The subway car turned into a rolling panic. Sparks hissed from the ceiling, lights stuttered, and the conductor's face drained of color when a flaming motorcycle tore through the tunnel like a comet. At the bike's helm sat a skull wreathed in blue-white hellfire — Ghost Rider. His engine screamed, and the track left a smoking trail behind it.
"Jesus—this guy's nuts!" the conductor stammered, hands shaking. Flight attendants dropped to their knees and started praying. No one had a plan that involved a flaming skeleton.
Ghost Rider laughed — a dry, bone-deep sound. He rode the bike up onto the roof of the train, sliced across the metal with a shower of sparks, and then aimed straight for the control cabin.
Ryuuto folded the newspaper and grinned like a kid who'd been promised fireworks. "Finally. I knew this commute would be interesting."
He was already moving. Blink and you miss him: High-Speed Movement carried him into the control room in a single breath. He didn't look like a hero; he looked like someone who'd ordered trouble with a side of chaos.
"Keep it running. Drive to the museum. I'll handle the rest," Ryuuto said, calm as if he'd told the conductor to water the plants.
"X-Men?" the man squeaked, not entirely sure whether he'd misheard.
"X-Men," Ryuuto confirmed, and locked the control room door before the skull could make a second entrance.
Ghost Rider slammed the bike through the door as if it were a suggestion. Hellfire licked the cabin; the rider's hollow eyes bore down on Ryuuto. "Let me see what sins you carried in life."
"And I'll see who sent you," Ryuuto shot back. Time was the priority. The mission clock in the back of his skull was already ticking.
Ghost Rider revved, spitting fire. "No one rides in a dead man's carriage beside me."
Ryuuto planted both hands on the floor and summoned a stone wall from the subway's bones: Earth Style — Earth Wall. The marble-like slab exploded up and slammed the bike into a stop. Iron chains rattled as Ghost Rider hurled himself forward, the chain a silver snake aiming for Ryuuto's throat.
Ryuuto answered with precision: shuriken spat from his fingers, clashed with the chain, and sent sparks flying. He exhaled and spat a Fire Dragon Ball — a blistering orb that filled the carriage and licked the walls with heat. The ball dove into Ghost Rider.
For a moment it seemed to work — flames roared. Then Ghost Rider shrugged it off like a man dusting snow from his coat. The fire on his skull only brightened, burning with a deeper hunger.
"You've fed on lives, haven't you?" Ryuuto observed, half curiosity, half disgust.
"Burn your sins, let the soul be purged," Ghost Rider intoned. The voice was a wind through bones.
Ryuuto didn't have the time for sermonizing. He split himself into dozens of forms — Shadow Clone Technique — and overwhelmed the rider with a blitz of strikes. The copies landed blows that dampened the hellfire, but the Rider's body seamed itself back together with every hit, unstoppable regeneration like a cursed boiler.
Chains lashed the windows, leaving scorched sigils along the glass as the clones were shredded into sparks. Ghost Rider caught one of Ryuuto's clones by the ankle and hauled, expecting to rip the real man apart.
He only pulled a wooden stake. Ash sprinkled the floor. A smirk. "Some things you won't understand," Ryuuto tossed over his shoulder.
Ghost Rider's hollow eyes went wide with a mixture of confusion and anger. Ryuuto flicked his leg — Leaf Great Whirlwind — and sent the hellknight flying down the carriage. He followed that with three compressed air bombs — Wind Style — each detonating against Rider's chest in a row. Sparks and smoke filled the car; metal screamed; the train rocked like a beast in a gale.
"Justice has rules — mine. You pick your sins and pay," Ryuuto said, voice flat but final. The Rider staggered, hellfire sputtering, chain slack.
The train shuddered back onto the line and, somehow, kept moving. Ryuuto didn't waste breath gloating. Ghost Rider was down, not gone. The missions didn't care about theology; they cared about timing. He checked his watch, still within the limit. The New York Museum was still on the table. He'd win his puzzle piece today — or he'd die trying.
[Ding!]
Shion's voice pinged through the corner of his mind, lazy and smug as ever. "Host, that Rider is a high-interference event. Nice work. Time remaining: 2 hours 06 minutes."
Ryuuto cracked a grin. "Keep the pep talk short, Shion. I'm riding solo."
He looked at the flattened Rider, at the smoking wreckage of the cabin, and at the terrified passengers beginning to breathe again. "Alright, museum. Let's go see if the rest of the city wants to host a circus today."