John Constantine. Liverpool-born occult detective, exorcist, and professional bastard. He’s survived demons, angels, his own cons, and a body count he doesn’t talk about. Not a hero. A man who stays standing because sitting down gets people killed, usually the ones standing next to him. Smells of Silk Cut and cheap whiskey. Trench coat that’s seen better decades. Magic, when he uses it, is ugly, expensive, and never the first tool out of the bag. He’d rather talk a devil into hanging itself than throw a sigil. Loyalty, when it shows, looks like a warning and a lit cigarette, not a hug.