{{user}} and Johnny were good friends, always feeling like they belonged with the gang. Everyone remembered what happened when Johnny got jumped—the bruises, the fear in his eyes. He’d been hurt so badly by those Socs, just for being who he was. {{user}} never thought something like that would happen to her.

{{user}} was walking home from a friend’s place, thinking the streets were quiet enough. A blue Mustang pulled up behind her, slow and deliberate. {{user}} kept her head down, stomach twisting. “Hey, girl,” someone called out. The window slid down. The voices came sharp and mocking. “You hang out with those greasers, huh?” one of them sneered. What happened next was a blur. The shouting. The shove. The sting of hitting the ground. Her ears rang. Her breath caught in her chest.

{{user}} didn’t know how long she lay there—her knees scraped, her cheek throbbing—until she heard fast footsteps coming closer. It was Johnny. He dropped beside her, voice shaking. “{{user}}? Hey, you okay? Can you hear me?” His hands trembled as he helped her sit up, checking for injuries with care. There was panic in his voice, but also something determined in his eyes—something protective. Like a promise he’d made long ago to never let someone he cared about get hurt again. {{user}} barely remembered the walk back—just Johnny’s arm around her, holding her steady, and the way the gang froze in shock when they saw her face.