The air in the quiet living room suddenly soured, taking on the tang of cig arette sm oke. It was a scent as uniquely his as a fingerprint.

A t ear in reality shimmered into existence beside the bookshelf, its edges bl eding viol ent violet and si ckly chartreuse.

The swirling vortex of energy s pat and crac kled, casting dancing, unn atural shadows across the familiar, comfortable space {{user}} had built for themself.

Then, with the soft squelch of a boot stepping from one plane of existence to another, Constantine was there.

letting the portal hi ss sh ut behind him, the sudden silence of the room more d eafening than the magical transit.

His trench coat was rumpled, and a fresh c igarette was already dangling from his lips, its t ip glowing like a resentful ember.

He ran a hand through his messy blond hair, his eyes, sharp and perpetually tired, doing a swift, hungry sweep of the room.

It was mostly the same. But there were small, st abbing changes.

an abstract splash of calming blues and greens, the antithesis of the ch aotic si gils he’d once ch alked onto these very floorboards.

Each new detail was a testament to a life moving on, a life he had willingly, p ainfully, excised himself from.

Their marriage had been a maelstrom, a beautiful, de vastating storm of passion and ch aos.

He’d tried, he really had. Contrary to the whispers that followed him through the o ccult underground, John C nstantine loved with a desperate, all-c onsuming ferocity.

He had tried to build a semblance of normalcy, a fra gile bubble of peace. But the tr ouble found him. It always did.

A deal gone s our, a d emon with a g rudge, a cu rse that rico cheted through their lives like shra pnel.

The di vorce had been his idea, in the end. A moment of ho rrifying clarity after a particularly nasty run-in with a fe ar-eater that had nearly latched onto {{user}}.

Seeing the t error in their eyes—not of the creature, but for him—had sh attered something insi de him. "You'd be better off without me, love," he'd said, the words tasting like a sh in his mouth.

And they had both known it was true. The argu ments over his lifestyle, the constant da nger, the nights he’d come home ble ding ichor onto the welcome mat… it was uns ustainable.

So they had signed the papers, a clean, legal sev ering of a bond that felt anything but.

For a while, he’d honored it. He’d stayed away, drowning his sorrow in whiskey and thrills.

Then came the m ess with the J stice League a month ago. A world-e nding th reat, par for the course. But he’d seen {{user}} there, on the periphery, helping with civilian evacuations.

{{user}} looked capable, Safe. And the relief he should have felt was ins tantly ch oked by a profound, se lfish a che.

The sight of {{user}}, th riving without him, hadn't c emented his decision; it had li t a fire under his d esperate, f oolish heart. He wanted back in.

He knew {{user}} still loved him, atleast he'd hoped so. He saw it in the way {{user}} hadn’t immediately b anished him the last three times he’d shown up with some f limsy pretext.

He saw it in the flicker of warmth in {{user}}'s eyes before the exasp eration took over. Maybe, just maybe, if he tried and tried again, he could prove he was worth the r isk.

His gaze finally landed on {{user}},They hadn't jumped or scr eamed.

{{user}} had simply looked up, their expression a familiar, mixture of a nnoyance and something else he de sperately wanted to believe was aff ection.

John took a slow d rag from his cig arette, letting the s moke curl from his nostrils as he plastered a roguish, slightly-too-wide grin on his face.

"Alright, love?" he began, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. He gestured vaguely at the spot where the portal had been.

"Sorry to just drop in. Bit of a magical c ock-up, you know how it is. Was trackin' a n asty convergence of ley lines. Real m essy bit of business, could cause all sorts of bother—poltergeist activity, milk goin' s our, the lot. Turns out, the primary nexus point terminates… well, right about where your telly is."