Johnny opened his eyes as the alarm clock on his nightstand blared louder than a circus clown during the most intense part of the show. His hand instinctively found the "off" button, and silence once again enveloped the room. From somewhere in the radio, the last chords of AC/DC's "Back in Black" still lingered. A perfect way to start the morning.
His gaze settled on the wall, where detailed plans for training both body and mind were pinned. This was his domain, his personal world, a reflection of everything he had achieved over the past ten years.
The room felt cozy, yet every detail screamed that its owner wasn't an ordinary teenager. On the wall opposite the bed hung a massive board with photographs from competitions: Johnny beaming as he held a gold medal in judo, another with him in a fighting stance wearing a black karate belt, and yet another clutching a junior boxing championship trophy. Nearby, under glass, were certificates and diplomas from shooting tournaments, and just below that, a shelf neatly displayed trophies from CrossFit and paintball competitions.
On the desk stood ammo scales and a blank notebook filled with training notes for the coming week. Amid this organized chaos, his Eagle Scout badge stood out—a symbol of completing years of scouting work. On the other side of the desk lay textbooks on military strategy and the history of weaponry, alongside an open anatomy textbook—foundations for his future career, which would help him heal or, if necessary, incapacitate with precision.
Johnny sat up on his bed and glanced at the corner of the room where his JROTC uniform and a pair of leadership medals hung. Nearby stood a rack with his training gear: weighted running belts, swimming plugs, and an old but reliable training knife. On the wall behind him was a poster with a bold slogan: "You're stronger than you think."
On the floor by his bed lay a sports backpack, neatly packed for the day: a water bottle, protein bars, and a training diary. He sighed, looking around his room. To someone else, this might seem like just a collection of items, but to him, it was a reflection of his work, determination, and dreams.
For ten long years, he had been preparing himself for the endless war against the darkness of this world. And today was the day. On the blanket lay a dark silver cross with a menacing skull in its center. Even touching the cold metal sent small shocks through his fingers. The time had come to accept his legacy and become the Ghost Rider.
Johnny smiled as he clasped the Cross of Vengeance around his neck.
He stood, took a few deep breaths, and headed to the bathroom to put himself in perfect order. His gaze swept over his reflection in the mirror—a figure of a fit yet ordinary sixteen-year-old boy. His lips curled into a slight smile. Better for enemies to see a regular high school student until he got close enough to strike a knife.
Johnny dressed in accordance with his school's strict rules. But teenage rebellion demanded expression: pants were swapped for black jeans, and his jacket sleeves were rolled up.
Before leaving the room, he glanced once more at the badges and trophies on the walls behind him. It was as if a war machine lived here. And that wasn't far from the truth: Johnny trained to exhaustion daily to forge himself into a deadly weapon. But strength wasn't just about hitting a target from 500 meters or knowing how to take someone down with a single blow. Under the weight of training, one could lose oneself and turn into a mad beast. Strength was in balance—in training every day to achieve a goal but also cherishing the little things to retain one's humanity.
For Johnny, his rays of light were his family. Only with them did Johnny smile. Only with them could he allow himself to be a regular teenager.
As he exited the room, he nearly bumped into the most important woman in his life—Naomi Blaze. Playful, kind, with a glint of mischief and genuine care. The best mom in the world. Today, she looked particularly homely: a soft T-shirt with a funny print and dark leggings that emphasized her energy.
"Have you packed your things for school?" Her eyes scanned him from head to toe. "I don't want to end up bringing your notes again like last time."
"Mom, that was one time… in elementary school! You should let it go already."
"I can't help it," she sighed, adjusting her shirt. "You're so forgetful! And what's this?"
Pushing her son aside, she stepped into the room and headed straight for the windowsill.
"Your plants are dying again!" She picked up a cactus pot that looked like a dried-up mummy. "Are you watering them three times a week, like I said?"
"Of course, mom. Would I forget?" he replied, avoiding eye contact since he definitely had. "But, mom, why do I even need plants? I'm no botanist."
"It's not about the plants, it's about the energy!" she countered, her bracelets with tiny totems jingling melodically. These were the kind of bracelets usually worn by teenage girls obsessed with witchcraft and vampire shows. "Nature's power drives out all the negative energy from the room! Tomorrow I'll bring you new plants, and don't argue. And you'll water them three times a week. And also… play music for them."
"Music? For plants?"
"Of course!" she winked with a smile, brushing her bangs from her eyes. "Everyone knows plants can listen! I read it in a magazine."
"The same magazine that says senators are controlled by vampires?" Johnny snorted.
"If the vampires haven't been caught yet, it means they're good at hiding," she ended the conversation with a victorious grin.
"Fine, I'll play music for them. Let them develop taste. I'll blast some Chopin."
"Now that's too much!" she laughed, waving her hands as if shooing away the idea of classical music.
In the Blaze family, everyone listens to rock. There's no other way. Hell's biker gang has no other options.
"There's too much negative energy in your room. It's like something evil has appeared here," she said, closing her eyes momentarily as if tuning into something otherworldly. "It's high time to feng shui this place. Like moving your desk—it's in a bad spot. And, by the way, do you still need that guitar?"
Johnny looked at the cobweb-covered guitar under his bed. His mom had given it to him on his thirteenth birthday to distract him from endless training, but Johnny quickly lost interest in music.
"No, I don't need the guitar," he said calmly. "I realized music isn't my thing."
"I'll post an ad to sell it today." She gently patted his shoulder. "Don't worry, sweetie. You'll find your calling!"
"A calling? That sounds a bit dramatic. I'm just looking for what I enjoy."
"Every person is born with a talent," mom said, giving him the warmest smile. "And it's my job to help you uncover it."
The touching moment was interrupted by a kitchen timer.
"The eggs are done! Get ready; breakfast is in five minutes!"
Mom dashed down the hallway, performing a cartwheel on the way and sliding down the banister to the first floor.
"No need to dust anymore!" her cheerful voice called from below.
Playful, kind, and flexible. Johnny fully understood why dad fell for her.
In the hallway, his eyes fell on a laminated poster. A young girl with a daring grin was riding a motorcycle through a dozen fiery rings. The caption read: "Daring and charming Naomi Kale! Sixteen years old, defying death! Don't miss the circus!"
The date on the poster indicated it was twenty years old.
Mom had left her career right after Danny was born. Now, she lived for her family—and seemed not to regret it one bit.