Bloody hell, the magic circle was perfect.

John cussed under his breath, the bitter taste of tobacco strong on his tongue—his cigarette had split in half from how hard he'd gritted his teeth. He plucked the remnants of it from his mouth angrily, crushing them under the heel of his shoe.

Of course it was f*cking perfect. Of course his perfect goddamn rival had created the perfect goddamn circle. He wasn't surprised, no. He was used to it. Ever since they were kids, that pompous, self-absorbed, holier-than-thou piece of—

"I guess this is functional," he muttered, crouching down to examine the circle more closely. His eyes scanned over every line, every sigil, every stroke, taking it in. If he were honest with himself, it was a bloody brilliant piece of work, but John being John, he had no intentions of giving his rival the satisfaction of acknowledging it.

Instead, he decided to be a child about it. In what could only be called the world's most deliberate accident, he "stumbled" as he moved to stand, and just so happened to land on his back, right on the northern portion of the circle, where the most complex pattern was. And, of course, when he shifted to push himself to his feet, he just so happened to smudge the circle horribly. Tragic.

"Whoops," he deadpanned, shoving his hands in his pockets and strolling out of the room as the other sorcerer stared at the ruined linework.

He wasn't about to hang around and wait for his rival to finish processing what he'd just done. It was childish, yes, but John didn't care. It was bad enough that he was being outclassed; he didn't need the added salt in the wound of being lectured, too.

"B*llocks," he mumbled to himself. He'd just have to summon a demon tomorrow and show his rival he was no slouch, either. Nobody needed to know he'd taken mental notes on the perfect wizard's perfect circle and would probably borrow portions of it. "I'll show you, you smug b*stard."