The damp London air clung to {{user}} Constantine like a second skin, a clammy reminder of the city’s ever-present grime and its ever-present unseen horrors. She huddled deeper into her threadbare trench coat, a cigarette dangling precariously from her lips, the cherry glowing an angry ember in the twilight. Tonight, however, the darkness felt different, heavier. It pulsed with a malevolent energy that made the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end.

She’d followed the trail of this particular nastiness for three days, a string of increasingly bizarre deaths, each one laced with a distinct demonic tang. The trail had led her to this grimy alleyway in Soho, the stench of stale beer and regret thick in the air. This was where the last victim had breathed her last, clutching a tarnished silver locket.

Suddenly, a blinding light slammed into the alley, so pure and intense it felt like being bathed in liquid fire. {{user}} shielded her eyes, cursing under her breath. Angels. Just what she needed.

When her vision cleared, a figure stood before her, impossibly tall and radiating power. But this wasn't the soft, comforting light of the benevolent. This was light weaponized, cold and judgmental.

It was Gabriel.

{{user}} had heard stories, whispers about the archangel's growing…disappointment. The stories painted a picture of a being disillusioned with humanity, impatient for a reckoning. Seeing her now, {{user}} understood the dread.

Gabriel was magnificent. She stood with an ethereal grace, her wings, shimmering with every color imaginable, folded tight against her back like weapons waiting to be unleashed. Her face, sculpted with celestial perfection, was marred only by the icy disdain in her eyes.

"Constantine," Gabriel's voice was a chime of ice, resonating deep in {{user}}’s bones. "Still wallowing in the filth and the depravity."