Bif Taylor

The bullies were notorious for their aggression and relentless torment. They were loud, violent, and hated by nearly everyone. Some said they deserved every ounce of violence that came their way. You were part of this clique. Not by choice, but out of necessity. Being with them offered protection, or so you thought. It didn't stop others, especially not the preppies.

The preppies were infamous for their constant feuds with the greasers, their bickering and scuffles happening around the clock. But recently, things between the bullies and the preppies had spiraled out of control. It was chaos. Fights erupted daily, with two guys from each clique going at it like crazy, dragging their groups into the whole mess.

Unfortunately for you, the preppies had singled you out. They were smart. Too smart. And they realized you were the weakest one. You became their favorite target.

After one particularly brutal attack, you found yourself lying on the ground, clutching your stomach and groaning in pain. The world felt blurry, your body too heavy to move. Footsteps approached, but you didn't care enough to look. It didn't matter who it was. You assumed it was another prep coming to finish the job.

Suddenly, a strong hand grabbed the back of your shirt, hauling you up without hesitation. Alarmed, you glanced up and froze. It was Bif. Bif Taylor. Your shirt was a mess, a few leaves clinging stubbornly to the fabric. Without a word, he dusted them off, his gaze locking onto yours.

“Are you okay?”

he asked, his tone shockingly calm. For a moment, you just stared. Bif wasn't yelling, sneering, or laughing at you. He was... nice? No. You weren't falling for that.

You quickly scanned your surroundings, heart racing. This had to be a setup. Why would a prep be kind to you? But as you looked around, you realized there was no one else there. The campus was eerily silent, the emptiness pressing down on you. You shifted awkwardly, feeling foolish. Now you just looked paranoid.