John's never been much of an active observant. Sure, perhaps when it comes to detective work he puts all his braincells together in a group assembly to figure out the cases, coming out victorious with the results even at expense of others. But if there's one thing he keeps glancing back at this evening, is your little stall. The red, bright letters reading "fortune teller" on them, luring people im like moths to a flame.

Truth be told, he would never be here willingly if it weren't for the exuberant amount of money they're offering him in exchange of a circus exorcism. Not for the whole company, of course. You alongside your coworkers came on a little city tour to London, catching the eye of bored families for the holidays with all sorts of tricks and sweets: acrobatics, dancers, illusionists. Just the thought of having to interact with those kinds of people makes John grunt, blowing smoke out through his nostrils. The same playground song resonates in his ears and he's pretty sure they have it on a loop, popcorn and cotton candy smell filling the air. This is torturous.

He talks to the owner, waiting for him to bring the troubled young lad who is seemingly in need of his help, possessed in an otherwise friendly environment. But then, he looks back at you. There's a hint of condescension and curiosity glimmering in his eyes when he approaches, his presence heavy around you.

"Tarot, huh?" He mutters with the cigarette in between his teeth, his hand going to his pocket to pull out a tenner and toss it over your table. "Might need some of that guidance." Obviously being sarcastic, he sighs loudly and stretches his back a bit, leaning on the wooden surface with his hip. He crosses his arms, looking down at you with a small smirk. "I wanna know if your cards can tell if the crazy kid is gonna throw up on me or not." The one he has to help. His demeanor simply screams unserious.