Reborn as a Ghost Rider

Johnny's room was quiet, as if frozen in time. He tossed a tennis ball into the air, watching the clock's hands. This wasn't idle waiting or deep contemplation. He simply waited, like someone whose night schedule had long been fixed.

He knew the house would fall silent by 10:00 PM—thanks to his mother's magic. The idea of the curse that burdened him no longer filled him with doubt or pity. He had been preparing for it his whole life. Fights, training, understanding what evil was—all of it had shaped him long before the Cross of Vengeance hung around his neck.

9:50 PM. He caught the ball, set it on the nightstand, and started dressing. When the clock struck 10:00, Johnny was ready—composed, calm, determined.

Everything was as it had been for the past ten years of his life, except for the mystical fire flowing through his veins.

He quietly opened the door and stepped into the hallway. The house was steeped in nighttime silence, with only the faint green glow downstairs hinting that not everyone was asleep.

At the front door, they were already waiting for him. Naomi stood there, watching her son with concern, while Melissa, impeccably dressed in her maid uniform, stood beside her.

"Every time you leave, I feel guilty," she said, looking at her son.

"Mom, this doesn't weigh on me," Johnny replied calmly. "You gave me this power, and I know how to use it."

"I still worry," green sparks flickered on her fingers. "Putting the whole house to sleep so you can leave quietly… I should be doing more."

"Mistress Naomi, you're already capable of more than the circus magician job listed on your résumé," Melissa interjected snidely, her trademark smirk on display. "By the way, I'm still waiting for some gratitude for all the magic lessons."

"You'll get it when you thank me for the housekeeping courses I paid for," Naomi shot back with a squint.

Johnny sighed. Left unchecked, they could volley remarks at each other all night.

"I'm leaving," he said curtly. "I'll be back late as usual. Don't wait up."

Naomi looked at him with barely concealed desperation.

"Are you sure tonight will go smoothly? What if there's someone stronger than you out there?"

"The young master could use a guardian devil," Melissa said innocently, adjusting her white lace trim. "If only the wise mistress would grant her maid access to the old powers…"

"Not a chance, Snake," Naomi retorted. "No Grimoires. You can take care of my son with a mop and a ladle."

Johnny prepared to leave. He never needed help.

"Are you sure you're okay living with this curse?" Naomi asked.

"My skills are enough to keep me out of trouble," Johnny replied coldly.

"It's like you've been preparing for this your whole life," she whispered, her eyes lingering on his gear. "Zarathos hasn't been whispering in your sleep?"

His fingers unconsciously touched the Cross of Vengeance. The metal was icy, though the skin on his neck had long grown accustomed to its weight. He knew it was only a matter of moments before the cross ignited with fire—just as he would. It was the only time he truly felt alive.

"Not so sure anymore," he muttered and stepped out the door.

"And don't forget to punish every sinner in New York!" Melissa's cheerful voice followed him.

"You say that to him every night," Naomi noted reproachfully, nudging her in the side. "Is that your way of pretending to have authority over the Ghost Rider?"

"Yes, I miss the days when I could send the Rider to burn entire kingdoms with a snap of my fingers. Now, about the only thing I can command to Coal to swat a pesky fly in the kitchen. How dull."

Johnny shook his head, leaving the bickering women behind.

The city called.

Night wrapped New York in a dense blanket. Streetlights reflected in puddles, and distant cars roared. Johnny inhaled the cold air, feeling his heart start to race. This was his time. The time when the city became his arena and he, its judge.

---

Johnny walked down Brooklyn's dark streets, his hood pulled low, hands buried in his pockets. For him, this was routine. The hunt. A job he did every night, not because he wanted to, but because he had to.

He passed a bar, its bright neon sign flickering above. A group of men stood by the entrance, but Johnny ignored them. His target was in the parking lot. Several motorcycles were lined up neatly, like soldiers on parade.

"First, secure transport," he muttered to himself.

A mystical fact: even without transforming, the Ghost Rider could sense the sins of those around him, especially through touch.

A brief contact with the first handlebar. Images flashed: petty crimes, refusal to pay child support. Nothing serious. The second bike—same story. The third—drunk-driving his boss's car into a ditch. Closer, but not enough. Finally, the last one: a man robbing a gas station store a week ago.

Johnny froze, feeling the spark of anger ignite within him.

This one would do.

He climbed onto the motorcycle, gripping the handlebars. Of course, there were no keys, but that didn't matter. Johnny tightened his grip on the Cross of Vengeance hanging around his neck. The metal instantly heated up, and a wave of hellish energy surged through his body.

The fire ignited in an instant, engulfing Johnny from head to toe, consuming his flesh, skin, and hair. His jacket and jeans charred, then transformed into a fearsome new form: chains wrapped around his chest, boots gleamed with a metallic sheen, and his hood fell back, revealing a skull wreathed in hellfire. Even the motorcycle changed—its wheels became flaming circles, and its metallic body glowed with a sinister light.

Johnny was now the Ghost Rider.

He hit the gas, and the bike roared forward, leaving a fiery trail in its wake.

The city blurred past Johnny's hollow eye sockets. Night owls turned to look, but only for a fleeting moment. Too fast. Too unreal. Traffic cameras, phones in the hands of passersby—none could capture his true form.

The first step was complete. Transportation secured. Now, the hunt.

Johnny wasn't interested in chasing petty thieves or rescuing damsels in distress. That would be a waste of time. He recalled scrolling through his father's police chats, reading about criminals everyone knew about but lacked the evidence to arrest. The Francesco crime family. Tonight's target—their accountant.

He pulled up in front of a Bronx apartment building. The fire on his bike extinguished, leaving it an ordinary vehicle once again.

Mystical fact: Hellfire transformations only last as long as the Rider maintains contact with an object.

Johnny quickly surveyed the building. Four floors, guards on each one. The sin radars within him vibrated like the strings of a taut guitar. Everyone here was scum. No need to worry about collateral damage.

He approached the door and kicked it open in one swift motion. The crash echoed through the building, followed immediately by the sound of hurried footsteps.

"Who's there?!" shouted one of the guards.

Johnny stepped inside, his flaming skull illuminating the dark hallway.

"What the hell is that?!" one of them screamed. "It's a mutant!"

"Mutant or not, take him down!"

Johnny felt a faint sense of satisfaction. They weren't trying to run—that made the job easier.

Bullets flew, whistling past him, only to ricochet off his bones or burn up in the fire, leaving no mark. Johnny advanced, neither speeding up nor slowing down. With a broad swing of his arm, one guard erupted into flames, disintegrating in seconds. Another he hurled into a wall, cracking it. The rest he dispatched with their own gun, emptying the clip with frightening precision. Within a minute, twelve armed men were reduced to ash.

"Too easy," Johnny muttered to himself. "With powers, there's no challenge. Against ordinary thugs, it used to take strategy. Now, I can just plow through them like a tank."

He ascended the stairs. On the top floor, in an office, a man in a suit trembled. His eyes widened as he saw Johnny.

"Don't kill me!" he cried, collapsing to his knees. "I'm just an accountant! I'm not like them! I've never held a gun in my life, I just crunch numbers! I've done nothing wrong!"

Johnny leaned closer, his empty sockets blazing brighter.

"Let's see."

He activated the Penance Stare. The accountant's sins flashed before his eyes: money laundering, fraud, aiding in kidnappings, organizing human trafficking. In a single second, he felt all the pain and evil he had inflicted on others. The man no longer screamed; his will was utterly broken.

"Where are the weapons? The drugs?" Johnny's voice rumbled like thunder.

"In… the basement…" the accountant stammered, drool dripping from his mouth, his gaze vacant.

Johnny left the man crumpled on the floor like a sack of garbage. There was no need to worry about him escaping; his mind was shattered under the weight of his sins.

Johnny gathered all the contraband, piling it in the center of the room, and set it ablaze, watching as it turned to ash. It wouldn't return to the streets, where Danny and Barb played.

The safe door was torn off with ease. The cash inside was neatly packed into a suitcase and strapped to the bike.

Payment for cleansing the city of its filth.

He returned to the drooling, broken accountant on the floor.

"The Francesco family. Where are they?"

"They… they're at Don's birthday…," the man mumbled. "The address… is in my phone…"

If Johnny could smile, he would have.

"Perfect."

With a flick of his finger, he sent the man into flames and walked out of the building, leaving smoke and smoldering fire in his wake.

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