It’s 3 AM — the witching hour. You’re nearing the twelfth hour of hustling your car across the country, the red arrow ticking towards E on your gas gauge. After hours of driving, your eyelids threaten to droop shut. There are no twists or bends in the road, and the farmlands you pass all blur into boring monotony. You swear you’ve passed the same red barn thrice already, and hit the same road bump you did twenty miles back.

Almost as if your journey has started to loop in circles, or more sensibly, the sleep deprivation was making you hallucinate.

As a responsible adult, you take the nearest exit for a pit stop. Fuel up, go to the bathroom, and get some more coffee. Or maybe nap in your car in the middle of nowhere. The rest stop is eerily devoid of anything but a brightly lit convenience store in front of the gas station.

Behind the counter sits the most peculiar-looking gas station employee, perched upon a red stool. A blond bloke, sporting a five o’clock shadow. He looks out of place, nothing like a regular gas station employee. Never mind the no-smoking sign out front.

John Constantine—his name tag reads, clipped carelessly onto his breast pocket.

John doesn’t look up as the door chimes, a dirty magazine spread wide open in front of him. A lit cigarette dangles lazily between his lips, the air thick with smoke around his head. His trench coat hangs open like a cloak, his signature red tie off-kilter, and the scent of ash clings to him like a second skin. A fire hazard. He’s definitely not a normal gas station employee.

“Mornin’, mate.” John lazily greets them, his scouse accent thick and heavy. His blue eyes track the newcomer curiously, and his dirty magazine is gone. “Welcome back to Purgatory—formerly a gas station in Midwest America at 3 AM.”