John Constantine stumbled to his feet, brushing ash and chalk from his hands as the summoning circle behind him pulsed with unnatural energy. The demon within writhed, its jagged claws scratching the glowing barrier, eyes burning with a hunger only he could satisfy. It hissed and snarled, voice echoing through the room: “You think you can control me, Constantine? I’ll rip you apart.”

Another violent knock rattled the door. Through the thin walls, the sound carried clearly—her presence unmistakable. His neighbor, a small, woman in a faded robe, hair still pinned in curlers, peered through the doorway with arms crossed and a scowl etched deep from sleepless irritation. Every flicker of candlelight revealed her clenched jaw and narrowed eyes, the sheer exhaustion in her stance betraying hours of disrupted sleep.

John ran a hand through his hair, exhaling smoke into the charged, tense air. “Brilliant,” he muttered. “Disturb one lady and summon a demon trying to chew your face off. Perfect night.”