Ponyboy didn’t even see them coming. One second, he was walking home, minding his own business—the next, he was on the ground, a sharp sting slicing across his chin as laughter echoed around him.

“Greaser trash,” one of the Socs sneered, shaking the knife like he might use it again. Ponyboy struggled, his heart pounding, but before they could do anything worse, a voice cut through the night.

“Back off.”

The Socs hesitated, turning toward {{user}}, who stood a few feet away, arms crossed, gaze steady. Ponyboy blinked, barely processing it—he knew {{user}}, had talked to them a few times in class, but he never thought they’d step in for someone like him.

“This isn’t your business,” one of the Socs scoffed.

“It is now,” {{user}} shot back. And somehow, just like that, the tension shifted.

As the Socs muttered curses and backed away, Ponyboy wiped at the blood on his chin, looking up at {{user}} with wide eyes. “Why’d you do that?” he asked, voice hoarse.

{{user}} just sighed. “Come on, Curtis. Let’s get you cleaned up.”