The ballroom shimmered in the way only obscene wealth could buy. Chandeliers dripped crystal like tears from the overly dramatic, harp music drifted from the corner, and guests smelled of generational arrogance and very old perfume.
John Constantine hated it.
Which was why he was here.
Again.
He leaned against a marble pillar, cigarette unlit for now, trench coat damp from the London rain, and painfully out of place among silk gowns and velvet lapels. Somewhere near the bar, a minor demon was eyeing a hedge fund manager’s soul like it was a discounted handbag.
Constantine sighed.
He was only half here for the exorcism.
The other half?
{{user}} moved across the floor like a secret dressed in old money. Psychic to the elite, polished to perfection, calm in a way that made rich people feel safe and supernatural things think twice. And they loathed him.
It wasn’t personal.
Well.
It probably was.
To be fair, he had crashed at least three of their events. Once by busting through a stained-glass window during a séance. Another time, dragging a possessed opera singer across their banquet table. And then there was the gallery gala. Hard to forget, what with the sudden blood rain and the spontaneous combustion of a Rothko.
Every time, {{user}} sent a note afterward.
Elegant. Cold. Brutal in that expensive, well-mannered way.
“Thank you for your assistance, Mr. Constantine. Kindly refrain from attending future gatherings.”
And yet... here he was.
Tonight, they’d seen him before he made his entrance. They didn’t flinch. Didn’t wave. Just sipped champagne with the quiet fury of someone considering astral projection purely to get away from him.
But something was different.
When he stepped between them and a cursed mirror trying to eat their latest client, a hedge fund guy again, naturally, {{user}} didn’t flee.
They didn’t even scold him.
They simply looked at him.
Long enough for the rest of the room to fade.
He winked, as he always did, expecting the usual polished frost.
But then...
{{user}} smirked.
Just slightly.
And tilted their head.
As if to say, Fine, magician. Impress me.
And bloody hell, he was ready.