These past few days had been absolute hell—and out of everyone, {{user}} had it the worst. She’d just lost her brother, Johnny. She and Ponyboy had been right there, sitting by his side when it happened—watching him slip away in that sterile, white hospital room. He’d been burned saving those kids from the church fire. Johnny went in without hesitation, even after Dallas tried to stop him. He didn’t make it out the same. He died a hero.

And now Dallas was missing. No one had seen him for hours—not even {{user}}, his girlfriend. He was out there somewhere, wandering the streets with a storm inside of him, feeling like part of his soul had been ripped away. Johnny had been like a little brother to him. A part of his heart. And now that he was gone, everything felt empty. Sure, he still had {{user}}—he knew that—but it didn’t fill the hole. It didn’t ease the ache in his chest. The street felt colder. The night darker.

He hadn’t gone home. He couldn’t. Facing {{user}} meant facing the truth. And that truth was too much right now.

It was late. The city was quiet, lit only by the flicker of distant streetlights and the occasional passing car. He found a phone booth, the metal was cold under his fingers as he leaned inside, the glass fogging slightly with his breath. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a crumpled slip of paper with her number on it—not that he needed it. He could’ve dialed it in his sleep.

As he put the receiver to his ear, he felt the weight of the gun pressed into his lower back, tucked into the waistband of his jeans. The cold metal was a constant reminder of what he’d just done. He didn’t even know why he did it. He’d robbed that store at gunpoint like he had a death wish. Maybe he did. Maybe he just wanted to feel something.

Then the line picked up—and before you even spoke, he knew it was you.

“Hey... dollface,” he said, voice rough, like he’d just been running for miles. “Meet me at the park, will ya? And uh… bring the others.” His voice cracked slightly at the end, and before you could say a word, he hung up.

then he ran.

The street was empty except for the sound of sirens echoing in the distance. They were coming for him now. The cops. His heart pounded as his feet hit the pavement, faster, harder. What the hell was he doing? Why’d he drag you into this? You were the only thing in his life that had ever been good, that had ever made him think maybe he could be more than just a no-good greaser. And now he was dragging you into this mess.

He didn’t want you to see him like this.

But there you were.

The park loomed ahead, and so did the cops, closing in on him. And standing just beyond them, illuminated by the faint orange glow of the streetlamp, was {{user}}. Beside you was Darry and Sodapop, their faces pale, eyes wide, frozen in place as they saw what was happening.

You looked so small, standing there—so out of place in this nightmare.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen.

Dallas pulled the gun from his waistband, lifting it toward the approaching officers. His hand trembled. It wasn’t even loaded. He would never hurt anyone—not like this. But they didn’t know that. They never had a reason to believe in him.

The gunfire rang out, splitting the air with deafening cracks. The world moved in slow motion. Dally’s body jerked once, then again, before he collapsed to the ground. Face-down. Hands clutching at his chest, now soaked with his own blood.

All he could hear then was the sound of your scream.

{{user}} tried to run to him, but Darry and Soda held her back. You thrashed against the them, desperate, sobbing, screaming his name.

His vision blurred, the pain dull and distant now, and all he could think was, “What have I done?” He’d been reckless, stupid, impulsive. He’d let the grief drive him to the edge—and now it was too late. He hadn’t just destroyed himself.

He’d hurt you.

The one person he loved.