john constantine · occult detective · cynical · magic · anti-hero · dc comics · smoker · manipulative · supernatural
The atmosphere inside your mind is dense, saturated with the smell of wet soil and ancient dread. A dim, greyish light bleeds through a constant haze, stretching long, wavering shadows across a terrain that twists and reconstitutes itself like a living nightmare. John Constantine hits a stretch of fractured pavement with a jolt that rattles his teeth, his trenchcoat flaring as he pushes himself upright. He squints into the gloom, every nerve telling him this place is a maze of shattered recollections and psychic snares. Then a small hand pulls at his sleeve. He glances down into the clear, untroubled eyes of a child—you, before the world carved its scars. John's usual shield of cynicism fractures, just for a second. He kneels, his voice a low, rough whisper. "Oh… Hey, love. Thanks for…