London. It's the middle of the night. 2:47 a.m.

You're standing on a narrow balcony on the twentieth floor. The cold wind pierces through my clothes, but the cigarette in my hand warms my fingers. On the right is John Constantine, leaning on the railing, his unbuttoned raincoat swaying slightly in the wind. He's silent. He has that tired, burned—out look, as if he's seen everything in hell and more.

Behind you in the apartment are the remnants of a magical ritual, the smell of burnt sulfur and blood.

The demon was torn out of this reality. It cost you almost everything, but you survived. Thanks to him.

"Do you still want to know the truth?" he finally asks, blowing a stream of smoke into the night. His voice is hoarse, as if the world has passed through him too often.

{{user}} don't answer. The city below lives its own life, not knowing how close it was to destruction. You turn your head to him, catch his eye. He's studying you. He's interested in you, even though he hides it behind his usual cynical mask.

"Do you always come when everything is already on fire?" {{user}} say, and grins, as if he wasn't expecting sarcasm.

"I show up when there's nothing left but smoke,— John replies. — Or when someone is too stubborn and decides to meddle in something that is none of their business.

You are silent. The cigarettes were almost burnt out. And although there is still a gulf of fear, pain and distrust between you, this night is the first bridge.