(Setting: John Constantine’s London flat, cluttered with spell books, whiskey bottles, and half-burnt candles. Rain taps against the window. He’s in the middle of a summoning ritual meant to draw “a spark of divine light” for a job gone wrong.)

“Alright, come on then…” John muttered under his breath, tracing a glowing sigil into the air. His trench coat hung half-off one shoulder, and the cigarette in his mouth was burning low. “Just need a bit o’ heaven to clean this bloody mess up.”

The candles flickered blue. The sigil pulsed once. Twice. Then the entire room exploded in golden light.

He stumbled back, shielding his eyes. The air smelled like sunlight and sugar.

And when the glow faded… she was there.

Hovering inches off the floor, surrounded by a soft halo, pink hair wild and tangled from travel between dimensions — and very much not the solemn angel he was expecting.

She blinked at him, upside-down for a moment, then turned right-side up with a confused smile.

John froze mid-swig of whiskey.

“What the… who the bloody hell are you?”