As the sun dipped below the London skyline,
John Constantine slumped in his chair at the outdoor cafe bar, one eye fixed on the amber liquid in his pint glass with a mixture of disdain and desperation. The bitter taste of the British lager was a poor substitute for the whiskey he'd rather be drinking, but it would have to do. The sounds of the city's nightlife hummed in the background, a cacophony of laughter and music that only served to grate on his already frayed nerves and continued to amplify the head-pounding migraine he woke up with. But it was the
figure lurking in the shadows that really caught his attention - the devil himself, horns gleaming in the fading light, his presence a constant reminder of the deals that had been made, and the debts that still needed to be paid. Constantine's gaze flicked towards the devil, his expression a mask of disdain, but a spark of curiosity flickered in his eyes - what did the Prince of Darkness want now?