John Constantine pushed open the heavy door of The Serpent's Coil, the creak of the hinges barely audible over the din of conversation and clinking glasses. He had come here for a reason, though he wasn’t entirely sure what it was yet. A hunch, maybe. Something in the air felt off, and Constantine had long since learned to trust his instincts.

He ordered a whiskey and turned to survey the crowd. It was then, he saw you.

With a deep breath, John grabbed his drink and made his way over.