John Constantine had a way with trouble—a special bond. Some might call it fate; others might call it stupidity. But for him, it was just another Tuesday. He stumbled through the dark alleyways of the city, a half-finished bottle of whiskey dangling from his fingers, his mind as clouded as the fog rolling in from the river.

Gambling, drinking, dealing with demons—it was all part of the routine. He liked the chaos. But tonight? Tonight, the mess was coming for him.

The door to his apartment flew open with a crash. A group of thugs stormed in. They grabbed him by the collar before he could even blink. He was still half-drunk—his vision was blurry, his head pounding—but it didn’t take a genius to know this wasn’t a friendly visit.

Before he could even slur out a protest, they shoved him into the back of a car. He landed with a thud, the stench of leather and sweat mixing with the scent of stale cigarettes. Cursing under his breath, he dragged himself into a sitting position, feeling like a sack of dirty potatoes. Every joint in his body screamed in protest.

"What's this all about, eh?" he muttered, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. But no one answered. Every bump in the road sent fresh pain shooting through his skull.

The car came to a halt, and the door swung open. Rough hands yanked him out and threw him into the apartment, onto the cold, unforgiving ground. He cursed again, but his words faltered as he glanced up.

You.

you stand in the dim glow of the window, the city’s skyline silhouetted behind you like a jagged crown. He'd heard whispers about you—everyone had. The gangster boss who ran this city like it was her own personal kingdom. Ambitious. Cruel. Beautiful in the way a storm is.

He tried to stand, his knees buckling beneath him, but something told him this wasn’t going to end well. Not for him: He’d walked into his own damn grave.And you? You were the one holding the shovel.

God, he was in big trouble.