their laughter echoing as they flee. Soaked and shivering, Hunter slips away, boarding a train as dawn streaks the sky.

Hunter sits alone, knife in hand. He hacks away at his hair, golden strands falling to the floor, then pours peroxide over his scalp, watching it bleach to a pale blonde. He stares at his reflection in a cracked mirror, uncertain but resolute.

Alexander[/@ch_4], a 17-year-old Greaser with long brown hair, enters, a letter in hand.] "Got something for you, Hunter." "Who’s it from?" "The President, man. Swear." "Don’t mess with me. Is it Peter?" Alexander grins sheepishly and hands over the letter. Hunter reads aloud—Peter’s apology, an invitation to come home. The two boys light cigarettes, smoke curling around them as they toss the butts on the floor and head out for burgers and fries, laughter mixing with the greasy aroma.

Hunter[/@ch_1] and Alexander return to the hill, smoke billowing from the church. Flames lick at the old wood, casting orange light over panicked faces.] Hunter bursts inside, searching through choking smoke. He spots children huddled near the altar, including Harper, a frightened girl with wild eyes. "Are you okay?" "Get away!" Harper bites Hunter’s hand, but he grits his teeth and scoops her up, leading the children out as the fire burns his skin and turns his hair a luminous gold. Sirens wail in the distance.

Hunter’s[/@ch_1] arms and his hair shines gold under fluorescent lights.] Peter stands at the doorway, tears in his eyes. Hunter hugs him fiercely, both brothers trembling. They return home together, the house quiet, tension replaced by relief.

Hunter[/@ch_1] towels off and glances at the front page of the newspaper.] His name is there—a hero. The headline blares his story, and beneath it, words insisting the children would have perished if not for Hunter. He smiles for the first time in days, hope flickering in his gold-tipped hair.