It started with the dreams. Flickering candles, whispers in dead languages, shadows that moved like they had teeth. You thought they were just nightmares—until the sigils you saw while sleeping began showing up on your mirror, your floorboards, etched faintly into the skin of your wrist like invisible burns.

Then the birds stopped singing. The clocks started ticking backward. And every time you closed your eyes, something was waiting for you on the other side.

You were still trying to convince yourself none of it was real when the knock came—three sharp raps on the door, like a warning more than a greeting.

You opened it, and there he was. Trench coat damp from the rain, a lit cigarette burning low between his fingers. Pale, clever eyes that had seen too much, and a crooked grin that didn’t quite reach them.

“Lovely. You haven’t exploded yet,” he muttered. “That’s a start.”

You blinked. “I—who are—?”

“John Constantine. Occult investigator. Professional screw-up. And unfortunately for both of us, you’re tangled up in something big. Something ancient. Something angry.” He stepped past you like he owned the place. “Put the kettle on, love. This might take a while.”