Steven Henderson rolled into his driveway, the hum of the bike fading as he cut the engine. His body was exhausted, drenched in the remnants of the fiery rage that had consumed him earlier. The tight pants Alejandra had offered him still felt uncomfortable, but in his mind, that discomfort was nothing compared to the chaos raging inside him. He had hoped for peace, but with every day, that hope slipped further away.
He stumbled through the front door, not bothering to lock it behind him, too lost in his thoughts to care. His usual clothes lay in the corner—his jacket, his faded jeans, and the boots he had come to associate with his identity. He changed quickly, stripping off Alejandra's clothes and tossing them aside with a sigh of relief. The moment his old attire slid on, it felt like a weight had been lifted, yet a strange weight remained. The fire within him, the power of the Ghost Rider, felt stronger than before.
Stepping into the center of the room, he took a deep breath, his eyes flicking to the candles scattered around the room. The warm light flickered in the otherwise empty space, reminding him of his past. He needed to find control. He had to master this power, or it would consume him completely.
He closed his eyes, concentrating, trying to focus his mind. For the first time since the pact with Mephistopheles, he felt something different—something new. His muscles pulsed, the strength in his body growing in ways he couldn't have imagined. The weight on his shoulders felt lighter, his every movement more controlled, more confident. His mind, once clouded by doubt and rage, now felt clear, sharper, almost… at peace.
But it wasn't peace he craved. It was vengeance.
"Blackout," Steven whispered under his breath. The name echoed in his thoughts, a constant reminder of the enemy he now had to face. Blackout, the creature of darkness, the embodiment of everything Steven hated. He had to end it. End him. And return to a normal life, even if that felt impossible.
But as he stood there, something shifted in him. The fire inside, the spirit within him, it was no longer something he feared. It was a part of him, an extension of his very soul. The pain, the rage, it had all melted away, replaced by something else—control.
Opening his eyes, Steven held out his hand in front of him, palm facing the low flames of the candles on the nearby table. He concentrated, and with a sharp exhale, fire leapt from his fingertips. It was small at first, the flames flickering like a candle's, but with a forceful thrust, it grew. His eyes widened with wonder as the fire exploded, crackling and dancing along his fingers.
He aimed the fire at the candles. One by one, the flames consumed the small wicks, lighting them all up in an instant. The room grew warmer, the air heavier with the power he now controlled.
"Hellfire," he murmured to himself, a grin pulling at the corners of his mouth. He could feel it now—the full weight of the power coursing through him. It was like a drug, and he was hooked.
He could control this. He would control this.
For the first time since the transformation, Steven felt a sense of accomplishment. A sense of purpose. The spirit inside him wasn't just a curse. It was an ally. An ally that would help him destroy Blackout.
But he couldn't forget why he was doing this. Peace. That's what he wanted. His old life, back. And to do that, he had to extinguish the darkness that Blackout embodied. There could be no other choice.
The fire simmered in his hand as he clenched his fist, flames dancing around his fingers like eager servants awaiting his command.
"Blackout…" he whispered again, this time with determination. "I'm coming for you."
***
The night fell like a cloak over the city, the last traces of daylights flickering out as the world was swallowed by a suffocating darkness. But tonight, there was something wrong. The moon, hanging high in the sky, wasn't the usual pale glow. It was red—an eerie, blood-stained orb that pulsed with an unnatural light, casting an ominous glow across the streets below. It bathed the city in an unsettling hue, like the eye of some ancient, watching predator.
As the streets grew silent and empty, the night felt heavier. The air, thick with tension, seemed to whisper of things long buried, of ancient secrets and unspeakable horrors. The red moon did not shine—it started, and everything beneath it trembled under its gaze.
In the shadows of the night, Blackout and his three companions walked in eerie unison, their footsteps a dull echo in the streets. Cloaked in darkness, they moved like ghosts, a presence unseen but deeply felt. Blackout, with his cold, calculating eyes, led the way, the hatred and malice in his heart palpable, his every step dripping with venom. His companions, equally shrouded in shadow, followed without question, their faces obscured, their bodies cloaked in layers of darkness.
They were not here for a simple confrontation. No, tonight, something far greater was at stake. The church—the cursed, ancient church of St. Isaac Lewington—held the secret they sought. Blackout could feel it in his bones, that hum of power that clung to the walls, that whispered from the cracks of the ancient stone. It was a place steeped in mystery and death.
"You feel it, don't you?" Blackout's voice was a soft growl, barely above a whisper, but it carried with a weight that seemed to choke the very air. "It's here. The power we need. Tonight, it ends."
His allies said nothing, their gazes locked on the church ahead. It loomed like a shadow, twisted and decaying, its spires reaching into the sky like the talons of a ravenous beast. The faintest light flickered from within, casting long, unnatural shadows that writhed in the night air.
As they approached, the ground beneath their feet seemed to grow colder, the air growing thick with a dread that clung to their skin. The bats that normally flitted through the churchyard had abandoned the skies, leaving only a haunting silence in their wake.
Blackout paused at the church's door, his hand resting on the cold, iron handle. The moment he touched it, an electric chill ran up his spine. The door creaked open, and a sudden gust of wind whipped through the yard, as if the church itself was breathing. The scent of old, stale incense filled the air, and Blackout couldn't help but smile—a dark, twisted grin that twisted his face.
The church was like no other. It was ancient, dark, and oppressive. The candles flickered with a strange, unnatural flame, their light casting long, warping shadows that danced across the walls. The very air felt heavy, as if the church was holding its breath, waiting for something.
At the altar stood Father Isaac Lewington, an imposing figure. His robes were simple but seemed to shimmer with an ethereal light. His pale face was set in an unflinching, emotionless expression, his eyes cold, calculating, and ancient—eyes that had seen too much, known too many secrets.
Isaac's gaze met Blackout's, and for a moment, there was no sound, no movement. It was as though the very air had frozen. Then Isaac spoke, his voice like the rasp of old leather against stone.
"You've come, then," Isaac said, his tone calm, almost weary. "I knew this day would come."
Blackout stepped forward, his presence filling the room, the darkness swirling around him like an extension of his will. "I've come for what's mine," he growled, his voice thick with malice. "You'll give it to me, priest, or you'll regret it."
Isaac's lips twisted into a faint, almost imperceptible smile. "You already regret it."
The tension in the air was palpable. The very fabric of the room seemed to shudder as if it could not bear the weight of their confrontation. The church itself seemed to be alive, a dark, living thing, holding its breath as the two powers prepared to clash.
Isaac raised his hands, and suddenly, the room was filled with a guttural, unearthly chant, words that twisted and turned on themselves, like the voices of the damned. The flames of the candles flickered and twisted, turning from yellow to a sickly red. The walls began to glow, the ancient symbols carved into them pulsing with an unnatural light.
The air grew thick with heat, an oppressive, suffocating warmth that seemed to press in from all sides. The ground beneath their feet trembled as if the church itself were awakening. Blackout felt it before he saw it—something ancient, something terrible, beginning to stir. The very power of the church, bound in the walls, was coming to life.
Isaac's eyes gleamed with power as he spoke the final words of the shlok, his voice now a low, resonant hum that seemed to reverberate in the bones. The ground cracked open beneath Blackout's feet, and from it, twisted, crawling flames began to rise—fire that was not of this world. It was ancient, its heat too intense, too primal.
Blackout recoiled as the flames seared into his skin, the pain unbearable. His body was burning, his shadows flickering in and out of existence as the fiery power of the church began to strip him of his strength.
"You can't stop it, Blackout," Isaac's voice was a soft, mocking whisper. "This power is older than you. It will burn you down, piece by piece."
Blackout roared in fury, trying to summon his own darkness, his own power, but the shlok's flames consumed it. The heat was unbearable, and his allies, unable to withstand the assault, began to stagger back, their faces contorted in pain.
With a final, desperate effort, Blackout threw himself into the shadows, his body flickering out of existence just as the flames reached their peak.
Isaac watched him vanish into the night, his expression unreadable. The flames died down, leaving nothing but the scorched earth beneath his feet. The church returned to its stillness, the air settling once more into an eerie calm.
Outside, Blackout stumbled through the streets, his body smoking, his skin burned and scarred. His allies were nowhere to be seen, scattered by the flames that had nearly consumed them all. The red moon hung high above, its eerie light casting a mocking glow over him as he staggered away.
"This isn't over, priest." Blackout's voice was a low growl, filled with rage and venom. "I'll make you regret this."
Isaac's words echoed in his mind, a haunting refrain: "You already regret it."
As Blackout disappeared into the night, the red moon above seemed to pulse with malevolent laughter, as if the very earth itself was waiting for the final act of the game to begin.