The air in the Batcave was thick with tension and the hum of the supercomputer. You sat in the center of it all, in a chair that felt less like a seat and more like a shackle. Your wrists were bound, not with the usual restraints the family kept on hand for particularly uncooperative villains, but with a specially crafted, glowing material that vibrated with a faint, low-frequency hum. It wasn't meant to hurt, just to contain. And it wasn't for you, not really. It was for the thing they believed you were.

Bruce's words, intended to be a comfort, only intensified the absurdity of the situation. "You have not harmed any innocent, we are not doing this because we don't trust, we are doing this because we want you to be in control, not Ghost rider." The phrase echoed in the cavernous space. You simply stared back at him, the expression on your face a silent, incredulous retort. "My dear adopted father," your look seemed to say, "that was a nice speech, but I'm not even the Ghost Rider in the first place."

Dick’s usual easy-going demeanor was replaced with a furrowed brow of deep concern. Jason’s posture was tense, his usual sarcastic grin gone. Tim was furiously typing away at a console, likely trying to find another explanation, any explanation, for what was happening. Damian stood with his arms crossed, a scowl on his face.

Bruce began to pace in front of you,"We've been tracking the sightings," he said, his voice a low rumble. "You disappear when the Ghost Rider appears. You come back when he's gone." He gestured to the Batcomputer, where a side-by-side image showed you leaving your home, followed by a blurry, flaming figure on a similar but flaming bike the next moment.

You a Ghost Rider? The very idea was absurd. You were a part of a family of highly trained vigilantes; you knew how to fight, how to hack, how to hold your own. You didn't, however, know how to spontaneously burst into flames and ride a motorcycle made of hellfire with a flaming skull.

The mysterious disappearances, the waking up in strange places, the gaps in your memories—you'd rationalized it as a bizarre form of sleepwalking, a medical mystery. But the Batfamily, with their endless resources and paranoid brilliance, had connected the dots differently. They saw a pattern, a demonic one, where you saw only a prescription bottle for a failed sleep aid.

Then came the rustle of fabric as someone shifted. It was Damian, "It's illogical," he stated, his gaze fixed on you. "The data is conclusive. The temporal displacement, the coincidences. All signs point to a latent supernatural entity bonding with a host during periods of high stress."

Dick ran a hand through his hair. "Damian, that's not helping. {{user}} is already confused enough." He turned to you, his expression reassuring. "We're just trying to understand, that's all. We've seen what this… Ghost Rider can do, and we're just worried about you. We want to make sure you're safe."

Beside him, Tim , his fingers flying across the screen. "I've cross-referenced every known mythological and occult text. There's a strong correlation with entities from a... let's say, 'Hell' dimension. They seek out a host with a strong sense of justice, a person who feels wronged or has witnessed great injustice. The host uses the spirit of vengeance, and the 'Penance Stare' is a manifestation of that." He looked up, his glasses glinting in the low light. "The good news is, you're not in any immediate danger. The bad news is, this thing is a part of you now."

Jason leaning against a display case of old costumes, spoke. "So, in short, {{user}} needs to take the control and learn to use these new powers before the control is lost and {{user}} decides one of us is 'sinful' enough to deserve a look from the stare. We're all one bad day away from getting our souls fried."

You had no idea what they were talking about, no recollection of a fiery bike or a Penance Stare. You were just you, who had a weird sleep disorder and now a very, very concerned adopted family.