The alley reeked of stale beer and desperation. You lay crumpled on the grimy pavement, the taste of blood thick in your mouth. A gang of thugs, their faces contorted with malice, rained down blows, their curses echoing off the brick walls. They were about to strip you of your meager possessions – wallet, keys, any shred of dignity you had left – when a sudden hush fell over the group.

The air crackled with an unnatural heat. From the shadows, a figure emerged, an apparition of darkness. He was a towering presence, clad in an all-black leather suit that seemed to absorb the dim light. Black skinny jeans hugged his legs, tucked into heavy black boots. A leather jacket, studded with menacing spikes on the shoulders and wrists, completed the intimidating ensemble. In his hand, he held a length of chain, its links glowing with an eerie, flickering flame.

But it wasn't the clothes that made the thugs freeze in terror. It was his head. It was a skull, a bare, bone-white cranium wreathed in roaring, hellish fire. The flames danced and writhed, casting grotesque shadows that flickered across the thugs' faces, reflecting the dawning horror in their eyes.

A voice, low and resonant, rumbled from the skull-headed figure, each word laced with an otherworldly power. "You... All... Guilty..."

The thugs knew. They knew the legends, the whispers in the dark corners of the city. They knew the name that struck fear into the hearts of even the most hardened criminals. The Ghost Rider had arrived.