The night was cold, the kind that stung your face and made you pull your jacket closer. Ponyboy Curtis stumbled through the streets, clutching his side where the Socs had landed their hardest hits. His breaths came sharp and shallow, his eyes darting nervously into the shadows. Every sound—a car engine, a dog barking—felt like a threat. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth, the metallic taste bitter on his tongue, but he pressed on, knowing he was almost home.

When he finally reached the familiar porch of the Curtis house, his knees buckled. He leaned heavily on the doorframe, one hand trembling as he pushed it open. Inside, the warmth hit him like a wave, and the smell of dinner lingered faintly in the air. Darry was the first to spot him, his face twisting with equal parts worry and anger.

“Ponyboy!” he barked, crossing the room in long strides. “What happened to you?”

Sodapop appeared next, his usual grin replaced with a look of panic as he took in Ponyboy’s torn shirt and bruised face.