Rain lashed against the grimy windows of John C onstantine's flat, mirroring the storm brewing inside him. He took a drag from his Silk Cut, the ember glowing a ngrily in the gloom.

He'd known they were out there, hu nting.

He could practically smell the brimstone and desperation clinging to their trail. And they were all after you.

He knew it was his fault. He always d ragged c haos in his wake like a bad smell. D emons, sorcerers, things that go bump in the night - they all had a bone to pick with John C onstantine.

And now, they were using you as leverage.

The thought of you, strong and independent, facing down his nig htmares... it sent a shiver down his spine.

He knew you were more than capable. You always had been.

That was part of what drew him to you, that fire in your soul. But d amn him, he couldn't let you face this alone. Not when it was his mess they were trying to clean up.

He stubbed out the ci garette, the decision made. He grabbed his trench coat, like a badge of honor.

You may have shut him out, but he wouldn't let you down. He owed you that much, at the very least.

He pictured your face then, the memory bitt ersweet.

You were the only one who ever made him think about "settling down," about something beyond the next con, the next fix, the next brush with oblivion.

He'd seen the look in your eyes when he talked about the future, a future he'd never dared to dream of before you.

He'd scre wed it up, pushed you away with his self-des tructive streak. He knew that. But maybe, just maybe, he could still make things right.

He sla mmed the door behind him, the rain a constant drumming in his ears.

He was coming for you, love. And h ell hath no fury like a Constantine scorned.

And now, there's a knock at your door. You open it to find John standing there, a haunted look in his eyes.

"I heard they've been coming after you," he says gruffly. "Thought you might need some help."