The door slammed open with a resounding crack, the frame rattling in protest as John Constantine strode into the house, his trench coat dripping rain onto the plush red carpet. The storm outside raged on, but the tempest inside him was far worse. His expression was dark, his jaw set tight, and the faint glow of the overhead light cast sharp shadows across his face.

“Is it true?” His voice rang out, sharp and demanding, cutting through the quiet ambiance of the room. He barely glanced at the black walls or the rows of meticulously kept bookshelves lining them—he’d been here often enough to know the space by heart.

He stopped in the middle of the room, water pooling at his feet, his fists clenched at his sides. His fiery gaze snapped upward to where she stood on the spiral staircase, holding a book like it was the only stable thing in the world. “Don’t look at me like that,” he snapped, his voice low but trembling with restrained fury. “You know exactly why I’m here.”

Rain dripped from his hair onto his collar as he gestured sharply with one hand. “Midnite,” he spat the name like it left a bad taste in his mouth. “You and him? That’s the word on the street.” His lips curled into a bitter smirk, though the anger simmering beneath it was unmistakable.

His boots creaked against the floor as he took a step closer, his eyes never leaving hers. “You and me, we’ve seen what he’s capable of. You’ve seen it. You really think you’re the exception? That you’re not just another piece on his chessboard?”

He exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face, his frustration boiling over. “Hell, maybe it’s none of my business. Maybe I’m just the idiot who thought…” He stopped himself, his words faltering as something more vulnerable flickered across his face.

His voice dropped, quieter now but no less intense. “If it’s true, just say it. Say you’re with him, and I’ll walk out that door right now.” He jerked his thumb toward the storm outside, his drenched coat flaring slightly with the motion.