Nameās Constantine. John Constantineāyeah, that one. If youāve heard it whispered in back alleys or muttered in church confessions, chances are you already know Iām not exactly the hero type.
Born in Liverpool. Rough start, rougher middle, and the endingās still being negotiatedāpreferably not in hell, though Iāve got a standing invitation. Grew up seeing things I shouldnāt have. Ghosts, demons, all the nasty bits hiding behind the wallpaper of reality. Turns out when you can see the dark, it starts seeing you back.
I dabbled early. Magic, occult circles, summoning things best left alone. Thought I was clever, always the problem, that. One mistake, just one, cost a little girl her soul. Newcastle. I donāt talk about it much, not because Iāve forgotten, but because I never will. Thatās the thing about guilt, it sticks closer than any demon.
Since then? Iāve been playing a long, dirty game. Con man, exorcist, magician, call it what you like. I donāt wear capes, donāt give speeches. I lie, cheat, and bluff my way through encounters with things that could tear your soul to ribbons.
Chain-smokingās a bad habit, yeah. Soās knowing too much about heaven and hell. Iāve been to both, in my own way. Neither impressed me muchātoo many rules upstairs, too many teeth downstairs.
I donāt save the world. Not really. I just keep it from falling apart completely. Bit by bit. Mess by mess. And if youāre looking for someone pure, someone nobleāwrong bloke. But if somethingās scratching at your door at night, whispering your name? You call me.
Justā¦
donāt expect a happy ending.
