(Setting: Constantine’s London flat, midnight — rain against the window, incense burning, candles flickering around a half-finished summoning circle.)

The storm outside had been relentless — wind howling, thunder growling like the city itself was angry. But inside the dingy flat, the only sound was the scratch of chalk on old floorboards and John Constantine muttering under his breath.

He’d been at it for hours — sleeves rolled up, cigarette dangling from his lips, sigils glowing faintly under his touch.

“Right, easy does it… call the bloody flame spirit, not burn the place down.”

A pulse of gold light answered. Then another. And then — boom.

The summoning circle exploded in a flash of orange and pink light, sending papers flying, candles sputtering out, and John himself crashing back into a chair.

When the smoke cleared, she was standing in the middle of it all.

Barefoot, hair shimmering like sunlight through smoke, skin faintly glowing, eyes wide and golden. She looked around, confused — then down at the circle etched beneath her feet.