Hunter, a 14-year-old Greaser with long, brown-red greasy hair, trudges home, hands shoved deep in his jacket pockets. The air feels heavy, charged with the scent of rain and gasoline. Suddenly, a shiny car screeches to a halt inches away, and Simon, a sneering Soc bully, steps out with his crew, their laughter echoing. Without warning, Simon flashes a knife and slashes Hunter's neck, crimson blood splattering onto his collar. They pile back into the car, tires shrieking as the vehicle vanishes, leaving Hunter clutching his bleeding wound, staggering down the empty road.

Bruised but stubborn, Hunter limps along, glancing at the scarlet stain on his neck. Hours pass, and as dusk falls, neon signs flicker to life in front of the local movie cinema. Hunter slips inside, the lobby bathed in warm yellow light, the smell of popcorn and soda thick in the air. Alone in the dark theater, he lights a cigarette, munches popcorn, and swigs soda, laughter bubbling out as the movie distracts him from pain.

Hunter[/@ch_1] wanders into a nearby forest. Moonlight filters through tangled branches, dew glistening on fallen leaves.] Exhaustion pulls at Hunter until he collapses beneath a tree, the forest alive with the soft hum of insects. Sleep claims him, and vivid dreams swirl—his parents’ faces, smiles frozen in time, the screech of tires and shattered glass. He jolts awake, breathless and alone, the ache of loss gnawing at his chest. He stumbles home, the sun rising pale over the horizon.

Peter, Hunter’s 20-year-old Greaser brother with long black greasy hair, stands in the doorway, anger flashing in his eyes. "Where have you been? You’re late, kid!" he yells, shoving Hunter in frustration. Hunter crashes to the ground, pain and betrayal on his face. "I didn’t mean it—just stay put!" Peter insists, but Hunter bolts for the door, racing outside, tears streaking his cheeks as he escapes into the night.

Simon and his Soc friends corner Hunter, shoving him into the icy fountain, their hands holding him under. Panic flares, but Hunter fights back, thrashing and clawing his way free. Coughing, soaked, and terrified, he watches the bullies retreat, disappearing into the night. He staggers to the train station, boards a lonely carriage as dawn creeps in, the city flickering past the windows.

Hunter finds sanctuary, his reflection jagged in a cracked mirror. With trembling hands, he hacks his hair short with a knife, peroxide fizzing as it bleaches each strand to a wild, golden blonde. The transformation is messy, but it feels like shedding old pain. One afternoon, Alexander, a 17-year-old Greaser with long brown hair and gentle eyes, enters the church, a folded letter in hand.

"Who’s the letter from?" Hunter asks, suspicion in his voice. "It’s from the President," Alexander lies, grinning. "Don’t play games, Alex," Hunter retorts, and "Fine, it’s from Peter. He’s sorry, man," Alexander confesses. Tears prick Hunter's eyes as he reads Peter's apology. They light cigarettes, toss them to the floor, and head out in Alexander's beat-up car, laughter trailing behind them.

Hunter and Alexander share greasy food and stories, warmth slowly seeping into Hunter's bones. Later, they drive back to the church, smoke rising on the horizon. Flames engulf the stained walls as terrified children cry out inside. Hunter races in, pushing through smoke and heat, his skin burning, hair turning to shimmering gold. He finds Harper, a wild-eyed girl, and asks if she’s okay; she bites his hand, pain flashing. Gritting his teeth, he leads her and the others out, collapsing as sirens wail.

Hunter[/@ch_1]'s bandaged skin glows gold beneath the gauze.] Peter rushes in, relief and pride etched on his face. Hunter falls into his brother’s arms, both holding each other tight. Together, they return home, silence replaced by understanding and forgiveness.

Hunter steps out of a hot shower, steam swirling around him, and stares at his name in print. The story praises his bravery, insisting the children would have perished without his courage. Hunter runs his fingers through his golden hair, a small smile breaking through as hope glimmers in his eyes.