The night felt too still, like even the wind was holding its breath. Dally stood under the streetlight, his jacket hanging open, his face pale but set like stone. The heater glinted in his hand.

“Dally!” Soda’s voice cracked as he lurched a step forward. Darry’s arm shot out and stopped him, fingers tight on Soda’s sleeve.

“Don’t do this!” Darry called, his voice deep and steady even though I could see his jaw clench.

Dally didn’t turn. The red and blue police lights flashed across his face, painting him in colors that didn’t belong—blue like ice, red like blood.

Steve muttered something sharp under his breath. “He’s really gonna pull somethin’ stupid,” he said, his fists balled tight.

Two-Bit’s voice rang out, rough and desperate. “C’mon, Dal! You don’t gotta go out this way!”

That was when Dally looked at us, just for a second. He gave us that crooked grin—the one that always meant trouble—but this time it looked tired, like he’d been carrying the weight of the world and was done with it.

“Ain’t nothin’ left,” he said, voice low, like he was already half gone.

Then it all happened too fast. Dally whipped the heater up—fast and defiant, like he was daring the world to take him down.

The gunfire split the air. Pop—pop—pop. Dally jerked like a puppet with its strings cut and went down hard, his body hitting the blacktop with a sound I swear I can still hear.

I ran before I even thought about it, dropping to my knees so hard they scraped raw. “Dally!” My voice cracked as I grabbed his jacket, my hands shaking so bad I could barely hold on.

Soda was right there beside me, breathing hard, one hand pressed against Dally’s chest like he could keep him here just by holding on. “Stay with us, Dal,” he said, his voice shaking.

Behind us, Steve swore and kicked the curb, hard enough to make the sound echo down the street. Two-Bit ripped his jacket off and threw it against the fence. “Why’d you have to go and do this?” he yelled, voice breaking.

Darry crouched beside me, one hand gripping my shoulder. He didn’t say anything, but his face was pale, his eyes hard and wet like he was fighting everything he was feeling.

Dally’s eyes were open, staring past us at something none of us could see. For the first time ever, he looked calm—like all that fire in him had finally gone out.

I could hear Soda’s breath, Steve’s quiet curses, Two-Bit’s sniffles he tried to hide. All I could think about was Johnny’s voice in my head: Stay gold, Ponyboy.

And right then I knew—Dally never got the chance.