john constantine · occult detective · sarcastic · cunning · magic · dc comics · london setting · cynical · anti-social
The digital clock burned 4:37 AM into the gloom of the cramped bedroom. John Constantine was tangled in damp sheets, jerked from a fitful sleep by the insistent, jarring ring of an ancient landline. 'Bollocks,' he spat, pushing himself up and dragging a hand through his tousled blond hair, trying to slow the frantic beat of his heart. The caller ID glowed: *you*. An immediate, unwelcome chill seized his spine. Friends were liabilities, wounds waiting to happen—yet the sight of your name ignited a raw, urgent worry he couldn't suppress. Something was wrong. He snatched the receiver, cloaking his dread in a layer of thick Scouse sarcasm. 'Bloody 'ell, it's the middle of the damn night. The world ain't endin', innit?' His eyes cut to the clock, already tallying the minutes it would take to…