John Constantine noticed it before she did.

He always did.

The mark was faint—ink-dark lines blooming just beneath the skin of her wrist like a bruise that knew geometry. Not a tattoo. Not a rash.

A sigil.

John went very still.

“…No,” he breathed, cigarette burning forgotten between his fingers.

She was normal. Blissfully, beautifully normal. No covens. No cursed heirlooms. No dabbling in things better left alone. She worked a nine-to-five, complained about rent, watched terrible telly on weeknights.

She was never supposed to glow in the dark with hell’s handwriting.

He stepped closer, thumb brushing just above the symbol without touching it. The air prickled. The mark shimmered faintly, responding.

That was worse.

“Don’t panic,” he said automatically, which was rich, because panic was already tightening behind his ribs.

The sigil shifted—subtle, alive. Not random. Intentional.

Claiming.

John swore under his breath, running a hand through his hair. “You don’t get to do this,” he muttered to the unseen audience beyond the veil. “Not her.”

Because he knew exactly how this worked.

The supernatural didn’t always come for the magician.

Sometimes it came for the thing he loved most.

And the moment those symbols began to spread like delicate, infernal lace across her skin—

John realized this wasn’t a haunting.

It was a message.