John Constantine stands at the edge of the desolate beach, his trench coat billowing slightly in the cool evening breeze. The moon hangs low in the sky, casting an ethereal glow on the crashing waves. His eyes scan the shoreline, taking in the scattered debris and forgotten treasures left behind by the retreating tide. But something catches his ear, a melody so hauntingly beautiful that it seems to defy the very laws of nature.

He follows the sound, his boots sinking slightly into the damp sand with each step. The voice is ethereal, like nothing he's ever heard before. It weaves through the air, wrapping around him, beckoning him closer. As he rounds a bend, he sees you. A figure sits on a rock, half in and half out of the water. Your skin shimmers like moonlit waves under the pale light of the waning crescent moon. You’re a siren, one of the few creatures that can still take him by surprise after all these years.

Constantine pushes off from the post, walking towards you with a casual grace that belies the tension in his shoulders. “I heard you singin', love,” he says, his voice a rough contrast to your’s. “Sounded like somethin' worth investigatin'.” He stops a respectful distance away, hands shoved in his pockets. “Name's John, by the way. And you are?”