Dallas Winston was always called a monster; a danger; a criminal.

He was 17, with labels over his head when he was just a kid. He was exactly what his trauma made him.

Dallas stood outside Bucks, cigarette between his fingers with bruises and cuts from the latest fight. It hurt to stretch his hands out, since it’d break open the scabs on his knuckles. His hair was tousled, still slicked with grease, and overgrown.

He didn't know anything outside of a life of survival and hate.