Johnny had never felt this awful before.

  The bck sun had fully ripened, sending its rays through his entire skeleton. It was like carrying a bomb inside himself. Only through sheer willpower was Johnny holding back the explosion.

  He could feel it. He knew. This wouldn’t be like the underground fights. This time, the fire would break free, leveling entire buildings. And worst of all, Zarathos demanded sacrifices. If he exploded in an open field, the berserk Ghost Rider would march into the city, punishing everyone in his path.

  Johnny had to release the fire in a real criminal ghetto. That was the only way he could become the Ghost Rider and keep his sanity.

  Unfortunately, he didn’t know of such a pce, and setting off in just any crime-ridden neighborhood was shortsighted and inhumane. Statistically speaking, even in Hell’s Kitchen, only about fifteen percent of the popution were criminals—the rest were just regur people.

  Yeah… maybe deleting Gary’s contact had been premature. Setting up a meeting with Kingpin through him and decapitating New York’s underworld would have been ideal.

  Johnny was already in a foul mood. It got even worse after the family breakfast. His father had uploaded the security camera footage of Johnny efficiently taking down the thugs onto YouTube. The video already had a million views, his father was thrilled, and Johnny had to spend the whole day at school politely declining requests to "show a spin kick."

  Danny and Barb were practically bouncing off the walls after watching the video, demanding that Johnny teach them some cool moves. And, as always, Melissa kept throwing in her snide remarks.

  Johnny may have looked the same as usual, locking all his worries deep inside, but Naomi had noticed that something was wrong. Maybe she had used her magical sight. She suggested that Johnny stay home today, to which he sharply refused. Exploding in the house with his family inside would be even worse.

  So, Johnny spent the entire day lost in thought, ignoring school life. He didn’t even notice when he arrived at his office and just stood there, silently staring out the window.

  The door opened, and Tim walked in. A fresh bruise decorated his face, and his eyes darted nervously around.

  Johnny gnced up, focused on the clear signs of violence, and, for the first time that day, something besides his own problems caught his interest.

  "Talk," Johnny said shortly, pointing to an empty chair.

  Tim nodded and started:

  "It’s my cousins…"

  "They couldn’t have been released," Johnny said, a hint of surprise in his voice. "Did they escape from prison?"

  "Thank God, no," Tim exhaled, though his anxiety didn’t fade. "It’s their father—my uncle. He found out what happened and lost it. When I got home, he stormed in with my mom, hit me, and told me to pass you a message…" Tim hesitated before blurting out, "He said you need to come talk to him. After school today. Or he’ll burn down the school."

  Johnny listened calmly. His face betrayed no emotion. He simply asked,

  "Address?"

  "Mr. Bze… my uncle is a very bad man," Tim lowered his head and spoke in a hushed voice. "I know he killed someone in Thaind. And here… he’s been busy too. He’s the one who supplied my cousins with drugs. He has his own gang…" Tim looked up and met his eyes. "Mr. Bze, don’t go there! That house is full of gangsters. They stash drugs and weapons there. My uncle won’t talk to you. If you walk into that house, you’ll never come out."

  "Don’t worry, Tim. I’m not walking into an obvious trap," Johnny gave a slight smile. "But I do need the address so my father can organize a raid. A house full of weapons—that’s serious. They’ll probably send in SWAT."

  That lie was enough to calm Tim down, and he promised not to tell anyone else.

  When Johnny was finally alone, he couldn’t hold back a smirk. Getting the address of a house full of scumbags on a day like this?

  [God loves me.]

  ///

  When csses ended, Johnny changed out of his school uniform into jeans, heavy boots, and his father’s old biker jacket. The jacket was worn, carrying the distinct scent of oil and smoke. It felt like a part of him—a symbol of readiness for battle.

  The fire inside was growing stronger. He walked down the street like a soldier, his thoughts loud, almost deafening:

  [Today, I'm not just going to settle a score. Today, I'm putting an end to this. Threatening a school—this is a new line I won’t let them cross. There won’t be a fight today. Today, there will be war.]

  He arrived at the address Tim had given him. It was an ordinary house with peeling paint and broken shutters. Johnny circled the perimeter, studying the area.

  Out back, there was a yard with a chained dog. The guard dog growled and lunged at him. Johnny instinctively stepped aside, dodging its jaws. With a swift move, he grabbed the dog by the neck and squeezed until it whimpered and went still. But he didn’t kill it.

  [Animals don’t deserve punishment. Even if they serve scum.]

  Peering through the window, Johnny saw a typical drug den. A bring TV, the stench of weed, someone snoring loudly in the corner. One man sat by the front door, gun in hand.

  Johnny scoffed internally:

  [Amateurs. Do they really think I’ll walk in through the front door?]

  The gangsters chatted zily, unaware that they were already in someone’s crosshairs.

  Johnny pulled three homemade grenades from his bag. Gas bombs, crafted from a recipe in a book about Nazi weapons. The chemicals inside were so concentrated that just one grenade could permanently blind a person. He threw all three.

  The grenades hit the floor with dull thuds and burst open, filling the room with thick, choking gas. The gangsters screamed:

  “My eyes! They’re melting!”

  “Someone brought a damn bazooka in here!” another one shrieked.

  They screamed, choked, cried, and slowly died.

  Johnny climbed in through the window. He wore a gas mask, and in his hands was a police baton—not a rubber one like his father’s, but iron. He moved with precision, striking without hesitation. One hit to the knee—gone. Another to the hand—gun dropped. Each blow was calcuted, like a line from an anatomy textbook.

  Grabbing one gangster by the hair, Johnny coldly asked:

  “Where’s your boss?”

  “Kitchen! Kitchen!” the man wheezed in agony. “I didn’t sign up for this! They just said we were taking out some school kid!”

  One swing of the baton knocked out his teeth, and Johnny moved on.

  In the kitchen, he found Tim’s uncle. The man was blindly fumbling across the floor, trying to find his gun. Johnny stepped on his fingers.

  “You… You’re Bze?” the boss wheezed. “What the hell are you… cough… after my boys for? Did they mess with your… business?”

  Johnny leaned in, watching as the bastard’s melted eyes twitched in agony.

  “I don’t care about business,” he said, his voice cold as ice. “Only scum like you kill for market control.”

  “You crazy? Cough What do you want?”

  “To punish the wicked,” Zarathos spoke. “Your sons were on my list. Now, it’s your turn.”

  “And what? You won’t kill me,” the criminal smirked. “I’ll be back, kid. I’ll burn down your school and your damn house.”

  Johnny stared at the pathetic, wheezing man before him. The gangster was completely blind from the gas, his skin covered in blisters.

  “No, you won’t.” Johnny’s voice was quiet but absolute. “You’re going to Hell. And I’ll be your guide.”

  He touched the Cross of Vengeance.

  At that moment, the world colpsed.

  The heat became unbearable, the air itself vibrated. Finally, the Spirit of Vengeance was free. A massive fming skull burst through the roof of the house.

  First came the heat—unrelenting, as if the earth itself had started melting. Then, the explosion—not just thunder, but a roar filled with the pain and fury of every soul ever wronged.

  The sky above the house cracked open, and from the rift, a fiery whirlwind shaped like a demon descended—straight into Johnny.

  He shrank into a small bck ember, and when the fire died down, Johnny stood where he had been, but now his eyes burned with hellfire, and his flesh was gone, revealing a charred skull.

  He had become the Ghost Rider.

  “What the hell?” the boss coughed, struggling to see. “Why is it so damn hot in here?”

  The Rider lifted him by the throat with one hand. It was so easy. His voice was deep, vibrating like rolling thunder:

  “Get used to it. In Hell, it’s always hot.”