Chapter 2: God's Vengeance Is Not Enough.

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A few days later.

-Gotham General Hospital-

Detective James Gordon walked through the dimly lit hospital hallway, his heavy steps echoing off the sterile walls.

His face was lined with exhaustion, his mind burdened with the horrors of the latest case.

He spotted his partner, Harvey Bullock, leaning against the wall outside a hospital room, a grim expression etched on his face.

"How's he holding up?"

Gordon asked as he approached.

Bullock shook his head, his eyes dark with anger and sorrow.

"Not good, Jim. Can't say I blame him. This city's getting worse every day."

Gordon sighed, running a hand through his graying hair.

"Batman will find him. The Joker's never gone this far into the suburbs before. This isn't his usual M.O."

Bullock snorted.

"The clown's crazy, Jim. He doesn't have an M.O. or a reason for what he does. He's just pure evil."

"I know, but this... it's different. The autopsy on Sarah Hawthorn showed traces of Scarecrow's fear toxin mixed with Joker's laughing gas. It's a new kind of nightmare."

Jim sighed and revealed.

Bullock looked away, his face contorted with disgust.

"Even expecting the worst from the Joker, this is too much. Making the husband watch as his own wife ate their kid? That's all kinds of sick, even for Gotham. Thankfully, the cops who arrived on the scene put her out of her misery before she got to the Husband. Though considering things, I don't think he's thrilled to be the one that survived."

They stopped outside the hospital room where Michael was being kept.

Gordon turned to Bullock.

"Get me a cup of coffee, Harvey. I'll talk to him."

Bullock nodded and walked away, leaving Gordon to gather his thoughts.

He took a deep breath and opened the door, stepping into the dimly lit room.

Michael was lying in the bed, his face bruised and bandaged, his lone eye hollow and lifeless.

"Mr.Hawthorn, hope I'm not interrupting, may I call you Michael?"

The detective politely asked, not getting a response.

Gordon jerked his head in a nod, pulling up a chair beside the bed.

"I'm Detective James Gordon. I know this is hard, but we need your help."

Michael's gaze remained fixed on the window, his expression void of any emotion.

Gordon reached into his pocket and pulled out a photograph, holding it in front of Michael's face.

"Do you recognize any of these men? They're members of the Joker's gang."

Michael glanced at the photo, his eyes flickering briefly before he turned away.

"No. Leave me alone."

Gordon studied him for a moment, then placed a card on the bedside table.

"If you remember anything, anything at all, call me."

He stood up and walked to the door, casting one last glance at the broken man on the bed.

"I'm sorry for your loss, Michael. We'll find them all and bring them in. I promise."

As Gordon left the room, Michael's mind shifted to the photograph the detective had shown him.

He had recognized the tattoo on the hand of one of the Joker's men, a distinctive mark he'd never forget. A black snake with a sword for a tail.

But he couldn't trust the police to handle this. Even if they found the Joker, they'd only lock him up or fail to catch him like they always did.

And Batman was no better. The Joker would still roam the streets and destroy more lives. The man who had taken his wife and daughter would continue laughing and breathing while they lay cold in the morgue.

No, Michael thought, clenching his fists beneath the blanket. This was personal.

He would find the goon himself, and he would make him talk. He would find the Joker and make him pay for what he had done to his family.

The pain, the anger, the unimaginable grief—all of it coalesced into a single, burning resolve.

He had no power but he would find it.

Michael was no longer going to be the victim; he was a man with a mission. And nothing would stand in his way.

Later that night, he woke up screaming and drenched in sweat. He slapped his palm against his forehead, muttering to himself,

"It's just a nightmare."

"The nightmares are the worst part."

a voice said.

Michael looked toward the now open window, where a man in a green hooded cloak stood, the curtain behind him flapping in the breeze.

After a few seconds of studying the figure, he asked,

"What's God's Spirit of Vengeance doing here?"

The Specter, unsurprised, replied, "To hand over the mantle. Michael Hawthorn, I sense great potential and purpose in you. Will you become the Specter?"

Michael's eyes widened in surprise before they grew sharp.

"What you call potential is hatred. What you call purpose is vengeance. Will you let me kill them all? Every villain. If the answer is yes, then I fully accept."

He had determined that the Joker wasn't the only problem. All these supervillains in costumes exercised their powers to hurt innocent people. How many had Firefly burned? How many families had Victor Zasz destroyed? They all had to die. Everyone calling themselves a Villain and proud of it.

The Specter fell silent.

"Killing them all will not bring Sarah and Emily back. The Specter is a tool for God to punish evildoers. Vengeance is not part of God's plan."

"I don't give a damn about his plan!"

Michael spat out furiously, his unbandaged eye staring straight through the darkness shrouding the Spectre's face.

"I know how this world works. Even if I wait it and they somehow die, it will only be for a few years before they come back. If what you offer is the power to extinguish their very souls then I'll give myself over to you. If not, I'll find my own method."

He seethed.

Pausing, Michael looked down, hair falling over his eyes.

"The only thing that will satisfy my hatred is complete annihilation of anyone calling themselves a villain. That's the price my family's blood demand. Nothing more and nothing less."

The soul of Jim Morrigan inside the Specter, shuddered at the cold resolve in Michael's voice.

'He's completely given himself over to the darkness. This man will stop at nothing to accomplish his goal. Making him the new host of the Specter will insteas corrupt It with his hatred.'

As the Specter, he said,

"I cannot offer you that, Michael Hawthorn."

Michael turned his back to the Specter.

"Then Leave."

The Specter lingered.

"However, what I can give you is an instrument. A tool to carry out your blind Justice. A power that will manifest itself according to you. Use it how you will."

The Specter's voice faded away, leaving Michael alone in his hospital bed.

"Kill them...all of them...I'll kill them all. "

The broken man muttered, ignoring the Specter's final words.

"Even if I have to sell my soul, even if I die a million times over...or spend an eternity in the deepest pits of hell, I'll kill you, Joker."

In response to his bloodlust, the shadows in the room gathered together, combining into a dark orb with a green sheen, floating before his eyes.

A little surprised, Michael sat up with a tired sigh,

"Whoever or whatever you are, if you're here to offer me power, save your breath. I told the last guy, I won't accept it unless you let me do what I need to do. I won't be stopped from killing those responsible. Even if I have to destroy the whole world to get to them."

No response came from the orb and his expression changed into a thoughtful one,

'Could it be, this is the power The Specter was talking about? But then why would he help me after I refused him?'

The orb slowly floated forward, coming into contact with his chest and merging with his body.

Michael made no move to stop it from happening. If it was indeed a Power that could be useful to him, then he would be dumb to refuse it.

(Ding!)

A completely black panel with yellow flames burning on the edges appeared before his eyes.

(Ghost Rider Template equipped)

"God's vengeance is not enough," Michael muttered, his eyes glowing with a new, hellish power.

"I will bring my own vengeance upon them all."

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Ever since I could remember, a lot of you guys have been wanting a Ghost Rider story. Here it is.