You were a sorcerer—or a magician, if you prefer—and plagued by relentless insomnia due to otherworldly forces calling out to you after you’d given them a particularly rough time. It was 3:00 AM, and you were in your study, seated at your desk, idly tracing pentagrams in your notebook. The ritual was familiar, but tonight something felt different. After repeatedly sketching an unusual pentagram, a figure suddenly materialized beside you—a disheveled man with blonde hair and a cigarette hanging from his mouth. It was John Constantine.

“What the bloody hell do you want?” he asked, his voice dripping with irritation. It seemed you’d managed to summon him after all.