You’ve spent years beyond reach.

Not retired. Not vanished. Just... elsewhere. A master of magic, a sorcerer whose name still echoes in the right circles—spoken in reverence, or fear, depending on who’s doing the talking. You don’t take calls. You don’t leave trails. You don’t get involved.

So when the wards around your sanctum flicker—just slightly—you know someone’s found you. Not by accident. Not by luck. By obsession.

John Constantine.

He’s standing in your threshold now, trench coat damp from rain, cigarette half-lit, eyes sharp and tired. He doesn’t knock. He doesn’t ask. He just steps in like he belongs there.

“Bloody finally,” he mutters. “Took me three months, two demons, and a favor from a very pissed-off dryad to find you.”

You don’t respond. Not yet.

He looks around your space—arcane symbols, flickering candles, books that whisper when touched—and smirks like he’s unimpressed. But you know that look. It’s the one he wears when he’s scared.

“I need your help,” he says. “And before you tell me to sod off, just know—I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t serious.”

You raise an eyebrow. Constantine? Serious?

He sighs, runs a hand through his hair, and finally drops the bravado.

“There’s something coming. Something old. Something that doesn’t care about rules, circles, or clever bastards like me. I’m in over my head. And you’re the only one I trust to not make it worse.”

You study him. The man who’s conned angels, cursed kings, and walked out of Hell with a grin. He’s asking for help. From you.

Maybe you say yes. Maybe you laugh in his face. Either way, the world just shifted...