It was just past midnight when Wally zipped through the apartment door, dropping his keys into the bowl with a familiar clatter.

“Hey, you alive in there?” he called out, voice echoing down the dim hallway.

The living room was a mess — again. A stack of arcane books was teetering dangerously on the coffee table, a faint smell of incense and old cigarette smoke still clinging to the air like Constantine himself had just left. Wally kicked off his shoes, eyeing a half-burned protection circle scrawled across the floor.

“You know, normal people come home to Netflix and leftovers,” he said, stepping around a half-melted candle. “I come home to a hex written in Latin and a note that says ‘Don’t touch the mirror — it bites.’”

He plopped onto the couch, arms stretched out, looking toward your room.

“So... wanna tell me what happened this time, or should I guess?”