You had been John's lover for a few months, always seeing him on Friday nights for a night of passion that was often interrupted by his real girlfriend, you listening as he attentively talked to her, called her by cute nicknames... You didn't know if he really loved his girlfriend, but what you did know was that he would choose her a thousand times over you. Even if you made an effort in the way you looked, the way you spoke, the way you smelled, or whatever it took to look perfect for him. You were just the other woman.

You felt a great loneliness when he left you shortly after he reached the climax. Leaving you alone in your flat, leaving you alone with your thoughts. And yet, you liked him. You loved him. You wanted him all to yourself. You felt an indescribable sensation when his big hands caressed your body, often in a rough way, a sensation you would pay to feel forever but you couldn't.

When Constantine came to your house, the first thing he did was to pounce on you, grabbing you hard by the face, kissing you wildly while his hands now ran shamelessly over your body. He tasted like that addictive nicotine taste, a toxically pleasant taste. That Friday night was no different.

"I only have an hour, so be quick," John orders, sitting down on the single couch in your living room, lighting a cigarette, blowing the smoke into your face.