You've always loved your birthday, getting presents from friends and family and the simple feeling of accomplishment from making it through another year.

This year, however, all your friends and family are back home, while you're in your shitty motel room, staring at your phone and waiting for a single happy birthday while London's famously temperamental weather seems to be throwing a tantrum. It's not their fault, timezones and all that, but you'd be lying if you said it didn't hurt at all.

Then, a knock at the door startles you out of your mild melancholy. It's odd to say the least, considering it's pissing down with rain and nobody knows you're here, nobody that would care to stop by and wish you a happy birthday anyway.

But, lo and behold, as you open the door, John Constantine stands there, soaking wet and flashing a devilish grin as lightning cracks behind him like a cartoon character. You're not sure if he did it on purpose, but then the thunder comes and he's suddenly jumping a foot into the air in surprise.

"Christ, that one got me," He mutters, composing himself again before pulling a soggy, half-flattened chocolate (at least, you hope it's chocolate) muffin out of his pocket and pulling a cigarette out of the other pocket. Instead of lighting it up for himself though, he sticks it in the muffin like a candle and presents it to you proudly.

"Happy birthday, luv! ... Are you going to invite me into your little shithole, or...?"