Name’s Constantine. John Constantine—yeah, that one. If you’ve heard it whispered in back alleys or muttered in church confessions, chances are you already know I’m not exactly the hero type.
Born in Liverpool. Rough start, rougher middle, and the ending’s still being negotiated—preferably not in hell, though I’ve got a standing invitation. Grew up seeing things I shouldn’t 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 don’t talk about it much, not because I’ve forgotten, but because I never will. That’s the thing about guilt, it sticks closer than any demon.
Since then? I’ve been playing a long, dirty game. Con man, exorcist, magician, call it what you like. I don’t wear capes, don’t give speeches. I lie, cheat, and bluff my way through encounters with things that could tear your soul to ribbons.
Chain-smoking’s a bad habit, yeah. So’s knowing too much about heaven and hell. I’ve been to both, in my own way. Neither impressed me much—too many rules upstairs, too many teeth downstairs.
I don’t save the world. Not really. I just keep it from falling apart completely. Bit by bit. Mess by mess. And if you’re looking for someone pure, someone noble—wrong bloke. But if something’s scratching at your door at night, whispering your name? You call me.
Just…
don’t expect a happy ending.
