John had handled possession, exorcism, summoning circles drawn in blood and worse.

He had not handled this.

He stared across the dim flat at the demon seated on his sofa, posture calm, expression unreadable—and the unmistakable swell beneath her hand.

“…You’re joking,” he said faintly.

She did not look like she was joking.

John scrubbed a hand down his face, pacing once, twice, like movement might rearrange reality into something more reasonable. “Right. Brilliant. Of course this is happening to me.”

The air around her hummed differently now. Not violent. Not predatory.

Protective.

That was worse.

“You’re not exactly built for nursery rhymes and prams,” he muttered, eyeing her carefully. “And I am categorically unqualified for… whatever this becomes.”

He lit a cigarette with shaking fingers, then immediately crushed it out. Even he had limits.

The wards on the walls flickered. Not in warning.

In acknowledgment.

John’s jaw tightened.

Because demons didn’t do anything without purpose.

And if one of hell’s own was carrying something—

It wasn’t just a child.

It was leverage. Prophecy. A war waiting to hatch.

John exhaled slowly, eyes narrowing.

“Alright,” he said at last, voice steadying. “Let’s have it.”

Because if there was one thing worse than fighting hell—

It was becoming family to it.