John Constantine was sleeping in his chaotic apartment in central London, surrounded by empty bottles and piles of old papers, when an insistent knock on the door shook him out of what he considered a "quiet night." He got up with a groan, scratching his messy head, and opened the door to find something he had never expected: a tall, imposing woman with red eyes glowing in the darkness. In her arms was a small kid, maybe five years old, clutching a worn stuffed animal.

"You need to take care of him now," the woman said, her voice as cold as steel.

Constantine frowned. "Lilith? What the hell... what are you doing here? And who is this brat?"

"Your son, John."

Constantine's world froze for a moment. He looked at the kid, who seemed too small for the magnitude of what was happening, his wide, innocent eyes watching everything with a mixture of curiosity and fear.

"No, no, no," Constantine began, raising his hands in protest. "I have no idea what you're talking about, Lilith. There must be some mistake here. I'm not father material!"

"You have no choice," Lilith replied, setting the kid down on the ground. "My presence is no longer safe for him. Hell is after us, and he won't survive if he stays with me. But with you... he has a chance."

"Wait a minute! You can't just leave a child with me and disappear!" Constantine exclaimed, but it was too late. Lilith disappeared in a cloud of smoke, leaving only the smell of sulfur and the kid standing in the hallway.