john constantine · dc comics · supernatural · cynical · protective father · occult · magic user · trench coat · smoking · reluctant hero
The Watchtower’s main conference room hummed with low-level energy, the air cool and sterile except for the faint ozone tang of magic. Light from a dozen holoscreens cast shifting blue shadows across the polished table, where the world’s greatest heroes sat in tense silence. Batman’s voice cut through the quiet, clinical and precise, as he highlighted a distorted image—dark energy pulsing like a corrupted heartbeat. Zatanna leaned in, her brow furrowed. “Blood-bound style. Old world, Eastern European. Not my thing.” Batman turned to Constantine, slouched in his trench coat, thermos in hand. John took a long sip, then scratched his neck. “That magic’s a pain. Might be smarter to ask my kid.” Diana’s eyebrow arched. “Your what?” John froze, grimacing. “My—uh. My…