Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It's said that the West was built on legends. Tall tales that help us make sense of things, too great or too terrifying to believe. This is the legend of the Ghost Rider. Story goes that every generation has one. Some damn soul, cursed to ride the earth…collecting on the devil’s deals. Many years ago, a Ghost rider was sent to the village of San Venganza. To fetch a contract worth 1000 evil souls. But that contract was too powerful…he knew he could never let the devil get his hands on it. So he did what no Rider has ever done before: He outran the devil himself. 

The thing about legends is…sometimes they’re true.

                                                              ***

August 21st, 1965

It was raining the day they buried Mr. and Mrs. Curtis.

Not the light, soft kind of rain either. The sky was a dark gray bruise, swollen and trembling, spilling over the town like it couldn’t hold back anymore. Thunder cracked like bones in the distance, and every so often, lightning flashed across the sky, casting sharp shadows over the rows of black umbrellas and bowed heads.

Ponyboy stood in the back, his dress shoes sunk in wet grass, making the pair of shoes dirtier than they needed to be. His too-big blazer, clinging to his shoulders from Darry, was a hand-me-down. It was damp, but he didn’t feel the cold. He didn’t feel the rain dripping from his hair, or the way it traced down his neck like a ghost. Everything felt far away—like he was underwater, watching the world blur from behind a glass screen.

The gang was there. All of them. Dally, for once, looked almost tame, his hands shoved deep into his coat pockets, his head dipped low so his eyes were shadowed. Two-Bit didn’t crack a single joke. Not even once. Steve kept wiping at his face like he wasn’t crying but had something in his eye. Johnny hovered at Pony’s side, silent and small, as usual. Soda stood stiff in the front, arms folded over his chest, blinking fast. Darry… Darry looked like stone. A cracked one.

They each walked up to the caskets. Two black boxes, side by side. Too neat. Too final. One by one, the boys paid their respects. Some just stood there. Some whispered things. Some touched the wood with trembling hands, like maybe they could feel something through it. Like maybe they could bring them back.

When it was Ponyboy’s turn, the world seemed to tilt under his feet. He stepped forward, slowly, shoes squishing in the muddy ground. The caskets were polished and shiny in the rain. Flowers lay on top—white lilies, mostly—his mom’s favorite.

He looked down.

And there they were.

His mother. His father.

Lying still. Too still. Like wax figures dressed up for a show, no one wanted to attend. His mother’s lips were painted in that soft pink she wore to church. His father’s hands were folded neatly over his chest like he was just sleeping—except his chest never moved. Never rose or fell.

Ponyboy felt… nothing.

“Mom, dad… Who did this to you? I know you didn’t die like this. You couldn’t. I’ll find the truth about what happened…” Pony whisperer under his breath.

“This was not an accident.”

No tears. No thoughts. Just a strange kind of emptiness that sat heavy in his chest, swallowing everything up. He didn’t know how long he had stood there. Seconds. Minutes. A lifetime. Then his legs moved and he walked back without a word, settling next to Soda and Darry.

Soda put a hand on his knee. Darry stared straight ahead, fists clenched at his sides. Then he hugged his brothers as tightly as he could. Afraid to let them go.

Eventually, the preacher said a few words. Something about grace, and heaven, and how their love lived on in their sons. Pony barely heard it. It all sounded like static, like TV fuzz. Soon after Pony felt lightheaded and glanced around. An unsettling presence filled the air, putting him on edge. His eyes landed on an older gentleman dressed in dramatic black attire—a long coat, gloves, and a staff that doubled as a cane, topped with a silver skull. The man leaned casually on it, giving Pony a smile and a small nod. Something about him felt... off. Pony quickly looked away and continued forward, unease lingering in his chest. Pony never once saw that man in his life.

Then came the speeches.

Darry was the only one who wanted to say something. Well, the only one who has to. He stepped up to the front, rain beading off his broad shoulders, his hair flattened by the

downpour. His voice came out low and rough, barely cutting through the sound of the rain.

“They were everything to us,” he said. “Worked their whole lives for us. Always made sure we had what we needed—even if it meant they went without.”

He swallowed hard. His jaw twitched.

“They weren’t just our parents. They were… the kind of people who taught you what right looked like. They gave us a home. A real one. They gave us each other.”

He looked over his shoulder, right at Pony and Soda.

“And we’re gonna be okay,” he said, his voice breaking just a little. “Because they raised us to be okay. To keep going. To take care of each other. Even when it’s hard.”

He stepped down after that, head lowered, face unreadable.

The caskets were lowered into the ground. The rain never let up.

The gang stayed until the very end. No one said anything as they watched the dirt cover the boxes, slow and steady like a lullaby that no one wanted to hear.

“Come on Colt…let's go.” Darry placed his hand on Pony's head.

Pony looks over the two graves once more before agreeing. “...Okay..”

When it was done, they all turned and made their way back to the truck. Ponyboy followed silently, his shoes heavy with mud, his hands shoved into his soaked coat pockets. His eyes were on the ground until something caught the corner of his vision.

A motorcycle.

It was parked a few feet away near the fence, glinting under the rain. A little rusty. A little worn down. But something about it made Pony stop.

And then the memory hit him like a jolt of lightning.

He was younger. Maybe ten. The air was hot and smelled like motor oil and sun-baked asphalt. His dad had taken him to the auto shop he worked at—just the two of them. No Soda. No Darry. No Mom.

“Alright, Colt,” his dad had said, hands on his hips, grinning widely. “I got something to show you. But you can’t tell your mom, alright? Or your brothers. This is our secret.”

Ponyboy had nodded so fast it made him dizzy.

There, in the back corner of the shop, was an old motorcycle. It looked half-built, the kind you’d see in some cool action movie. His dad walked him through the parts, showing him the gears, the engine, and the chain.

“Motorcycles?” Pony looks at the vehicle with wonder. Standing on his tippy toes.

 His dad had said with a fond sigh, wiping grease from his hands, “They’re freedom on wheels. Just you, the wind, and the road. I adore these things. Always have.”

He’d helped Pony climb on, tiny hands gripping the handlebars. He showed him how to start it up, how to balance, and how to listen to the engine’s rhythm.

Then, incredibly, he let him ride it.

Pony had done a few slow loops in the alley behind the shop. At first, he wobbled—but then, he found his rhythm. Smooth. Confident. His dad stood back, arms crossed, laughing proudly.

“You’re a natural!” he’d called out. “Look at you, out ridin’ from the devil!”

When Pony finally came to a stop, his dad scooped him up and hugged him tight, laughing into his hair. “Outrun the devil, Papa?”

“Indeed, when I was younger, my father used to tell me all kinds of stories. I always remember one that he told me. Ghost Rider. He was the devil’s greatest servant, and was the only person who could ever outrun him.”

“Is it true? Does he exist?”

“Hm… who knows, Colt. It’s just a legend, baby.”

“Oh...why did he outrun him?” Pony questioned the thought of the Rider.

“You’re better than I was at your age, on a motorcycle,” he’d said. “Way better. Don’t forget this feeling, alright? You have a special type of talent…”

Pony had nodded. Grinning. Feeling like he could fly.

Back in the present, the memory faded like fog.

The motorcycle sat still in the rain, just like it had in that alley all those years ago. Only now there was no warm laughter, no grease-smudged hug. Just the sound of raindrops hitting metal.

A hand touched his shoulder.

“Pony,” Johnny said gently, voice cutting through the stillness. “We’re headin’ to the truck. You comin’?”

Ponyboy blinked, dragging himself out of the memory. He looked one last time at the bike. It didn’t move. It didn’t shine. It just sat there.

But somehow, it felt like his dad was still there. A piece of him.

He nodded. “Yeah… I’m comin’.”

                                                              ***

Four Months Later

The house was quieter these days.

It had been four months since the funeral. Four long, dragging months filled with court dates, paperwork, and sleepless nights. And somehow, through it all, Darry held everything together with both hands—tight like if he let go for even a second, the whole world would fall apart again.

He gave up a lot.

Football. College. The dreams he never said out loud but always carried in his chest like a secret flame. He’d had scholarships lined up, plans made, routes marked on maps. But none of that mattered when their parents died. Not when it came down to him choosing between a future and his brothers.

He chose them.

No hesitation. No bitterness.

He could’ve let the state take them. Let them be split up and sent to some boys’ home where no one knew their favorite meals or their inside jokes or how Soda snored when he was exhausted and how Pony loved having his hair brushed in the morning by him.

But Darry didn’t let that happen.

He fought. Took on extra shifts. Put his own life on hold to build something steady for his brothers. He showed up in court in his one nice shirt, hands calloused, face tired but firm, and told the judge he was their family. That they belonged together. But keep a watch over them for the first few weeks.

And he won.

Now, Ponyboy was sitting on the living room couch, fidgeting with a frayed piece of string from his sweatshirt, biting his nails. While a social worker sat in the armchair across from him, pen in hand, clipboard resting on her knee. Her eyes were kind but clinical, trained to look for cracks in the surface.

She’d been asking questions for a while now.

“And how’s school going?” she asked, voice soft but firm.

“Okay,” Pony mumbled.

“You still reading?”

He nodded. “Yeah. Sometimes.”

“And how are things at home?” she asked, pen ready. “Has Darry ever raised his hand to you? Said anything threatening? Made you feel unsafe?”

Pony looked up, eyes steady. He could hear Darry clinking dishes in the kitchen, giving them space but still close enough to swoop in if anything went wrong.

“No,” Pony said. “He’s never done anything like that. He’ll never hit me.”

She paused, studying his face. “And do you feel safe living here?”

Pony shrugged. “I feel… like it’s home.”

She nodded, jotting something down on the clipboard, but didn’t push. Pony could feel her trying to dig under his skin, to find something broken. Maybe she expected bruises, or tears he was too scared to show. But there weren’t any. Not the kind she was looking for.

Things weren’t perfect. Money was tight, and Darry carried the weight of the world on his shoulders. But there was laughter sometimes, and late-night talks, and the comfort of knowing that when things got hard, someone would be there.

That mattered.

After a few more questions, the social worker stood, smoothing down her jacket.

“Alright,” she said. “Thank you for your time, Ponyboy.”

He gave her a polite nod.

She moved into the kitchen for a brief talk with Darry, hushed tones and paperwork being passed over. Then, with a courteous smile and a final glance around the house, she was gone.

The door clicked shut behind her, and the house fell into silence again.

Pony let out a slow breath and looked over as Darry came into the room, drying his hands with a towel.

“What she say?” Darry asked.

Pony shook his head. “Just the usual. Asked if you were beating us up or anything.”

Darry rolled his eyes but smiled faintly. “Well. That’s her job.”

He tossed the towel over his shoulder and sat down beside Pony on the couch. For a moment, neither of them said anything. The quiet was peaceful this time, not heavy.

“Y’know,” Pony said after a minute, “I miss them.”

Darry looked over at him. Shook his head, voice steady. “I know…me to Pony.”

“I’m glad you’re still here,” Pony said quietly.

Darry smiled, ruffling his hair the way their dad used to. “Me too, kid. Me too.”

After the social worker left, the day stretched out slowly, heavy like rain clouds that wouldn’t burst. Lately, the gang hasn’t come by like usual. Soda said it’s because they want to give us some space, but Pony knew it was because they couldn’t handle the empty feeling of their parents, like him and his brothers. 

Darry cooked dinner that night—meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and green beans. Something warm, something filling, something their mom used to make on nights when everything felt too big. He didn’t say it, but Ponyboy knew that was the reason.

Soda helped set the table, whistling off-key as he laid out the forks and plates. It was weird how normal it all felt sometimes. Like the world hadn’t broken. Like their parents weren’t buried six feet under. Like nothing had changed. But it had. Everything had.

Still, they ate. They laughed a little. Darry rolled his eyes when Soda made mashed potato mountains, and Pony snuck an extra roll without asking. Afterward, the three of them cleaned up together, quietly, but not uncomfortably. Ponyboy dried the dishes while Soda washed, and Darry put things away. It was teamwork, plain and simple.

By the time bedtime rolled around, the house had gone still again. Ponyboy shuffled into his room, pulled on an old T-shirt, and crawled into bed. He stared at the ceiling for a while, listening to the low hum of the heater, the occasional creak of the walls, and the faint murmur of Darry and Soda talking in the kitchen.

Eventually, his eyes fluttered shut.

The dream started gently.

He was in a wide, golden field, the sky stretching forever in soft blue swirls. The wind was warm, brushing through his hair. And there—standing in the sunlight—were his parents.

His mom’s hair shone in the breeze, her eyes soft and kind. His dad was in that old flannel he used to wear on weekends, smiling the way he did when he saw something he was proud of.

“Mom! Dad!” Pony cried, and he ran—feet light, heart pounding with joy.

He threw himself into their arms, feeling the warmth, the safety, the impossible realness of them. His mom kissed his forehead. His dad’s arms wrapped around him.

But then something shifted.

The wind stopped. The light dimmed.

And Ponyboy felt watched.

He pulled away and turned.

Standing at the edge of the field was a figure cloaked in black, skeletal and burning. A skull wreathed in flame, eyes like molten coals. A long leather coat swayed around him without wind.

He didn’t speak, didn’t move—he just stared.

Pony took a step back, heart thudding. “What… What is this? Who are you?”

The Rider raised one bony hand and pointed.

Pony followed the direction of the gesture—slowly, dread curling in his stomach.

And then he saw them.

His parents.

But not like before.

They were across the field now, alone. And a figure—shadowy, featureless—rose up behind them. It was fast. A blur of violence. Hands reached. Screams echoed across the field.

“No!” Ponyboy shouted. “No!”

He broke into a run, his legs pumping, every inch of him screaming to reach them in time. “Stop! I’m coming!”

But before he could get close, the Rider stepped in front of him, towering, blazing, unmoved.

“Vengeance,” the Rider growled, voice like gravel and fire, echoing deep into Pony’s bones.

Pony stumbled back, shaking, the nightmare crashing down on him.

“Please! Let me save them—please!”

The Rider didn’t move. The fire in his eyes seemed to burn right through Pony.

And then—

Ponyboy jolted awake, gasping for air.

His chest heaved as he sat up in bed, drenched in sweat, heart hammering against his ribs like it wanted out. The sheets were twisted around him, clinging to his legs. His hands trembled as he rubbed his face, trying to calm the wild, echoing beat in his ears.

The room was dark and quiet. The dream was gone, but the image lingered.

His parents screaming.

The shadow.

The Rider’s voice:

Vengeance.

Pony swung his legs out of bed and sat there for a moment, staring at the floor. Breathing. In and out. His shirt stuck to his back with sweat. His skin felt clammy and hot.

He reached for the lamp on his nightstand and clicked it on, the warm yellow light spilling into the room, chasing away the shadows.

But the feeling didn’t leave.

It clung to him like smoke.

He didn’t know what the dream meant, or why the Ghost Rider had been there… but something about it felt too real to ignore. Like it hadn’t just been a dream. Like it was a warning.

“Oh God… I need a smoke…”

Ponyboy whispered the words like a confession to no one. His hands were still shaking, his skin slick with sweat from the dream. The image of the skeleton figure, the fire in his eyes, his parents’ screams—it clung to him like tar.

He turned his head slowly and looked over to his window. The night outside was still and quiet, a soft wind brushing against the glass. The stars blinked faintly above the rooftops. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked. Everything felt so calm—too calm compared to what was still raging inside him.

He sighed.

Pony threw off his twisted sheets and swung his legs off the bed, grabbing the old jacket hanging on the back of his chair. His hand fumbled in the pocket until he found the crushed pack of smokes Two-Bit had slipped him a week ago, “just in case you need a breather from Darry breathing down your neck. He's gonna do that now more than ever.”

Now’s the time, I guess.

He moved slowly through the hallway, the hardwood cool under his bare feet. The house creaked a little with every step, and he held his breath at each one, not wanting to wake Soda or Darry. Soda’s door was cracked open, his soft snore floating through it like a lullaby. Darry’s door was closed, silent but solid, like always.

Ponyboy eased open the front door, careful not to let the hinges groan too loudly, and stepped out into the night.

The porch welcomed him with its old wood and chipped paint. He sank onto the front steps, exhaling like he’d been holding everything in for days. The air outside was cooler, brushing through his hair, calming the fire still licking at the edges of his nerves.

He pulled a cigarette from the crumpled pack, stuck it between his lips, and lit it with his dad’s old lighter—scratched and worn, the initials D.C. faintly etched into the side. The flame flickered once, then caught. Pony inhaled deeply.

The smoke burned going in, but it steadied him.

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and looked up at the sky.

The stars were scattered like dust across a black canvas, and the moon hung low, pale and watchful. The world felt so big from here. And Pony? He just felt… small.

The dream kept replaying behind his eyes like a broken film reel.

His parents’ faces.

Their warmth.

Then their screams.

The Rider’s burning eyes.

“Vengeance,” he muttered, letting the smoke curl out from his mouth.

“What does that even mean?...”

The stars were still blinking faintly when something shifted in the air—like the world took a breath and held it.

Down the street, at the far end of the block, the streetlights flickered. With every step he took, one by one, they burst—small pops of electric failure, casting long shadows that danced along the pavement. His cane clicked with every slow, deliberate movement, tapping the sidewalk in time with the breaking lights.

By the time he reached the Curtis house, only one streetlight remained, its glow pulsing like it was afraid to go out.

Ponyboy sat on the porch, cigarette balanced between his fingers, the end glowing faintly. His mind was far away until the figure stopped in front of him.

Tall. Broad. Wearing a long coat that seemed too heavy for the weather. His cane had a silver skull at the top, eyes dark and gleaming like glass.

“Ponyboy Curtis,” the man said.

Not a question.

A statement.

Ponyboy froze. His eyes narrowed as recognition prickled through him. That face—he’d seen it before. At the funeral. Standing off to the side, alone, watching quietly, too sharply dressed for a neighbor.

“Yeah?” Pony said, cautiously, sitting up straighter.

The man tilted his head just slightly, his smile unreadable. “I wanted to give my condolences. About your parents.”

Pony blinked. “Oh… Thanks. But it’s alright. Wasn’t your fault.”

The man chuckled, low and dry like gravel in his throat. “No. No, it wasn’t.”

There was something unsettling about how still he was. Like a statue that had just started moving again after a hundred years.

“I knew your dad,” he continued. “We worked on motorcycles together back in the day. Saw you ride more than once. Had some serious skill for a kid your age.”

Pony’s brows rose. “Oh. Thanks.”

“I always enjoyed watching you ride,” the man added, a thin grin tugging at his lips. “Perhaps you’d ride for me one day.”

Pony frowned. “Why? You run a show or somethin’?”

The man looked up.

“The greatest show on Earth,” he said.

Lightning cracked across the sky behind him, the light throwing his shadow far down the sidewalk—but the man didn’t flinch. Didn’t even blink.

Pony glanced at the skull on his cane, then back up at the man’s eyes. “Thanks, but… no thanks.”

The man stepped closer, the cane thudding gently with every step. “What’s wrong, Pony? Worried about your brothers? Scared they’ll be next… by that mysterious shadow?”

That made Pony freeze.

The cigarette hung limply from his lips now. His body stiffened, and his voice came out cold.

“…What do you know about that?”

The man’s gaze drifted off for a moment, as if thinking, before settling back on Pony. “Even a blind man could see it. The thing is… loss—it takes its toll. On plans. On lives. On the people left behind.”

Another bolt of lightning split the sky—and this time, as Pony looked away briefly from the flash, something shifted.

Just for a second, the light revealed something else standing in that man’s place. A shadow longer than it should’ve been. Horns. A grin far too wide for a human face.

But Pony didn’t see it.

He looked back—and the man was just standing there again, perfectly calm.

“Pony,” he said, voice syrupy and dark, “what if I could help your brothers?”

“Yeah?” Pony asked, suspicion rising again. “How?”

The man’s smile grew. “How isn’t important. What if I told you… I could make sure the shadow never touches them? That their lives could be just like before. Before everything went wrong. Would you be willing to make a deal?”

Another flash of lightning.

Pony hesitated. His fingers twitched. His mouth was dry.

“…Name your price.”

The man made a show of pretending to think, tapping the skull cane against his boot.

“I’ll take… your soul.”

Pony stared.

Then—half amused, half exhausted—he gave a dry little chuckle, thinking the guy was messing with him.

“Okay,” he said, smirking, and brought the cigarette to his lips again.

The man didn’t flinch.

“By sunrise tomorrow,” he said calmly, “you won’t have to worry about your brothers. And you’ll have your whole life ahead of you.”

He reached into his coat and pulled out a rolled-up parchment, sealed in black wax, tied with a red ribbon.

“It’s your choice, Pony. All you have to do is sign.”

Pony’s amusement faded a little as the man held it out.

He stood, walking down the steps slowly. He took the rolled-up contract from the man’s outstretched hand, never breaking eye contact.

Unrolling the parchment, his thumb brushed across the top—and something sharp bit into his skin.

“Ah—” Ponyboy jerked his hand back, inspecting the cut.

A drop of blood slipped from his thumb and landed right on the signature line.

The man looked down at it, his eyes glowing suddenly—a vibrant, hellish red.

“Oh…” he said, lips curling into a pleased grin. “That’ll do just fine.”

Pony took a step back, heart racing—but the man’s eyes were still glowing.

Ponyboy gasped awake.

He sat up in bed, the morning light pouring through his window. His shirt clung to him with sweat again, his heart hammering like a warning bell.

It was daytime.

The sun was shining.

Birds chirped lazily outside.

But his thumb throbbed.

He looked down at it.

And there—right in the center of the pad—was a faint, fresh cut.

“Pony! Wake up! You have to get ready for school.” Pony can hear Darry yelling from the kitchen.

Chapter Text

A few days had passed since the run-in with that older guy and the contract.

Pony walked down to the DX station to grab a bottle of pop and see Steve and Soda. They always bought him a couple bottles and let him hang around, even letting him help out with the cars. He didn’t like going on weekends, though. That’s when all the girls showed up, hanging around Soda—laughing, flipping their hair, leaning on the hood of Steve’s car like they owned it. Soc girls, too. Pony didn’t care much for girls, yet. Soda said he’d grow out of it. He had.

It was one of those warm spring days that started bright and sunny, but by evening the air had turned cool and heavy, the kind that makes you want to throw on a jacket. They were walking home—Steve had left his car at the station—kicking rocks and finishing off their last bottle of Pepsi. As they passed the open field at the corner of their block, the place where they usually played football or sometimes held rumbles, Steve suddenly slowed down.

“Hey,” he said, crouching down. “Ain’t this Johnny’s jacket?”

It was. His old blue-jeans jacket—the only one he had. Steve slung it over his shoulder, ready to drop it off at Johnny’s house, but then he paused brow furrowing. He held the jacket up to the fading light.

There was a dark, rust-colored stain across the collar.

Steve’s eyes drifted to the grass. More stains. Then he looked across the field, and his face went pale.

We all saw it at the same time—a crumpled shape lying on the other side of the lot. Soda got there first.

Johnny was facedown in the grass.

Soda turned him over gently, and I nearly lost it. Someone had torn him up bad.

We were used to seeing Johnny banged up. His old man knocked him around like a punching bag. It always made us sick, but this… this was something else. His face was a mess—swollen, cut, bruised. A jagged gash ran from his temple down his cheekbone, and his white T-shirt was soaked in blood.

Pony stood there shaking like the cold had crawled into my bones. Pony thought he was dead. No one could look like that and still be breathing.

Steve dropped to his knees with a groan. Two-Bit showed up beside me, his usual grin gone, eyes dark and stormy. Darry had seen them from the porch and came running, skidding to a stop when he saw Johnny. Dally was there too. He turned away, muttering under his breath, looking sick.

Dally, who’d seen people die on the streets of New York, looked like he might puke. That scared me more than anything.

“Johnny?” Soda lifted him, holding him close. “Hey, Johnnycake.”

Johnny didn’t open his eyes, but his lips moved. “Soda?”

“Yeah, I’m here. Don’t talk, you’re okay now.”

“There was a bunch of them… a blue Mustang full,” Johnny whispered. “I got so scared…” He tried to swear but choked on it, then started crying, shaking so hard Soda could barely hold him. I’d seen Johnny take a beating with a two-by-four and not make a sound. This broke something in me.

Soda held him tighter. “It’s okay, Johnnycake. They're gone now. It’s over.”

Between sobs, Johnny told us what happened. He’d been looking for the football to practice kicks when the Mustang pulled up. Four Socs jumped him. One had a hand full of rings—that’s what tore him up so bad. It wasn’t just the beating. They threatened him, made him feel small, helpless. And Johnny, already strung out from life at home, couldn’t take it. It wrecked him.

Pony thought back to the man in black—the contract he signed. The man had said his brother would be safe. That he’d give them the happiness they needed.

But the gang was his family, too. His brothers.

Pony clenched his fists, heart pounding with a sick kind of anger. He looked at Johnny, broken and bleeding, and something snapped. Then he hears a sinister laugh and turns to look over where the noise is coming from. There…there he was the older man standing there, leaning on his cane, with a smile that looked haunted. But he slowly fades away from sight.

Without saying a word, Pony turned and ran.

No one noticed—everyone was focused on Johnny. But Pony kept running, rage and guilt burning in his chest like fire.

Pony ran all the way to the auto shop his dad used to work at, legs burning and lungs aching, but he didn’t stop. Not until he reached that old garage door, paint chipped, a corner of the sign dangling like it had given up trying to hold on. He stood there for a second, hand hovering over the handle.

The smell hit him first—motor oil and rust, the faintest hint of cigarette smoke soaked into the walls. His dad’s scent. It nearly knocked him off his feet.

For a second, he just stood there, frozen. The memories hit in a rush—him sitting on the workbench, swinging his legs as his dad explained how spark plugs worked, or the way he’d get grease on his nose and pretend it was war paint.

But Pony shook it off. He pushed forward.

He opened the garage door fully, and the soft squeal of the metal echoed like a ghost across the empty shop. The air inside was heavy and stale, but familiar. Dust floated in thin sunbeams streaming through the high windows. And there it was.

In the corner, half-buried in shadows, was something covered in a weather-beaten tarp. He squinted at it, curiosity tugging at his chest. Slowly, cautiously, he walked up to it.

“C’mon…” he muttered, gripping the dusty cover and yanking it off with one smooth motion.

The tarp fluttered to the floor, and underneath, a motorcycle stood like a time capsule.

Sleek, black with cobalt blue and red flames curling along the side like lightning. His dad’s unfinished pride and joy.

Pony’s breath caught in his throat. He dropped to his knees, running his hands gently along the side of it like it might vanish if he touched too hard.

“You were really workin’ on this, huh, papa?” he whispered.

It looked almost done. And somehow, miraculously, clean. Maybe someone had been tending to it…. weird.

He didn’t waste time.

He hopped up and started looking for the keys, digging through the drawers and pegboard boxes, until finally, he found them in an old coffee tin labeled “DAD’S STUFF.”

His fingers curled around the familiar metal shape, heart thudding now with something other than pain.

He wheeled the bike out into the alleyway, sunlight bouncing off the chrome. He climbed on, heart pounding harder with every second.

He didn’t think. He just turned the key. The engine sputtered—then roared to life.

The sound echoed off the brick buildings like a growl from the past, and that was all it took.

Pony took off.

No helmet, no plan, no thought. Just flying down side streets, gripping the handlebars like a lifeline. The wind screamed past his ears and tore at his hair, and for the first time all day—hell, all week—he could breathe.

The tears stung but never fell.

He rode past corners where he used to walk with Johnny, past the lot where the fight happened, past the diner where he used to go with Soda and Darry after school. He didn’t stop. He didn’t even slow down.

“Why? I thought you said they wouldn’t get hurt. Oh, Johnny, I’m so sorry.”

The wind had died down as Pony slowed the motorcycle. The sun had dipped low, turning the sky into a murky gold-orange wash. He was riding along a road not far from home now—quiet, almost peaceful. The engine hummed beneath him, steady, soothing. He could see the back fences of familiar houses, the silhouette of the water tower in the distance.

But then, like a crack ripping through glass—

An image.

A face. Twisted. Burning red eyes, horns curling from the skull. The Devil—the Devil. It flashed like a pulse in Pony’s vision, then vanished.

He blinked hard—

Then he was there.

An older man, standing right in the middle of the road, no warning, no sound—just there.

“Shit—!” Pony yanked the brake, tires screeching against the asphalt.

The motorcycle bucked forward violently, and he went flying off it like a ragdoll.

He landed hard, rolled once, and skidded to a stop just inches from the man’s boots.

Everything rang—his head, his ribs, his thoughts.

Before he could even groan, the man looked down at him with an icy stare and muttered:

“You’re no good to me dead.”

Then without warning, the man grabbed Pony by the collar and slammed his head down against the pavement. Waking him up from the dead.

Stars burst behind Pony’s eyes.

He gasped, blinking up dazedly, and saw the man’s face—smirking, calm, cruel.

Pony sat up slowly, blood at the edge of his lip, then got to his feet, staggering back a few steps. He pointed at the man, voice rough and shaking:

“You. You said they’d be safe.”

The man’s smile only widened. His eyes glittered with something ancient and awful.

“I said your brothers would be safe. Your bloodline, not some silly friends that you think are brothers. That was the deal.”

He tilted his head mockingly.

“I had to make sure your friend got jumped. I couldn’t let him come between us.”

Pony’s face twisted with rage, his chest heaving.

“You son of a bitch—!”

He lunged at the man, fist ready to swing—but he vanished.

Pony’s hand swung through nothing. He fell forward, hitting the ground hard again.

“Damn it!” he spat, scrambling to his feet and whipping around, scanning the shadows.

A cold whisper breezed behind him.

“One day,” the voice said calmly.

“When I need you… I will come.”

Pony flinched, spinning around. The man was behind him now, standing far too close.

“Until then…”

The man reached out and placed a hand over Pony’s heart.

Pony froze.

He couldn’t move—his body locked like it was bolted in place.

A glow sparked beneath the man’s palm—red flames, electric. It spread through Pony’s chest like fire through dry grass, crawling into his veins.

His breath hitched, and his limbs trembled.

“Forget about family. Forget about love…” the man murmured darkly, almost gently.

Then he leaned in, his mouth beside Pony’s ear.

“You’re mine, Ponyboy Curtis.”

Pony’s eyes widened. His?

“You sign the contract.”

The man stepped back slowly—

Then shoved Pony’s chest with both hands.

The force sent him crashing to the ground once more.

When Pony looked up, coughing and panting—

The man was gone.

The road was silent.

The air is still.

The motorcycle laid sideways in the gravel, engine still sputtering.

Pony stayed on the ground, staring up at the empty sky, his heart pounding in a rhythm that no longer felt like his own. The sky darkened all at once, like someone had pulled a curtain over the sun.

Clouds rolled in fast, heavy, and low, swallowing the last of the golden light. The air grew thick—oppressive—like it was holding its breath.

Ponyboy stayed on the ground, staring up at the swirling sky. A low rumble echoed overhead, and then—

CRACK!

A bolt of lightning slashed through the clouds, so close it lit up the entire road in an eerie white flash.

He winced and slowly pushed himself up, still shaking. Dirt clung to his arms and the side of his face. His heart thudded painfully against his ribs, the echo of that man’s words ringing louder than the thunder.

“Forget about family. Forget about love… You’re mine, Ponyboy Curtis. You signed the contract.”

He spat into the dirt and wiped his face with the back of his hand, anger and fear knotting in his gut.

This wasn’t a dream.

That man—whoever... Whatever he was—had been real.

And Johnny getting jumped wasn’t random. His parents' deaths, sure in hell, weren’t either.

Pony’s hands curled into fists at his sides.

He hated that. Hated that someone had used his best friend to get to him.

And worse… that the deal had been real.

He stumbled over to the motorcycle, now tipped on its side in the gravel, one mirror cracked. He knelt down, gripping the handlebars, and righted it slowly. His fingers were trembling.

Another flash of lightning lit the sky, followed by thunder that shook the ground.

Pony climbed on the bike and kicked it alive again. The engine coughed but started.

He didn’t care how fast he was going.

Didn’t care about the storm building overhead.

He just wanted to go home.

The ride back was silent, no wind this time—just that heavy gloom pressing in from all sides. Rain started falling in sharp, scattered drops, cold against his skin.

His mind was a storm too—flashes of the deal, of Johnny bleeding in the alley, of that smirking bastard whispering his full name like it was a curse.

Pony’s jaw clenched.

He wasn’t a pawn.

He wasn’t anyone’s to own.

But that didn’t change what had happened.

And now—

Now he didn’t even know what had been set in motion.

He pulled up to the house, engine rattling to a stop, the rain now coming harder. He sat there for a second, soaked, staring at the front steps.

Chapter Text

I lowkey need to get better at my coloring... 

Chapter Text

Pony stood there on the porch, dripping, staring at the front steps like they might swallow him whole. Rain clung to his eyelashes, rolled down the back of his neck, and soaked through his shirt, but he barely felt it. He sucked in a shaky breath, reached for the doorknob, and pushed it open. After the interaction with the old hag. Pony didn’t know what to think anymore.

The first thing he heard was voices. Darry and Soda.
Inside, the living room was dim, only the lamp by the couch lit. Johnny was stretched out there, wrapped in a blanket, chest rising slow and shallow. His face full of cuts and soon to be scars…he looked smaller than usual, pale against the fabric. He didn’t stir. Those Socs really did a number on him.

Pony froze, his eyes lingering on Johnny before the low rumble of Darry’s voice pulled his attention back.

“I’m behind on the bills,” Darry muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m working double, but it ain’t enough. I don’t know what else to do. Feels like I’m drowning. How did mom and dad do it?”

Soda sat hunched across from him, elbows on his knees. “Then let me do it. I’ll quit school, Darry. Work the DX full-time. We’ll keep up.”

Darry’s head snapped up, eyes sharp. “You ain’t dropping out, Soda. Don’t even start.”

But Soda didn’t back down. His voice rose, not angry—just stubborn. “I’m no good at school. Never was. But I am good at working. I like it. I can make real money, and maybe then you can work a little less hard. Please Darry let me help you.”

Darry groaned, dragging his hand down his face. “Soda…” His voice cracked with frustration, the weight of everything pressing down. “If you do this—you better not regret it. You hear me? Don’t come to me years from now wishing you didn’t throw it away.”

Soda leaned back, shoulders squared. “I ain’t gonna regret a thing. School doesn't make me happy. But helping my family does.”

Darry just let his hand drop and stared at the floor for a moment, like he couldn’t fight anymore. His voice was rough when he finally said, “Thank you… but what about Pony? He won’t take this easy. You know he looks up to you.”

“Pony… I'm sure he'll understand.”

From the doorway, Pony stiffened. The words sank in like stones. He hadn’t realized how much they’d been keeping from him. This made Pony frustrated. Wasn't that old bastard supposed to protect his brothers?! He clenched his fist around the door knob.

Before they could notice him listening, he pulled the door shut quietly—then shoved it back open with a slam, like he was just walking in.

The brothers’ heads snapped around at once.

“Ponyboy?” Darry was on his feet in seconds, storming toward him. His hands cupped Pony’s soaked face, tilting it up, his voice sharp with panic. “Why’re you wet? Where the hell were you after Johnny got jumped? You know how late it is?! Pony you could've been put in a boys home!”

Pony pulled back, scowling, trying to sound casual. “I’m fine, alright? Quit fussin’.”

Darry just shook his head and disbelief “Pony are you serious? I ain’t gonna stop fussing about this. You could have at least called us. Pony-”

Pony glanced at Johnny on the couch, his expression softening just a little. “How’s he?”

Soda and Darry exchanged a look—something quiet and heavy passing between them. Soda cleared his throat. Hoping to stop a up coming fight between his brothers.

“He’s holdin’ up. Needs rest.” Then, almost to himself, “We’re gonna figure things out.”

Darry shook his head again, exhaling hard, then snapped, “Go change your clothes before you catch pneumonia. Now. The rest of the gang’s comin’ by—they’ll stay tonight so Johnny ain’t alone.”

Pony just nodded, muttered “Fine,” and started toward his room.

But his mind wasn’t on the rain soaking through his shirt.
It was on what he’d overheard.

Soda… dropping out.

And how fast Darry’s voice had cracked when he said he was drowning. He hated it.

Pony changed into a dry shirt and sweats, rubbing his hair with a towel before heading back to the living room. The house felt heavier now, quieter. Everything just felt too gloomy now…

The whole gang was there, scattered around but hushed. Two-Bit leaned against the armchair, flipping his switchblade open and shut without a word. Steve sat slouched, arms folded, tapping his foot in an uneven rhythm. Soda perched on the arm of the couch, his smile dim but trying. They were quieter than usual, they didn't want to wake up Johnny.

And Dally—Dally was sitting on the floor, back against the couch, head tilted back, eyes half-shut but sharp as ever. Johnny lay stretched out above him, asleep, his breathing soft and uneven. He was worried. That look he had on when he saw Johnny on the floor of the parking lot. He looked like he could kill somebody. His eyes are full of hatred, cold, nasty. Those Socs were lucky Dally didn't catch them.

Pony slipped into the room, and a couple of them looked up.

“Hey, Pony,” Two-Bit greeted, his voice low but still playful. “Somebody told me you came home lookin’ like a wet dog.” He snickered.

Pony rolled his eyes and smirked a little. “Yeah, well, better than smellin’ like one.”

Two-bit chuckled, then the quiet settled back in. Pony drifted toward Johnny, crouching down by the couch. Carefully, he brushed a lock of dark hair off Johnny’s forehead, staring at his friend’s pale face.

He felt Dally’s eyes on him.

“Where’d you go?” Dally asked flatly, his voice carrying more weight than the words.

Pony didn’t look at him. “Somewhere,” he muttered, keeping his eyes on Johnny.

The silence stretched. Dally’s jaw ticked.

“Somewhere, huh?” His voice got sharp. “Johnny would’ve liked it if you were here. Maybe you should’ve stayed instead of leavin’. Maybe you should’ve used your head—like your brother’s always tellin’ me.”

Pony felt something flare hot in his chest, an urge to snap back that he didn’t even recognize. His skin prickled like he’d stepped too close to a fire. Why was he burning up? Was it because of that man—the one with the cane, the one who’d talked about shadows and deals? He feels like he’s about to be on fire.

Before he could spit out whatever was rising in his throat, Soda broke in, clapping his hands once like he was cutting the tension. “Me and Steve are hittin’ up a drag race later. Dally, you comin’? Bring Sylvia if you want. We’re takin’ the girls.”

Steve snapped at Pony. “No little kids allowed. Tagalongs don’t need to come.”

Pony didn’t even look at him. He just kept his eyes locked on Dally, and Dally—strangely—kept his gaze right back, like they were in some kind of standoff neither wanted to admit to. Dally had noticed Pony was about to go off on him. and I made him confused. never once did that kid ever stand up to him let alone to anybody. Why did it seem like the kid was hotheaded?

Finally, Pony stood, his voice clipped. “I’m gonna go do homework. Tell Johnny I said goodnight when he wakes up.”

Dally’s brows lifted, the faintest arch, like he couldn’t decide if Pony was hiding something.

Pony turned and shut his bedroom door behind him, leaning against it once it clicked closed. His hands were trembling, his head buzzing, and he couldn’t figure out why.

Pony leaned back against the door the second it shut, head resting on the wood. He dragged in a deep breath, rubbing his face with both hands, trying to cool off the storm still buzzing in his chest.

He crossed the room and sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the floor. All he could think about was Darry’s voice earlier—tired, worn, worried about money. About bills. About them. Pony chewed on his lip. How could he help? How could he make things easier?

His mind spun, until one word broke through.

Drag race.

Pony sat up straighter. His eyes flicked to the window, where outside, under the streetlight’s dull glow, he could see the shape of his dad’s old motorcycle parked by the garage.

His gaze dropped to his hand. He flexed his fingers, remembering the strange heat from earlier, the cut on his thumb, the deal—if it even was real. He shook his head, sighing. Just don't think about it Pony. Just do it.

Pony went to his closet and pulled down a dusty box. Inside was his dad’s old riding helmet, scratched up but solid, with a visor that would cover his face. He slid it out, setting it carefully on the bed. Then he tugged out a beaten, ugly leather jacket that looked like it had survived a war. It hung heavy on him, smelled like oil and rain, but it would do.

He strapped the helmet under his arm, slipped on the jacket, and crossed to the window. Unlocking it, he pushed it open and climbed out, dropping onto the wet grass with a quiet thud.

Standing there in the dark, Pony glanced back at the house. The lights were low, the gang still murmuring in the other room.

“Hope Darry doesn’t check on me tonight…” he muttered under his breath, pulling the helmet on.

***

Pony standing in an abandoned lot, the kind of place everyone knew was made for drag races. Old tires, broken glass, and spray-painted walls gave the area a rough edge. Floodlights from parked cars lit up the strip of cracked pavement ahead, and the sound of engines revving and people cheering carried through the night.

A tall, broad man with tattoos covering both arms stood in front of Pony. He wore sunglasses even though the sky was pitch-black, which made him look even meaner.

“Come on, man,” Pony said, clutching his hand at his side. Wearing his helmet so nobody can know it was him “Just let me ride tonight. Just once. I promise—I’m a good rider.”

The man barked out a laugh, then turned away, calling to a group gathered near the starting line. “Race is about to start!” He looked back at Pony, grinning. “If you wanna join in, you gotta pay.”

“Pay?” Pony’s face twisted. He jogged a few steps to keep up with him. “I thought racers got paid. Since when do you gotta pay first?”

The man shrugged, that smirk never leaving his face. “Since now. Truth is, kid—I don’t like you. So you pay.”

Heat rose in Pony’s chest. He lowered his head, slapped his hands against his thighs, then forced himself to look the guy dead in the eye. “Listen… if I win, you take half my earnings. If I don’t, I’ll work for you. Whatever you need. No payments. Free labor from me.”

That made the man pause. Slowly, his grin widened. “Now you’re talking.” He folded his arms. “You got a vehicle, kid?”

Pony lifted his chin and pointed toward the motorcycle parked shiny beautifully under the moonlight.

The guy tilted his head, one brow arching over his shades. “A motorcycle? No car? That’s… unusual.”

Pony adjusted his helmet and smirked just a little under his helmet. “Yeah. Well… so am I.”

The man with the tattoos laughed, shaking his head. “Kid, I think I’m startin’ to like you.”

He led Pony over to the strip where cars were lined up, engines rumbling like beasts caged and waiting to be let loose. People crowded around, cheering, hollering, some with beer bottles raised. The man flagged down one of his buddies, a lean guy holding a megaphone.

“There’s gonna be one more racer tonight,” Tattooed Man said.

His buddy gave him a look, brow furrowing. “Who?”

Tattooed Man jerked his thumb back toward Ponyboy.
The buddy squinted, then scoffed. “You serious? Him?” He thought it was a joke.

“The kid says he’s good,” Tattooed Man shrugged. “We’ll see.”

The buddy sighed like he couldn’t believe it, then walked straight up to Pony, sizing him up with a mix of disbelief and curiosity. “Alright, kid. What’s the name you’re going by?”

Pony blinked. “Name?”

“Yeah,” the buddy said flatly. “You wanna use your real name like the rest of ‘em? Or you gonna make one up?”

For a second, Pony hesitated. Then he glanced at his bike, thought about his dream, about the fire in his chest, about the figure that had stopped him in his nightmare. He lifted his chin.

“Ghost Rider.”

The buddy raised his brows. “…Right.” He didn’t argue. Instead, he walked back to the line, lifting the megaphone to his mouth.

“Alright, folks—we’ve got a late entry tonight! Give it up for… Ghost Rider!”

As Pony rode his motorcycle into place, sliding up beside the growling cars, the crowd reacted instantly. Booing, laughing, jeering.

“What’s this, a circus act?” someone shouted.

“Kid’s gonna eat pavement!” another voice chimed in.
Pony ignored them. He kept his grip firm on the handlebars, his eyes set straight ahead. The biked purred beneath him like it was waiting for his signal.

One of the racers in a souped-up Chevy leaned out his rolled-down window, grinning like a wolf. “You think you’re good, huh, kid?”

Pony chuckled under his breath, turning just enough to meet his eyes. “Good? Nah…” His smirk sharpened. “I’m the greatest rider on this Earth.”

Engines roared louder, the flag girls raised their arms, and the crowd surged forward, hungry for the race.

The two girls strutted out to the center, flags high. The engines snarled, headlights burning through the night. Pony tightened his grip on the handlebars, the leather of his dad’s old gloves creaking. His heart pounded with the crowd’s roar.

The flags dropped.

The cars shot forward, tires screaming against the pavement, smoke curling up from the rubber. The whole strip shook with the sound of engines tearing through the night. Pony didn’t move.

He just sat there.

The crowd erupted in boos and laughter, yelling over each other.

“Kid’s scared!”

“Guess Ghost Rider’s already dead!”

Even the other racers looked back, grinning, certain he was just another wannabe.

Pony let them think it. He drew a slow breath, eyes narrowing beneath the visor of his helmet. Then, with a twist of his wrist—

The motorcycle came alive.

The engine howled like a beast unleashed, and Ponyboy shot forward. The sudden burst made the front wheel lift slightly off the ground before slamming back down. He threaded through the cloud of exhaust, weaving past the first car, then another, then another.

The crowd’s laughter cut off. Gasps replaced it.

“Holy hell—he’s flying!” someone shouted.

Pony leaned into the turns, hair whipping beneath the helmet, sparks flashing as the bike scraped the edge of the lane. The cars that had mocked him a second ago blurred behind him like they weren’t even moving. He wasn’t just keeping up—he was eating the track alive.
By the halfway mark, Pony was at the front, the motorcycle roaring like thunder while the cars scrambled to catch up.

The crowd went wild, the jeers flipping into cheers.

The wind ripped against Pony’s face as he shot ahead, the engine snarling under him. For a moment, he felt untouchable. But the drivers weren’t about to let some kid on a motorcycle humiliate them.

The first car swerved, cutting into his lane. Pony leaned hard, almost brushing the bumper as he slid past, sparks kicking up when his pedal scraped the asphalt. Gasps rose from the crowd. “The fuck?! Hey man, calm down!” Pony yells at the other racers. They were actually tryna kill him.
“Kid’s gonna kill himself!” someone yelled.

Another racer came up on his right, edging closer, closer—trying to pin him in. Pony gritted his teeth, twisted the throttle, and ducked low. The motorcycle leapt forward, slipping between the two cars like a shadow. For a split second, he could feel the heat of their engines on both sides, then he was free again.

The cars roared behind him, headlights glaring, drivers shouting curses out their windows. They were bigger, heavier, but Pony had what they didn’t: fearlessness.
A sharp curve loomed ahead. The other racers braked, tires shrieking. Pony didn’t. He leaned in, body almost parallel to the ground, his dad’s bike hugging the curve like it was born for it. The crowd screamed, certain he’d wipe out—then erupted when he straightened the bike without slowing down.

At the last stretch, one of the lead cars gunned forward, desperate to take him out. The driver jerked the wheel, swiping at Pony’s back tire. Pony felt the bike jolt—nearly lost it—but he forced himself steady, the handlebars trembling under his grip. His heart was pounding out of his chest, but he didn’t back off.

Instead, he laughed. A sharp, reckless laugh that carried into the night. “WOOHOO! HELL YEAH!”

***

Soda and Steve showed up with Sandy and Evie at their sides, both girls already buzzing from the excitement. Dally drifted in behind them, Sylvia hanging off his arm like she owned it. The group squeezed into a spot on the old metal bleachers, the noise of the crowd rattling the whole place.

“The race is starting soon!” the announcer’s voice blasted through the megaphone, and the crowd erupted into cheers. Soda jumped up, waving his arms. “Let’s go! Hype it up!” he hollered, grinning ear to ear before leaning down to plant a kiss on Sandy’s cheek. She laughed, cheeks pink, and shoved him playfully.

Steve rolled his eyes at the display, but when Evie nudged him, he slung an arm around her anyway, muttering something that still made her smile.

Dally, though, didn’t join in. He lit a cigarette, the flare of the lighter catching the sharp line of his face. He leaned back on the bleacher, blowing out a stream of smoke like he had all the time in the world. Sylvia tugged at his sleeve, pouting.

“Well, aren’t you gonna hug me too?” she whined, clinging tighter.
Dally gave her one sharp look, his jaw tightening. “Piss off, Sylvia. I ain’t in the mood." He wasn't in the mood right now, one Johnny was hurt, two Pony was going to bite back at him. That stupid kid, when did he get balls? That's why he’s even at this place to calm “down”. By Johnny words.

She froze, shocked, before huffing and folding her arms across her chest. She sat back with a pout, glaring off into the crowd.

Down at the line, the racers revved their engines one by one, each trying to outdo the next with screeches of burning rubber and cocky little stunts. The crowd ate it up, hollering at every name called.

Then—suddenly—the announcer was interrupted. A tall, buff guy covered in tattoos, sunglasses on even in the dark, stalked up to him. The two exchanged a few sharp words, voices carrying over the crowd. The buff guy jabbed a finger toward the sidelines. The announcer hesitated, looked over, and finally nodded before stepping back to the mic.

“Alright, folks—we’ve got a late entry tonight! The crowd hushed in curiosity. “Give it up for… Ghost Rider!”

A lone figure rolled forward on a motorcycle, leather jacket worn and ugly, helmet hiding his face. The bike’s low growl stood out against the roar of car engines.
The crowd booed instantly, jeering at the newcomer. A kid on a bike? What a joke.

Soda and Steve traded confused looks, the girls leaning forward to see better.

“A motorcycle?” Soda muttered. “That’s kinda tuff, actually.”

Steve shook his head. “tuff, maybe. But it ain’t common. Nobody’s dumb enough to run a bike in a drag race. Not here. Not in Oklahoma. This is new.”

Dally leaned forward, eyes narrowing on the rider, a half-smirk curling his lip. “Ghost Rider, huh?”

The girls raised their flags and dropped them—the signal. Engines roared to life and the cars launched forward, tires screaming against the cracked pavement. The crowd went wild.

But the kid on the motorcycle? He didn’t move. He sat there, bike rumbling low, letting every car tear off into the distance.

“Ha!” Dally barked a laugh, leaning forward with his smoke dangling from his lips. “Kid’s either real stupid or real cocky.” He wasn’t usually one to care about drag races—Steve was the gearhead, not him—but something about this had him hooked. This rider was different. Amusing.

Then, just as the boos grew louder, the motorcycle roared. The kid leaned forward, and the bike shot off like a bullet, eating up the stretch of road. One by one, he flew past the cars like they were standing still. The crowd gasped, then cheered, the sudden shift electric in the air.

Soda’s jaw dropped, his earlier comment forgotten. “Holy hell,” he muttered, eyes wide. “He’s actually—he’s smokin’ them!”

Steve, usually smug about his knowledge of cars, just whistled low, impressed despite himself. “Yeah… okay. That’s somethin’ else.”

Sandy and Evie clutched each other, squealing half in shock, half in excitement, while the rest of the stands erupted around them.

Dally grinned around his cigarette, eyes fixed on the rider. “Now this is a show.” Too bad he couldn't see who was riding the motorcycle.

The crowd was eating it up now, hollering louder with every second the motorcycle tore down the strip. But the drivers weren’t taking kindly to being shown up. One swerved hard, trying to cut the kid off. Another leaned his car over the line, forcing him toward the edge of the track.

Boos erupted from the stands. “Cheap shots!” someone yelled. “Play fair!”

But the rider didn’t flinch. He ducked and weaved, slipping between bumpers like it was nothing. The bike tilted dangerously close to the asphalt once or twice, the crowd gasping, but each time he pulled it back steady—like he’d planned it all along.

And then, after zipping past another car that nearly clipped him, his voice cut through the night. “WOOHOO! HELL YEAH!”

The sound wasn’t cocky—it was pure joy, like the kid was having the time of his life.

Dally’s grin tugged wider. “Would ya look at that,” he muttered, half to himself. “Kid don’t give a damn—he’s actually havin’ fun.”

Soda leaned forward, eyes shining. “He’s insane,” he said, almost laughing. “A real badass.”

Steve crossed his arms but couldn’t hide his smirk. “Yeah… no kidding Soda. Two-bit is so missing out.”

***

Pony gunned the throttle, the motorcycle screaming beneath him as the finish line came rushing closer. Wind tore at his jacket, his heartbeat racing faster than the engine. And then—he crossed it. First place.

The crowd erupted. Cheers roared through the night, the chant rising in waves: “GHOST RIDER! GHOST RIDER!”
Pony let off the gas, slowing down, chest heaving from the adrenaline. But just as he started to catch his breath—he froze.

Something was standing in the middle of the track. Not a person. A monster. Its skin looked gray and rotted, its jaw hanging crooked, eyes hollow and glowing like coals.
“—No way,” Pony gasped. He slammed on the brakes, the bike screeching, the back wheel fishtailing. His body lurched forward, nearly throwing him over the bars, but he held tight, stopping just short of the thing.

His eyes went wide beneath the helmet. His pulse thundered. His gaze darted to the stands. For a heartbeat, the crowd looked like a sea of corpses—sunken faces, clawed hands reaching, mouths gaping open. But then, just as suddenly, they were only people again. Laughing, screaming, cheering for him

In its place, human beings, the announcer with the megaphone walked calmly toward him. For a split second, though—his face rippled, jaw stretching into the same undead horror.

Pony squeezed his eyes shut, forcing a breath, and when he opened them again—it was just the man. Normal. Flesh and blood. Did he mistakenly think the man has a monster? And the crowd? But how?! What is going on?
Pony’s chest rose and fell hard. His knuckles were white on the handlebars. What the hell is happening to me?

The announcer grabbed his wrist, raising his arm. On the other side, the tattooed man in the sunglasses lifted his other hand, holding it high for the whole crowd to see.

“The winner—Ghost Rider!”

The place exploded, the chant echoing into the night. Pony just sat there, caught in the middle of it, his victory drowned out by the shadows of what he thought he saw.