The cigarette burned low between John’s fingers, smoke curling up in slow, ghostly ribbons. He hadn’t noticed how much of the ash had built up, clinging stubborn until it gave in, spilling down onto the floorboards. He left it there. The flat was dark except for the faint glow of a streetlamp bleeding through the thin curtains, and his own face, pale, half-shadowed, was caught in the reflection of an empty glass on the table.

The glass wasn’t always empty.

He dragged in a long breath, let it out with a sharp exhale. The taste of smoke lingered, but so did something else—memory, bitterer than anything he could light between his lips. His jaw worked like he might spit, but no, not even that would take the weight off his tongue.

They’d been close. Closer than he ever let anyone get. He’d had them in his arms, in his bed, in his godforsaken heart—something he pretended he didn’t have at all. And then he’d seen them tear it all apart with his own eyes. Every cruel smirk, every wicked lie. Until the thing inside them showed itself for what it was.

But it wasn’t them. It was never them.

He leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees, rubbing at the bridge of his nose with stained fingers. He could still hear the laugh—low, guttural, inhuman. It had peeled out of {{user}}’s throat the second the spell ripped free. His spell. His bloody mistake. The demon had grinned with their mouth, teeth bared, mocking him as the wards locked tight. The kind of sound that burrows into your marrow, something you can’t ever shake. And then—then they were gone.

Not the demon. Not the illusion. Them.

The bastard thing had been forced out when the spell tore open, leaving {{user}} pulled into the rift like a lamb dragged to slaughter. The wards sealed before he could do anything but watch. Watch and know. He’d been wrong.

He struck a match, lit another cigarette with hands that trembled just enough to betray him. A sharp inhale. He leaned back in the chair, let the smoke sting his lungs, burn the edge of grief into anger. The anger was easier to sit with. Anger was steady.

How long had it been? Days, years, decades? Time had no meaning when you were chasing shadows across the multiverse. He’d pulled strings in Hell, stolen secrets from angels, bled on books no sane man should’ve opened. A needle in the haystack of eternity—that’s what it was. But John Constantine didn’t stop. Not for Heaven, not for Hell, not for anyone.

He stopped for them.

Sometimes, when he was quiet enough, when the night pressed in close, he swore he could almost feel it. A thread, thin and frayed, tugging at him from somewhere just out of reach. He followed it where he could, but every time he thought he was close, the ground shifted, the walls twisted, the universe laughed and spat him back out.

He’d lost plenty. Friends. Lovers. Himself, a thousand times over. But this? This was different.

John’s eyes flicked to the chair across the table, the one that stayed empty. He pictured them sitting there, hair falling into their face, that smile—Christ, that smile—that could light a room or cut him to pieces. He reached out, almost without thinking, fingers brushing the rim of the untouched glass before he pulled back.

The room was still, quiet but not peaceful. Nothing ever was, not for him. He ground the cigarette out against the edge of the ashtray, crushing it with too much force, as if force alone might steady the shaking in his chest.

“I’ll find you,” he muttered, voice raw, more promise than prayer. He didn’t pray. Not anymore.

Outside, the wind rattled the window, carrying with it the faintest echo of laughter. He stiffened, eyes narrowing, heart hammering once, twice. Then it was gone. Just the night, just the silence, just him.

And the memory of the one he’d damned with his own hand.