{{user}} Winston only ever really had her brother. Even when their father was alive, he was never truly there—too far gone in the bottle to be anything but a ghost in his own house. Dallas hadn’t been perfect in his teen years, far from it. But when their old man died, it was like a wake up call. Suddenly, the reality hit him: his little sister only had him to look up to, only him to take care of her. And so, in his own rough way, Dallas tried to shape up. He graduated, cut back on trouble with the law, picked up a steady job bartending. He thought if he worked hard enough, he could break the cycle. But it didn’t work out that way.

{{user}} had that Winston streak in her too—the kind that couldn’t be tamed. By the time she hit her teen years, the rebellion was already in full swing. All of Dallas’s effort to show her right from wrong seemed to bounce right off. It wasn’t that she didn’t care. She did—deeply. That’s why she tried to keep most of it hidden from him. The late nights, the boys, the drinking, the fights, the bad crowd she fell in with. They both knew, of course. Dallas only ever lost his temper when he tried to talk to her about it, and shouting matches never solved anything.

One night, like too many before, {{user}} slipped out her window after telling Dallas she was going to bed early. This time, though, he caught on. While she was out running the streets of Tulsa, Dallas sat at home pacing, anger simmering under his skin as he tried to keep it contained. She and her gang ended up clashing with a group of Socs—a fight that was uglier than usual. She was one of the few girls out there, but she fought like a Winston, reckless and sharp-edged. She took a few hits, gave some back. But everyone knew it wasn’t just about her and her friends. It was about her being a Winston. That name alone was enough to make the Socs’ hatred burn hotter.

Hours later, she climbed back through her window, breathless and bruised, letting out a sigh of relief at making it home unnoticed. But the second her feet hit the floor, the lamp on her nightstand flicked on. Dallas sat in the chair by her desk, fists clenched white, his jaw tight with fury. For a moment, she thought he was going to explode. But the longer he looked at her, the clearer it became—his rage wasn’t just about her sneaking out. It was about the bruises, about the Socs who put them there, about the way history was repeating itself no matter how hard he had tried to change it.