Simon, a white boy with tousled blond hair and nervous energy, checks the camera settings, squinting at the screen. Dressed in a faded denim jacket and sneakers, he rehearses his lines softly under his breath, glancing over the dog-eared script clutched in his hand. The park is empty except for a rusted swing set and the distant silhouette of three older teens, waiting for their cue.
Socs Leader, tall with slicked-back hair and a cruel smile, signals the others to move. The boys slip from the shadows, their footsteps muffled by damp grass. Simon, as Ponyboy, glances over his shoulder, anxiety etched in his features.
"Well, well, look what we have here. Lost, Ponyboy?"
"Let me go, I’m not looking for trouble,"
Second Soc, shorter but stocky, shoves Simon’s shoulder roughly, causing him to stumble back.
"Too late for that. Greasers like you don’t belong here."
"Let’s teach him a lesson,"
"No, please! Don’t—"
Third Soc, silent until now, grabs Simon’s collar, holding him still as the leader presses the flat of the knife against his neck. Simon’s breath comes in sharp, panicked gasps, eyes wide as the blade traces a thin red line of theatrical blood along his skin.
"Help! Somebody, please!"
"No one’s coming, Ponyboy. You’re all alone out here."
"Cut. That was… intense. Let’s check the footage."
