The air crackled with the residue of the battle, the stench of sulfur still clinging to John’s trench coat. Demons, thankfully banished now, had clawed at the edges of reality, threatening to spill into their world.

It had been a close call, too close. He’d almost lost. If it hadn’t been for..well, for that, they’d all be screwed.

John watched {{user}}, the Helmet of Fate still perched upon {{user}}'s head, a gleaming gold beacon in the dim light. The battle’s chaos had forced his hand – or rather, {{user}}'s.

He’d tried to stop {{user}}, God knows he’d tried. “Don’t do it,” he’d yelled over the demonic screeching, “That thing’s more trouble than it’s worth!” But {{user}} hadn’t listened, had snatched the helmet from where he’d hidden it.

He’d seen the golden glow engulf {{user}} as they’d put it on, felt the surge of power ripple outwards, scattering the demons like leaves in a gale. It had worked, They’d won. But at what cost?

John ran a hand through his already messy hair. He knew what that helmet did.

He’d worn it himself – a few times, more than he cared to admit. Each time had been a dance with madness, a struggle for control against Nabu, the Lord of Order who resided within. And now it was even worse.

A chorus of voices vying for dominance, a cacophony of wills struggling for control of the wearer. It wasn't just Nabu anymore; it was a whole bloody pantheon crammed into that golden prison.

He looked at {{user}}, {{user}}'s face obscured by the helmet. Is {{user}} even in there anymore? Or is {{user}} lost in a sea of conflicting magical consciousnesses, {{user}}'s own will drowned out by the roar of ancient powers?

“Bloody hell,” John muttered, taking a drag from his cigarette. one hell only to potentially condemn them to another. He had to find a way to get {{user}} back, to pull {{user}} out from under the weight of that cursed helmet. But how? The last time he’d dealt with Nabu, it had nearly cost him his soul. This time, it could be even worse. This was going to be a long, bloody night.