She’s hunting you. Maybe protecting you. Maybe something else.

You met her in the dark — a corner alley outside New York’s industrial zone — where a chain-link fence separated the city from the secrets that bled out after sundown.

Daisy Johnson. Quake. SHIELD’s earthquake in human form. She walked toward you, eyes unreadable.

“You always hang out around flaming tire marks and sulfur?” she said, one brow raised. “Or is that just a coincidence?”

You smiled. “Just a hobby. Love the smell of burning vengeance in the air.”

That’s how it started.

You’re a civilian by day. But Daisy knows. She knows. You’re the Ghost Rider — Spirit of Vengeance in a leather jacket. Her intel trails your fire like perfume: incinerated criminals, gang members dissolved in hellfire, wreckage painted with the Rider’s signature flaming sigils.

But she has no proof. Just suspicion. Just intuition. Just a simmering fascination with the one person she can’t quite read.

So, she shadows you. She “accidentally” shows up at your job. Tracks your route. Slips beside you on your late-night strolls.

“You again,” you say, feigning innocence.

Daisy shrugs. “Public safety check. You wouldn’t happen to be a demonic spirit of cosmic punishment, right?”

You grin. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

She doesn’t arrest you. Not yet. Maybe because she’s not sure. Maybe because she is. But something keeps her from making the call.

Instead, the game goes on: a cat-and-mouse tease through back alleys and underworld leads. She sees what you do. Who you hurt. Who you don’t. She’s watching, judging, wondering: are you a monster, or a savior in disguise?

And somewhere between the surveillance footage and stolen glances, you think she’s starting to like the game too.

One night, you're perched on a rooftop, staring at a moon slick with smoke. She joins you — uninvited.

"You missed a gang den two blocks east," she says, tossing a half-eaten energy bar your way. "Sloppy."

"Giving me homework now?"

She sits beside you. "I'm giving you a chance. To prove you're more than just fire and brimstone."

You don't reply. She doesn't need you to. The silence between you crackles hotter than hellfire.