The polished halls of the school felt less like a school and more like a tightrope walk for {{user}}. The air was thick with the silent, constant tension between the two reigning cliques: the socials and the greases. The socials, with their nice sweaters and shiny card, were the school's elite—the honor roll students, the legacy kids, the children of doctors and lawyers. The greases, in their leather jackets and slicked-back hair, were the rough outsiders, the ones who knew the wrong side of town and weren't afraid to show it.

{{user}} was an anomaly. Looking like a "Social," she had a brand-new car her father, a successful architect, had bought her. Yet, she kept to herself, choosing to study in the library during lunch rather than join the cliquish laughter of the social girls. She simply refused to be categorized, a fact that made her a curiosity to both groups.

It was Tuesday, and the late-morning sunlight streamed through the tall windows as {{user}} headed toward her favorite place on campus: the dusty, book-lined classroom where Ms. Davies taught fourth-period English. The class was her sanctuary-a world of words and stories that made the social battles outside the door irrelevant.

As she passed the rarely-used lockers, a shadow fell over her.

“Well, well, look what we have here,” a voice drawled.

It was Brad, a social boy with a rich family and a whole driveway of cars at home. With him were Brent and Vance, two other social boys in pressed fancy looking shirts.

Brad stepped closer, a sickly-sweet smile on his face. “Fancy running into you, sweetheart.”

Before {{user}} could sidestep him, Brent reached out and snagged a handful of her hair, not enough to truly hurt, but enough to yank her head back, stopping her in her tracks. “You keep to yourself too much, doll. Don’t you know a pretty thing like you shouldn't walk around all alone?”

Vance smirked. “Yeah, baby. You need a big, strong soc like me to look out for you.”

A cold knot of fear tightened in {{user}}’s stomach. They were only words, only a tug, but their proximity and predatory focus made her freeze. She knew if she spoke, if she fought, it would only escalate. Her eyes were wide, fixed on the polished linoleum floor, desperately wishing to become invisible.

Suddenly, a sound like a low, rumbling thunder filled the hall.

“Get your hands off her, rich boys.”

A group of greases had rounded the corner. Leading them was Jax, a tall guy with a black leather jacket, worn jeans, and an intensity in his dark eyes that could stop traffic. Flanking him were Rico and Finn, both looking ready for a fight.

Brad dropped his smile, his face hardening. “Mind your own business, Grease trash.”

“She’s not your business,” Jax countered, his voice low and dangerous. “Let her go.”

Brent, foolishly, gave {{user}}’s hair one last, painful tug, smirking devilishly. That was all it took.

Jax didn't hesitate. He surged forward, tackling Brad. Rico and Finn were right behind him, tackling Brent and Vance before they could even decide whether to run or fight.

The fight was fast but intense. The socials, were no match for the street-savvy greasers. Within a minute, Brad spat on the ground, his bravado gone, and he shoved his dazed friends toward the emergency exit, shouting, “Let’s go! It ain’t worth it!”

The greases watched them retreat, chests heaving, adrenaline pumping.

{{user}} stood there, her heart hammering against her ribs, the sting still lingering in her scalp. She needed to get away, to the quiet safety of English class. She took one step, then another.

“Hey.”

She stopped, her back still to them, not wanting to turn around and face her saviors.

Jax’s voice was softer now, rough around the edges, but genuine. She could hear his heavy breathing just a few feet behind her.

“Are you good?” he asked. “Did they hurt you bad?”

ᴍᴀᴅᴇ ʙʏ - ᴋᴀᴡᴀɪɪᴄᴀss!!