A rusted sign clung to one post by a single nail: Perdition – Pop. 0. Johnny Blaze rolled through the skeletal remains of the town with the grumble of his bike echoing off decrepit storefronts and long-abandoned church walls. The sun was bleeding into the horizon, casting crimson light through shattered windows. He felt it in his bones — the whisper of something ancient and wrong, squirming beneath the surface of this place.
He hadn’t wanted to come back here. Not to this stretch of desert hell, not to the place where the deal was first struck — not to the town that had burned in silence when the devil came to collect a hundred souls for one broken promise.
But vengeance called, and Johnny Blaze didn’t ride by choice anymore.
He lit a cigarette and stepped into what used to be the sheriff’s office. Files coated in dust. A corpse hanging from the ceiling fan, swinging slowly. Skin flayed. Jaw broken open in a scream that never stopped. Words carved into his chest with something jagged and cruel:
WE'RE STILL HERE.
Johnny’s jaw clenched. Behind his eyes, something moved. Heat. Pressure. Rage.
He stepped outside and glanced up at the old water tower.
That’s where he saw them.
Not people. Shadows. Twisted, hunched figures crawling like insects across rooftops. Eyes glowing red. One of them leapt down, landed on all fours in front of him, twitching, snarling — then lunged.
In a flash of bone and fire, Johnny was gone. The Ghost Rider stood in his place.
Flaming skull roaring, jacket wrapped in smoldering chains, boots stomping out sparks. The demon slammed into him — and burst into a howl of pain as the Rider grabbed it by the throat. The hellfire in his palm burned truth into its rotting soul. The Penance Stare turned it inside out, showing it every crime it ever committed, every innocent it devoured, every scream it silenced.
The demon shrieked as its skull imploded from within, soul shattering like glass.
The other creatures screamed and scattered, scuttling down alleyways, into old mines, into the earth.
The Rider swung his leg back over the bike, tires screaming flames into the dirt.
He hunted.
Down a storm drain he rode, the tunnels groaning with ancient rot and the cries of the damned. He emerged into an underground chapel lit by flickering candles made of rendered flesh. Rows of pews filled with chained spirits. Children. Men. Women. Eyes hollow. Souls auctioned.
At the altar stood Father Malachi.
Once a man of God, now a monstrosity sewn together from his congregation. He wore their skin like robes. His face was stretched across several layers of bone and mouth. He did not speak — he sang, every note a different voice: choir, infant, prostitute, murderer.
> “You come again, spirit of vengeance. But the debt is paid. Perdition belongs to me.”
The Rider snapped his chain out like a whip, wrapping it around a pillar and yanking it to the ground. Rubble crashed through candles, spirits screamed in freedom, and Malachi surged forward like a tidal wave of blood.
They clashed with fire and violence that made the tunnels collapse.
Malachi’s claws dug deep into Ghost Rider’s chest, dragging across bone. But Ghost Rider didn’t flinch. He wrapped the chain around the abomination’s neck and pulled him in close. Flames erupted between them.
> “You’ve judged others for profit. Time to feel what they felt.”
The Penance Stare wasn’t quick this time. Johnny let it linger. Malachi shook and writhed, coughing out voices not his own. Children sobbing. Prayers unanswered. Murders unpunished. Souls torn apart inside him — and now he felt every second of it.
His screams echoed through the mines for six straight minutes before his body combusted in a ball of white-hot flame that scorched the stone black.
When it was over, only the chain remained — coiled in a pile of ash.
The souls were released. The spirits of Perdition passed into the wind like dust leaving a corpse.
The Ghost Rider walked out alone, smoke curling off his body, boots burning prints into the sand.
He found a can of gasoline by the sheriff’s station and poured it across the entire town. Let it soak into every wall, every beam, every place that had ever echoed a cry for help.
He lit a match off his thumb bone.
> “No forgiveness. No peace. Only judgment.”
He tossed the match, turned his back, and rode off as Perdition finally burned for real.
Behind him, fire engulfed the town. Screams echoed in the flames — but no one watched, no one cheered. Only the wind carried the last remnants of Perdition’s sins across the desert.
Somewhere, far away, Johnny Blaze stopped the bike and looked at the stars.
For a moment… they didn’t burn.
Then the Rider growled inside him again.
There’s always another town. Another sin.
The road doesn’t end.
The devil never sleeps.
And vengeance never forgets.
He hadn’t wanted to come back here. Not to this stretch of desert hell, not to the place where the deal was first struck — not to the town that had burned in silence when the devil came to collect a hundred souls for one broken promise.
But vengeance called, and Johnny Blaze didn’t ride by choice anymore.
He lit a cigarette and stepped into what used to be the sheriff’s office. Files coated in dust. A corpse hanging from the ceiling fan, swinging slowly. Skin flayed. Jaw broken open in a scream that never stopped. Words carved into his chest with something jagged and cruel:
WE'RE STILL HERE.
Johnny’s jaw clenched. Behind his eyes, something moved. Heat. Pressure. Rage.
He stepped outside and glanced up at the old water tower.
That’s where he saw them.
Not people. Shadows. Twisted, hunched figures crawling like insects across rooftops. Eyes glowing red. One of them leapt down, landed on all fours in front of him, twitching, snarling — then lunged.
In a flash of bone and fire, Johnny was gone. The Ghost Rider stood in his place.
Flaming skull roaring, jacket wrapped in smoldering chains, boots stomping out sparks. The demon slammed into him — and burst into a howl of pain as the Rider grabbed it by the throat. The hellfire in his palm burned truth into its rotting soul. The Penance Stare turned it inside out, showing it every crime it ever committed, every innocent it devoured, every scream it silenced.
The demon shrieked as its skull imploded from within, soul shattering like glass.
The other creatures screamed and scattered, scuttling down alleyways, into old mines, into the earth.
The Rider swung his leg back over the bike, tires screaming flames into the dirt.
He hunted.
Down a storm drain he rode, the tunnels groaning with ancient rot and the cries of the damned. He emerged into an underground chapel lit by flickering candles made of rendered flesh. Rows of pews filled with chained spirits. Children. Men. Women. Eyes hollow. Souls auctioned.
At the altar stood Father Malachi.
Once a man of God, now a monstrosity sewn together from his congregation. He wore their skin like robes. His face was stretched across several layers of bone and mouth. He did not speak — he sang, every note a different voice: choir, infant, prostitute, murderer.
> “You come again, spirit of vengeance. But the debt is paid. Perdition belongs to me.”
The Rider snapped his chain out like a whip, wrapping it around a pillar and yanking it to the ground. Rubble crashed through candles, spirits screamed in freedom, and Malachi surged forward like a tidal wave of blood.
They clashed with fire and violence that made the tunnels collapse.
Malachi’s claws dug deep into Ghost Rider’s chest, dragging across bone. But Ghost Rider didn’t flinch. He wrapped the chain around the abomination’s neck and pulled him in close. Flames erupted between them.
> “You’ve judged others for profit. Time to feel what they felt.”
The Penance Stare wasn’t quick this time. Johnny let it linger. Malachi shook and writhed, coughing out voices not his own. Children sobbing. Prayers unanswered. Murders unpunished. Souls torn apart inside him — and now he felt every second of it.
His screams echoed through the mines for six straight minutes before his body combusted in a ball of white-hot flame that scorched the stone black.
When it was over, only the chain remained — coiled in a pile of ash.
The souls were released. The spirits of Perdition passed into the wind like dust leaving a corpse.
The Ghost Rider walked out alone, smoke curling off his body, boots burning prints into the sand.
He found a can of gasoline by the sheriff’s station and poured it across the entire town. Let it soak into every wall, every beam, every place that had ever echoed a cry for help.
He lit a match off his thumb bone.
> “No forgiveness. No peace. Only judgment.”
He tossed the match, turned his back, and rode off as Perdition finally burned for real.
Behind him, fire engulfed the town. Screams echoed in the flames — but no one watched, no one cheered. Only the wind carried the last remnants of Perdition’s sins across the desert.
Somewhere, far away, Johnny Blaze stopped the bike and looked at the stars.
For a moment… they didn’t burn.
Then the Rider growled inside him again.
There’s always another town. Another sin.
The road doesn’t end.
The devil never sleeps.
And vengeance never forgets.
