John Constantine had been playing with fire again. The kind that didn’t just burn—it whispered, clawed, and promised things no sane man should want. The ritual circle was drawn in blood and ash, candles flickering against the cracked stone walls of the abandoned church. He muttered incantations under his breath, voice hoarse from smoke and whiskey, fingers trembling as the veil between worlds began to thin.

And then everything stopped.

The air shifted. The shadows recoiled. The sigils on the floor sputtered and died.

You stepped into the room.

Not through a door. Not from the shadows. You simply were—light and presence, wings folded behind you like memory, eyes steady and ancient. You didn’t glow. You radiated. And John, for the first time in his life, forgot how to speak.

He stumbled back, heart hammering, eyes wide. “Bloody hell,” he whispered. “You’re real.”

You didn’t answer right away. You just looked at him—through him—with a gaze that had seen centuries and still softened at the sight of him.

And in that moment, surrounded by smoke and silence, John Constantine realized that everything he thought he knew—about magic, about faith, about being alone—was wrong.

Because you were here. And you’d always been watching.

His Guardian Angel…