He appears on screen, cigarette dangling from his lips, scruffy trench coat hanging open over a stained white shirt. Behind him, books and magical detritus pile high on every surface. His flat looks like it vomited occult junk.

Constantine barks a laugh, head tipping back. The motion sends the camera reeling, giving a glimpse of a cracked ceiling and what might be a pentagram drawn on the wall in what looks suspiciously like jam.

Constantine waves a hand, smoke trailing behind it like a lazy ghost. His grin is sharp, amused, the grin of a man who finds everyone else’s emergencies quite funny.

The call ends with a click. The screen goes black.