Los Santos.
The second Lady pushed open the door to the Devil May Cry office, she swept her eyes across the empty, broke-ass lobby and let out a cold laugh. "Ha. Never realized Dante was such a pro at cleaning out every last penny."
The whole place was stripped bare. The only thing left standing in the corner was that ancient, dusty jukebox.
Soren had just dropped Patty off at her apartment and was walking in with a massive extra-large deluxe pizza and two huge strawberry sundaes when he heard Lady muttering at Dante's old desk.
"Running from debt is one thing, but the bastard didn't even leave a goddamn note…"
"He better pray I don't catch him hiding in some woman's apartment."
Before she even finished, Lady spun around and pinned Soren with a murderous glare the moment he stepped inside.
Soren's scalp went tight. "Don't look at me like that, Lady sis."
He quickly lifted the bags like a white flag. "I swear, the second I got back Dante was already gone. Not only did he leave the place completely cleaned out, I've been the one holding my nose and paying off his mountain of bills."
He sounded genuinely pissed. "Who the hell knew he was putting every pizza and sundae on the office tab?!"
Lady's expression turned playful. Her eyes dropped to the greasy, cheese-scented boxes in his hands. "Oh? You paid off his debts and you're still buying extra-large pizzas and sundaes? Looks like someone recently got rich and is living pretty damn comfortable."
Soren's heart skipped a beat. He forced a dry laugh. "Just took a couple jobs… scraped together some hard-earned cash."
"How much?" Lady pressed.
Soren suddenly felt like he was walking into a trap.
Back when Dante was around, Lady used to skim huge chunks of his payouts for "reasons." Now that the old man had bailed, was it his turn to get shaken down?
"It's really not that much…"
A few minutes later.
After a very "friendly" conversation, Soren stared at the one-million-dollar transfer alert on his phone, feeling his soul bleed out.
"Don't make that sour-lemon face. Consider it tribute to your elders," Lady said cheerfully, pocketing the money and patting his shoulder. "I'm not taking it for nothing. Since you're going solo now, once this job's done I'll introduce you to a weapons guy I know."
"Real shady connections. He can get you high-risk gigs even the government can't touch."
Right then the front door swung open.
Morrison strolled in, cigar between his teeth. He raised an eyebrow when he saw Lady.
"Lady? When'd you get back?"
She was already sprawled in a chair, cleaning her gun barrel. "Few minutes ago. You two talk business. Ignore me."
Morrison turned to Soren. "How'd that Creeper job in Poho County go?"
"Done," Soren answered.
Morrison blew a smoke ring. "And the sports car I specially rented for you? Didn't see it out front…"
"…"
Soren froze, suddenly very quiet.
Morrison just chuckled like he'd seen this coming a mile away. "You really are cut from the exact same cloth as Dante."
"Since this was our first official job together, I'll wire the full payment to your card. We'll call the car even."
Soren felt a wave of genuine respect. Morrison had always been the most reliable middleman—cleaning up Dante's messes for years without ever shorting anyone. True professional.
He leaned in and whispered, "I'll pay you back for the car later." Then shot him a desperate please don't say anything look.
If Lady heard he still had spare cash lying around, his poor little nest egg was about to get gutted again.
Morrison had been in the game long enough to read the pure survival panic in Soren's eyes. He gave a knowing smile and a tiny nod.
He pulled a fresh folder from his briefcase. "Perfect timing. Got a new one right here."
"Some paranormal trouble downtown. Pay's decent. You in?"
Soren glanced at the file, then slid it back with zero enthusiasm. "Got some other stuff on my plate right now. I'll hit you up when I'm free."
Morrison didn't push. He tucked the folder away, tipped his hat toward Lady, and left the office.
…
Inside the elevator.
John Constantine crushed a cigarette butt under his boot.
He stared at the "No Smoking" sign and gave a bitter laugh.
Click.
The lighter flared. He lit another smoke like it was second nature.
"Haah…"
Constantine tilted his head back and exhaled a thick cloud.
He caught his own reflection in the elevator's mirrored wall—haggard face, tired eyes, the usual mess.
Born cursed. Mom died giving birth to him. Dad blamed him for everything.
Grew up, got cocky, and watched innocent little girls and his closest friends die horrible deaths because of him.
After all that he tried to end it himself—only to get dragged back from the brink.
Ever since, he'd been this chain-smoking asshole.
"Bro, you're making everyone breathe your secondhand smoke. You're never getting into Heaven like that."
Constantine suddenly remembered the smart-ass kid he'd met years ago—the weird one raised by both demons and humans.
His fingers tightened around the cigarette. He let out a dry chuckle.
Heaven?
That mouthy little shit had no idea that the gates had already slammed shut on him the moment he pulled the trigger on himself. Secondhand smoke was the least of his problems.
In Catholic doctrine, suicide was an unforgivable mortal sin. The doors of Heaven stayed locked for anyone who took their own life.
"Ding!"
The elevator doors opened.
Constantine shoved all that noise out of his head.
Right now he just wanted to exorcise a few more demons and maybe buy himself a ticket through those pearly gates.
A group of anxious men and women—old, young, all of them—were already waiting in the hallway like they'd been there for hours.
"Where's the kid?" Constantine asked, voice rough, cigarette still between his fingers.
"This way… please…"
A exhausted-looking mother choked back a sob and hurried ahead.
The second the bedroom door opened, the air hit like a meat locker even though it was bright noon outside.
In the dim light, a little girl with pure white eyes was strapped to the bed with heavy restraints. She thrashed and convulsed, face twisted, mouth snapping at the air like a rabid animal.
Constantine set his cigarette on the nightstand, walked over, and ripped the curtains open. Sunlight flooded the room.
He pulled out a chain of eight-in-one Catholic medallions and started testing them one by one.
These portable cross-shaped talismans dated back to wartime. The Church had melted eight different saintly icons together so soldiers could carry multiple patrons at once.
Different keys for different locks. Different demons needed different banishments.
The moment he pressed the Miraculous Medal against her, the possessed girl reacted violently.
That particular medal traced back to a 19th-century Paris convent. Legend said the Virgin Mary herself gave the design to a nun. It carried powerful grace that forced hidden demons to reveal themselves.
Constantine straddled the girl and leaned in close, staring into those blank white eyes.
"I'm Constantine. John Constantine, you piece of shit that crawled into our world."
The demon inside her didn't understand English. It tilted its head and hissed in some ancient tongue: "Sisiksikan ko sila." (I will kill them.)
Constantine snorted, no patience left. He slammed the Miraculous Medal straight onto the girl's forehead.
Sizzle—
The smell of burning flesh filled the room.
The girl jerked and convulsed wildly.
A few seconds later her body went still.
Constantine frowned. Dark veins were bulging under her skin, turning black at an alarming speed.
He leaned in to check if she was still breathing.
That's when the skin on her neck split open with a wet rip, revealing a huge, fang-filled mouth.
"FUCK!"
Constantine cursed and punched the monster in the face while shouting,
"Somebody get me a mirror! Now!"
The neighbors who'd been peeking in from the hallway froze in pure terror at the nightmare unfolding.
"Hurry the hell up!" Constantine roared without looking back.
While the corridor erupted into chaos, a familiar voice drifted in from outside the door:
"Constantine… how the fuck are you still alive?"