SAN VENGANZA, MEXICO
2023
THE NIGHT WAS A BLANKET OF obsidian with thick and endless, stitched together by streaks of silver lightning that slashed across the sky like celestial scars. Thunder rumbled low, like some ancient beast turning in its sleep beneath the crust of the earth. The air carried weight, a pressure that hung heavy on the chest, as though the world itself was holding its breath.
The desert stretched far and wide, drowning in the murky gray of stormlight. Rain fell in slow, deliberate drops, not in sheets but like the sky wept carefully, one tear at a time. Each drop struck the dust with a hiss, swallowed by the dry earth that refused to soften.
From the black horizon came a low, unsettling symphony, the dry rustle of rattlesnakes, their tails
twitching in rhythm, the croaking of unseen toads, the sharp screech of birds unsettled by some unseen presence. Hidden in the brush, reptiles slithered, disturbed by something greater than the coming storm.
Then, the hum.
It began faint, almost unnoticeable. A growl on the wind. But it grew. It snarled. It howled like a spirit freed from damnation. The unmistakable sound of a motorcycle—not just any engine, but one forged in hellfire, its roar cutting through the storm like a blade.
And still, the rain fell.
The rattlesnakes hissed louder. The thunder cracked harder. And the desert—haunted, hungry, and holding too many buried secrets—prepared itself for something it hadn't seen in decades.
Something was coming.
The humming turned into a growl. Then, the growl into a roar.
Through the haze of mist and moonless dark, two searing orange eyes cut across the road like twin
blades of molten metal. Flames flickered from the tailpipe, licking the storm-soaked air, hissing as they met rain. The wheels, choked in dust, mud, and cinder, carved a trail through the wet gravel like they were slicing through bone.
Then it stopped.
The bike, a twisted, weathered beast of chrome and brimstone, coughed smoke and silence. Flames died down to embers across its skeletal frame, but the heat still shimmered in the air around it as if the desert itself feared cooling off too quickly.
A boot struck the ground. Not with haste. But with purpose.
The kind of step that told the night to make way.
From the mist stepped a figure.
A man worn by time, wrath, and miles of running from the devil.
His long coat, soaked and heavy, dragged behind him like a cloak woven from thunderclouds. His shoulders broad, movements slow but certain, like he had danced this dance a hundred times before. He was no stranger here.
Johnny Blaze.
His hair stuck to his face, drenched. The rain painted him in streaks of grit and shadow. His breath visible not from cold, but from the weight of the soul burning behind his ribs.
In his hand?
Not a weapon forged in man's war.
Not a gun, or a blade.
But a chain.
Rusty, spiked, ancient, like it had been dragged through a hundred hells and still came back hungry.
He stood there, unmoving, as the desert watched in silence.
The rain paused for him.
Even the rattlesnakes quieted.
Something was about to begin.
Johnny narrowed his eyes, the rain sliding down his cheekbones like veins of ice across a dying flame. His grip on the chain tightened.
"Guilty," he muttered.
A moment passed.
Then the cloaked figure — unmoved by thunder, untouched by rain — spoke.
His voice was not loud.
But it echoed.
Not through the air, but through the bones.
"You speak of guilt as if you understand the word, Rider... but I was cast into flame before man learned the name of sin. I watched angels bleed for their pride, and devils kneel for their desire. I have seen the thrones of Heaven shake when vengeance forgot its master."
The wind grew still. The earth held its breath.
"You wield chains forged by fear. I am the fire that made fear scream. I do not judge. I do not forgive. I remind the guilty... that they were always mine."
Johnny's heart didn't race. It burned.
The figure stepped once. Thunder cracked.
"Run if you must, Blaze. But Hell doesn't forget its horsemen."
The cloaked figure took a step forward. Mud didn't cling to his boots. Rain didn't wet his shoulders. It was as if the storm feared what stood beneath that veil of shadow.
"Johnny Blaze..." the voice rumbled again, deeper now, like the groan of old earth cracking beneath ancient weight. "You walk with the trial of peace, an angel's breath trapped inside a sinner's chest. They call you immortal. A redeemed man..."
His head lifted slightly beneath the hood, just enough for Johnny to catch the pale glint of something inhuman.
"But I was never man. I never tasted peace. I was born in the furnace, older than the first prayer, and colder than the first betrayal."
Johnny shifted his stance, that old, grounded weight of a fighter. His chain hung low in his hand, whispering against the wet earth.
"You're talking like you know me," Johnny muttered, eyes sharp. "But you ain't got a damn clue what I've bled for."
The figure didn't flinch. Instead, he raised his right hand. The air thickened. Not with heat, with pressure. As though God Himself was holding breath.
And then — ignition.
Crimson fire licked through the figure's fingers, not like the Rider's orange flame, no, this was something deeper. Darker. It pulsed with blood-red fury, glowing like ancient magma beneath a cathedral of bones. Johnny's eyes narrowed again, instincts screaming.
"You bleed for forgiveness, Rider," the figure hissed, lifting his burning hand. "I burn for reminder."
And with that, he unleashed it, a stream of fire, not roaring but screaming, tearing through the air like a soul ripped from the body.
Johnny dove to the side, the blast ripping into the wet ground where he stood. The thunder didn't follow. It fled.
The flames lashed out, red as boiling blood, twisting through the rain like a devil's spear. Johnny Blaze didn't flinch. He stood tall, chain wrapped tight in his gloved fist, eyes burning gold beneath the brim of his soaked leather jacket. The attack came fast. Too fast. A roar, and then....
Darkness.
A silence fell, heavy as grave dirt.
And then, beneath it all, came a voice,not from the cloaked figure, nor from Blaze himself,but another. One younger, strained, hollowed by sleepless nights and distant thunder.
"I know something is required of me.
Not justice. Not vengeance. Not peace.
But something deeper. Older.
A debt etched in hellfire... sealed in blood.
And whatever it is… it's coming. It's already here."
Lightning split the sky.
Then came a gasp. Sharp. Real.
Steven Henderson's eyes flew open.
He was in his bed.
The ceiling stared back—peeling paint, flickering bulb above, spinning ever so slightly as if shaken by some distant tremor. Sweat clung to his bare chest, and the old mattress groaned beneath him as he sat upright. His breath steamed in the cold air. Outside, a dog barked once, then went silent.
His fingers trembled. Not from fear. But from recognition.
That wasn't a dream.
Not anymore. He reached to the table by the bedside, half-buried beneath worn leather gloves, a rusted flask, and a broken lighter. His hand stopped above a cracked photograph. A woman's smile, fading with age. Her name caught in his throat. The wind pushed against the rotting windowpane. Somewhere, a storm still rolled across the plains.
Steven whispered to the dark "…It's started."
***