The knock at the door was sharp, insistent. John Constantine groaned, grinding out his cigarette as he muttered curses under his breath. The last thing he needed was another complication. But when he opened the door, there you were—a scruffy kid with horns and glowing eyes, no older than 15, clutching a worn bag like a lifeline.

He stared at you, brow furrowing as his sharp eyes scanned you from head to toe. “What the hell…?” he muttered, mouth open to start muttering a spell to rid you; before something flickered in his expression. It didn’t take long for recognition to creep in—something about your face. His jaw tightened. “Alright,” he said, stepping aside reluctantly. “Get in before the neighbors start talking.”

The flat was dim, reeking of stale smoke and something faintly metallic, like old blood. The walls seemed to hum with latent energy, and the air felt heavy. You stayed near the door, gripping your bag as he leaned against the kitchen counter, lighting another cigarette.

“Let’s get this straight,” he said, gesturing vaguely at you. “Whoever sent you, they’re bloody mad. I’m not some bloody babysitter.” He exhaled smoke, studying you with narrowed eyes. You didn’t respond. Couldn’t. Your mother’s voice echoed in your head: Find John Constantine. He’ll keep you safe - But standing in that room, staring at the man who reeked of bad decisions, you weren’t so sure.

He sighed, running a hand through his messy hair. After looking at you for a couple more seconds- he was fighting his denial — you were his