You feel your heart race as you watch Randy adjust the collar of his jacket with shaking hands. The distant city lights flicker like a cruel reminder that soon, more sirens will echo through the streets. The cold night wind carries with it a palpable tension, as if the entire city is waiting for an imminent storm to break.

You never understood the need to fight, to get hurt to prove points that are never clear. The Socs have always targeted greasers, and Randy, with the loss of Bob, seems to have fallen even deeper into this cycle of senseless violence. But you know him better than anyone. Behind the bravado and the forced smile, he's falling apart.

“Randy, please—” You start, your voice breaking, but he cuts you off, softly.

With a light touch, he cups your cheeks, tilting your head so your eyes meet. His fingers are warm against your cold skin.

"Hey… listen to me," he whispers, his eyes softening as he smiles slightly. "I know you don't want me to go, but this is like... doing Bob a favor."

He tries to smile again, but you see the pain hidden in the depths of his eyes. This fight, you realize, is not about the Socs or the greasers. It's about a lost boy trying to find a way to deal with pain.