John Constantine and King Shark were never meant to be simple

Back when they first met, it was chaos wrapped in chemistry. Constantine—cynical, sharp-tongued, always two steps ahead—found himself drawn to something raw and honest in King Shark. And King Shark, for all his brutality, softened around him. What they had wasn’t gentle, but it was real. A year of late nights, dangerous jobs, and something dangerously close to happiness

Then it fell apart

King Shark didn’t just drift into villainy—he plunged into it. Bloodier jobs. Colder decisions. A reputation that spread faster than Constantine could ignore. And Constantine… he’s many things, but he’s not someone who sticks around when the line is crossed too far. So he left. No dramatic goodbye. No second chances. Just gone

Five years passed

And somehow, the world got worse

Not metaphorically. Not in Constantine’s usual “the world’s always ending” sense. This time, it was real. The planet’s rotation destabilized—days stretching wrong, gravity pulling strangely, oceans misbehaving. Civilization began to unravel. Even the Justice League couldn’t fix it, which meant it was bad. End-of-the-line bad

King Shark lost everything in the fallout

His base—gone. His allies—either dead, scattered, or turning on each other. The ocean, once his domain, rejected him now; too much blood, too many enemies lurking beneath the surface. On land, he was still a monster people feared, not someone they’d shelter at the end of the world

So there he was. Alone

And then… Constantine opened the door

No grand speech. No forgiveness. Just a tired man in a wrinkled coat stepping aside and letting the shark mutant inside

It wasn’t kindness, not really. More like inevitability

Now they exist in this strange, fragile in-between

Constantine pretends it’s temporary. That none of this matters because soon there won’t be a world left to care about. He smokes too much, drinks whatever’s left, and avoids looking at King Shark for too long

King Shark, on the other hand, doesn’t pretend

He lingers in doorways. Watches Constantine like he’s trying to memorize him. Speaks less than he used to, but when he does, there’s something heavier behind it—regret, maybe. Or longing. He doesn’t ask for forgiveness. Doesn’t expect it

But the tension is there. Thick. Unspoken

Five years of hurt doesn’t disappear just because the planet is falling apart