killer serial ???

Bateman stumbled through the ruined streets of Gotham, the weight of the battle heavy on his shoulders. His body, though powerful, was beginning to show signs of wear. Bruises marred his skin, and his movements were slower than usual. Gotham had tested him, but it wasn't the city that had him on edge—it was the strange feeling that something far greater than even his own ambitions was looming on the horizon.

As he turned down an alley, Bateman froze. The air around him grew thick and oppressive, an unnatural stillness settling over the city. It was as if the very atmosphere had been drained of life, leaving only an eerie quiet in its wake.

Suddenly, a figure appeared before him—one he had not expected to encounter. The Ghost Rider, a figure of pure vengeance and flames, stood at the other end of the alley. His skeletal face was obscured by a helmet of flames, his eyes burning with a hatred that could scorch the soul. The Rider's chain swung, glowing with an infernal heat that made the air crackle.

"Bateman," the Ghost Rider's voice boomed, deep and filled with torment. "Your soul is marked. It is time to pay for your sins."

Bateman's eyes narrowed. He had faced countless enemies before, but this—this was something entirely different. The Ghost Rider was no mere mortal, no ordinary adversary. He was a force of retribution, an entity that carried the weight of hell itself.

"You have no idea what you're dealing with," Bateman sneered, his body crackling with electricity as he prepared to fight back. His enhanced body surged with power, and his fingers tightened around the handles of his weapons. "I've faced worse than you."

The Ghost Rider's laughter was hollow, a dark echo that sent a shiver down Bateman's spine. "You don't understand, Bateman. You think you're invincible, that you're untouchable. But there are things far beyond your control. And your time has come."

Before Bateman could react, the Ghost Rider swung his chain, wrapping it around Bateman's legs. The flame-filled chains tightened, pulling him off his feet and dragging him into the air. Bateman struggled, using his enhanced strength to fight against the chains, but they burned into his skin like searing iron.

"You can fight all you want," the Ghost Rider said, his voice cold and relentless. "But you will be taken to a place where even your power means nothing."

The world around Bateman twisted. The concrete of Gotham melted away, replaced by an infernal landscape. Flames erupted from the cracks in the ground, and the sky was filled with blood-red clouds. It was as if the very fabric of reality had been torn apart, and Bateman found himself falling through an abyss of fire and darkness.

With a sickening lurch, Bateman hit the ground. His body rolled, and the air around him crackled with the sounds of torment. He looked around, realizing he was no longer in Gotham. This was something far worse. This was Hell.

The Ghost Rider stood above him, his fiery gaze burning into Bateman's very soul. "Welcome to your eternal prison," he intoned, his voice filled with dark satisfaction. "Here, you will face the consequences of your actions."

Bateman pushed himself to his feet, his body healing rapidly despite the searing heat of the hellish environment. His electricity flickered around him, crackling in the oppressive air. "You think this can stop me?" he growled, his hands crackling with power. "I'm stronger than anything this place can throw at me."

But the ground beneath him began to tremble, and from the shadows, hordes of demons emerged. Bateman's eyes widened as the creatures surrounded him, their twisted forms a nightmarish sight. They were endless—horrific abominations that swarmed like locusts, their claws and fangs gleaming in the fiery glow.

Bateman fought back with everything he had, his powers surging through him. Electricity arced from his body, striking down demons left and right, reducing them to charred husks. But for every demon he struck down, more seemed to emerge from the inferno, an unstoppable tide of horror.

The heat was suffocating, and the pain from the demons' attacks was like nothing Bateman had ever experienced. His enhanced body was constantly healing, but the sheer number of demons, the weight of their relentless assault, was beginning to wear him down. His movements slowed, and the constant barrage of attacks chipped away at his resolve.

He fought, he bled, but the demons just kept coming. Bateman had always prided himself on his immortality, on his ability to heal, but here, in the heart of Hell, his power was being tested to its absolute limits.

The demons tore into him, their claws rending his flesh. Bateman could feel the blood draining from his body, but the healing process was sluggish now, hindered by the overwhelming force of the infernal army. His body was starting to break down, even with his enhanced abilities. His mind screamed, but the pain was too much.

He fell to his knees, the weight of the demons pressing down on him. His arms were torn open, his chest battered and broken. The demons devoured his flesh, tearing him apart piece by piece. Bateman screamed in agony as they ripped into him, his healing factor struggling to keep up with the destruction being wrought upon his body.

But even as they feasted on his flesh, Bateman's eyes glowed with fury. He wasn't done. He couldn't be. He had fought for too long, suffered too much, to let these demons be his end.

In the midst of his torment, something within him snapped. The raw power of his rage surged through him, his will to survive overpowering the infernal forces that sought to consume him. His body began to glow with an eerie energy, the electricity crackling around him more violently than ever before.

With a roar, Bateman surged to his feet, the demons scattering as his power exploded outward. The ground cracked beneath him, the flames of Hell recoiling from the sheer force of his rage. His body healed, regenerating at an unnatural speed, his wounds closing as though they had never been.

He tore through the demons, his power burning through them like wildfire. But even as he fought, Bateman realized that this wasn't a victory. This was a battle he could never win. Hell was endless, and no matter how many demons he killed, there would always be more to take their place.

Bateman's body, once invincible, was now beginning to feel the weight of the battle. His power was fading, and despite his best efforts, the healing factor was no longer enough to keep up with the onslaught. His muscles burned with fatigue, and his mind began to cloud with despair.

The demons overwhelmed him once again, tearing into his body with savage abandon. He couldn't fight them all off anymore. His powers were failing. His body was breaking down. And yet, despite everything, Bateman refused to die.

As the demons devoured him, Bateman felt the familiar sensation of regeneration. He could feel his body healing, but the process was slow, agonizing. His mind was beginning to fracture, the realization that he might never escape this torment settling into his bones.

For the first time in his life, Bateman was faced with something he could not overcome. His immortality, his power—none of it mattered in the face of Hell's endless wrath. It was a cruel irony that the one man who could never be killed was now trapped in a place where even his greatest strength couldn't save him.

His body began to regenerate once again, but it was futile. The demons were relentless, their hunger insatiable. Bateman's thoughts grew muddled, and the pain of their attacks began to blur into an unending cycle of agony.

And then, through the chaos, Bateman heard a voice—low, mocking, and filled with the weight of centuries. "You thought you were untouchable, Bateman. But now you see. No one escapes Hell."

And with that final, damning sentence, Bateman's body was torn apart once more. Yet, even in the deepest pits of torment, even in the endless agony of the demons' feast, Bateman's soul refused to break. He was still alive, still healing, and still fighting—no matter how much Hell consumed him.