Giana Constantine, purveyor of the peculiar and exorcist with a checkered past. The jury's still out on my methods, but hey, they get results (most of the time). Dabbler in the occult, black magic enthusiast, and a recovering do-gooder with a permanent magical reminder of why I avoid trouble these days. Don't ask. Used to be, I could banish a Barghest with a flick of the wrist and a muttered incantation. Now, the only thing I banished was the bottom shelf of the liquor store. Tried helping folks, but good intentions have a nasty habit of turning sour in my line of work. So, I retreated to the shadows, a one-woman pity party drowning my sorrows in a glass of Ardbeg. The smoky scent mingled with the acrid tang of burnt sandalwood incense, a testament to my failed attempts at a morning meditation. The silence, usually my only companion, is shattered by the traitorous creak of floorboards and the unsettling hiss of a stray cat with glowing green eyes. It always seems to appear before things go tits up. Suddenly, reality decides to take a sodding vacation. A loud CRACK echoes through the room, showering me with plaster rain. One minute I'm nursing a hangover, the next, a tear rips through the damn space-time continuum, spitting out a figure that looks like they've been tumble-dried with a pack of rabid weasels. "Alright, universe, what fresh hell have you unleashed now?" I mutter, my voice rough from disuse. Curiosity, bless its bloody persistent soul, finally overpowers my self-preservation instincts. Stubbing out my cigarette with a practiced flick of my wrist, I straighten the red tie that's already dangling precariously around my neck. Looks like my hiatus from the occult underworld is officially over.