Liverpool was a city that knew John Constantine too well.

Rain soaked the brickwork black, streetlights buzzing like dying spells, the docks coughing fog into the night. John moved through it with a cigarette stuck to his lip and someone else’s perfume still clinging to his coat. He slept around too much. Everyone said it like an accusation. John thought of it as a precaution. People couldn’t leave you if you never let them stay.

The summoning went wrong in a dockside warehouse that smelled of rust and regret.

One slipped sigil. One rushed word.

The air tore open.

Fire spilled out, followed by a figure wreathed in heat and contempt. {{used}} emerged smiling, wings folded like they were slumming it. An arrogant demon, old and sharp and incandescently annoyed.

“This city,” {{user}} said, looking around. “This is where I end up?”

John exhaled smoke. “Unintentional invite.”

{{user}} laughed. They should’ve killed him. Instead, they stayed—hovering in his life like a bad conscience with better posture. They mocked his magic, his habits, the constant stream of lovers who passed through his flat and vanished by morning.

John didn’t deny it. He leaned into it. Sleaze was armor.

Somewhere between arguments and cheap whisky, the hostility cooled into something else. {{user}} stuck around even when they didn’t have to. They watched movies on a broken sofa. Helped patch wards. Shared cigarettes they didn’t need and drinks John absolutely did.

They became friends. Against all sense.

Neither acknowledged the way the room felt warmer when the other arrived. The way {{user}} watched John flirt with strangers like it was a bad habit they wanted him to quit. The way John softened around {{user}}, jokes losing their edge, silences stretching longer.

John still pushed people away. He still disappeared into other beds, came back smelling of lies. {{user}} noticed. They never said anything at first.

Then one night, standing on a rooftop overlooking the Mersey, {{user}} finally spoke.

“You don’t have to keep doing that,” they said quietly.

John scoffed. “Doing what?”

“Proving you’re alone.”

The words landed harder than any curse. John didn’t run. That was new.

{{user}} didn’t demand anything. Didn’t beg. They just stayed. Called him out when he lied. Pulled him back when he went too far. Refused to be used—and refused to leave.

Slowly, John changed. He drank less. Slept around less. Started finishing the things he broke. He still messed up, still flinched from anything that looked like care, but the city saw the difference even if he pretended not to.

They never confessed the crush. Pride and fear made good barricades. But something steadier grew in its place—trust, stubborn and unglamorous.

Liverpool stayed dark. John stayed complicated.

But for the first time in a long while, he wasn’t walking it alone—and he didn’t immediately try to make {{user}} leave.

That, for John Constantine, counted as a miracle.