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Constantine pointed at the fresh blood droplets on the map and coughed hard.
"Before any of this started, a bunch of real demons had already figured out how to ignore the rules Heaven and Hell set down. They snuck out of Hell by every dirty trick in the book and made it to the human world."
"They seem to have found some way to suppress their own bloodlust and stay hidden from the Angelic Host's radar."
"This map—bought with my friend's life—marks the rough locations of most of them hiding here on Earth."
Soren nodded. He already knew the full story.
In the original timeline, Constantine only learned about "The Darkness Is Coming" after dealing with the Slit-Mouthed Woman case. Made sense he didn't know yet.
The phrase itself was only hinted at in the source material: all these supernatural incidents were connected, deliberately orchestrated, and they were throwing the balance between angels and demons completely out of whack. That was it—no deeper explanation.
The "rules" Constantine mentioned were the ancient contract God and Satan made when they started fighting over human souls.
Pure-blooded angels and demons were never allowed to show their true forms on Earth, and they definitely couldn't use divine or demonic power to steal souls outright.
They could only take human shape, blend in, and tempt or corrupt people from the shadows.
Of course, if you were a demon with actual self-control, you could sneak topside, possess some poor bastard, and enjoy a little vacation. As long as you didn't cause too much chaos, the big bosses on both sides usually looked the other way.
And if you got sloppy and some passing exorcist purified your ass? Hell wouldn't lift a finger to help you.
Problem was, most demons born in Hell didn't have self-control or higher thought. They ran purely on instinct and desire—which was exactly why Constantine was so confused.
But now these demons weren't just slipping through—they were staying hidden from angels. Someone was clearly helping them.
"So you want to investigate why these demons are coming to Earth?" Soren asked.
"Exactly. And why the barrier between Hell and the human world is falling apart."
Constantine lit a fresh cigarette. "I suspect there's a traitor on the inside feeding them intel."
"…"
Soren rubbed his temples. How the hell did investigating one Slit-Mouthed Woman turn into this apocalyptic conspiracy?
Click.
The sound of a gun being racked broke the heavy silence.
Lady, who had been sitting quietly in the corner listening the whole time, stood up. There wasn't a trace of fear on her face—only a wild, excited grin.
"Let's go blow that Slit-Mouthed bitch straight to Hell first!"
She licked her lips, eyes gleaming with bloodlust.
"As for those stowaway demons… the more the better. My gun barrels could use a good warm-up!"
…
The next day.
Lower district of Los Santos—an abandoned factory converted into makeshift housing.
On a raised platform, a muscular Black man stood shirtless under a red ritual cloak, chanting in a low, guttural language no one could understand.
Below him, a roaring bonfire lit up the night. A crowd of followers danced wildly around the flames, arms flailing, faces twisted in religious ecstasy.
With a sudden sharp command from the man on stage, the dancers fell silent and dropped into cross-legged positions facing the fire.
A Black woman was led up the steps by two attendants in white dresses. She clutched a framed photo to her chest.
She approached the man, respectfully handed over a thick stack of cash.
Papa Midnight took the money with practiced ease, riffled the edges, and nodded once it was all there. He accepted the photo and asked in a deep voice:
"Why do you wish to speak with your husband?"
The woman—Martha—stared at the picture, eyes full of guilt. "Clark had cancer. He died right there in our bed."
"I wasn't even home… I never got to say goodbye…"
Papa Midnight only half-listened. He set the photo aside, picked up a porcelain bowl filled with pig's blood, and offered it to her.
"Papa Legba, open the gate for this lost soul…"
His face grew solemn as he began the ancient chant.
Martha closed her eyes and drank the thick, metallic liquid in one gulp.
A few moments later.
Papa Midnight suddenly threw his arms wide, chest heaving as he gasped for air.
The crowd below let out a collective low moan of awe.
He slowly bent forward. His sharp eyes turned glassy and distant.
"Martha… is that you? Martha?"
His voice came out layered, like dozens of people speaking at once.
Martha's face lit up with joy. She recognized her dead husband Clark's voice immediately.
"It's me, Clark! I'm right here…"
She grabbed his arm in excitement.
"Martha, why can't I see you? It's so dark…"
Clark's voice came out broken and confused through Papa Midnight's throat.
"Nice little party you got going, Papa Midnight."
A voice suddenly cut through the emotional moment like a knife, shattering the ritual.
Papa Midnight's consciousness snapped back into his body.
He straightened up instantly, eyes blazing with fury as he glared toward the source of the voice.
"Sorry I showed up on short notice," Soren stepped out of the shadows with a polite smile. "Didn't have time to bring a proper gift. Though I can't imagine what dessert would go with that fresh bowl of pig's blood."
"Who the hell are you?" Papa Midnight growled, sensing the thick demonic aura rolling off the young man. A flash of wariness crossed his face.
"Oh, right—forgot to introduce myself." Soren gave a casual wave. "Name's Soren. Private investigator. Heard a lot about you, Papa Midnight."
"A private investigator? What the fuck are you doing on my turf, interrupting my sacred ritual?!"
Papa Midnight's expression turned ice-cold.
The kid had just ruined a very expensive transaction.
"Exactly what I said—I'm here to shut down your little out-of-control ceremony. And I'd appreciate it if you cooperated so we can end this circus nice and quick."
Soren's smile never wavered.
"Constantine—this one of yours?" Papa Midnight spotted the exorcist stepping up behind Soren and snarled, barely containing his rage. "You three together?"
"Don't get it twisted," Soren corrected, jerking a thumb at Constantine. "Actually, he's with me."
The second Papa Midnight realized these three were here to wreck his show, he didn't waste another word. He shot a quick signal to the crowd below.
The followers who had been sitting peacefully around the bonfire stood up as one and closed in from every direction, trapping the trio in the center.
Constantine raised his fists in a half-assed boxing stance. "Hey! I know a little hand-to-hand too, you know!"
"Lady sis—they're all yours," Soren said without even turning around.
"Got it."
Lady rolled her shoulders with a grin. No need to waste bullets on these regular humans.
She charged straight into the mob like a wolf into a flock of sheep. Years of fighting actual demons had turned her body into a lethal weapon. Everywhere she moved, cultists dropped like flies, clutching broken limbs and screaming in pain.
Constantine… was not so lucky.
He managed to knock down one or two guys before the sheer numbers overwhelmed him. He ended up curled on the ground, arms protecting his head while the mob stomped on him.
Who the hell is that woman?
Up on the platform, Papa Midnight's face went pale. The overwhelming sense of danger shattered his usual mysterious-guru act.
He thrust both hands above his head. Green, sickly light flared in his palms as he began rapid voodoo incantations. A cold, evil energy gathered between his fingers.
Soren's eyes flashed crimson. Demonic power exploded through his body. He left nothing but a red afterimage as he crossed the dozen meters in a single heartbeat.
Papa Midnight only saw a blur. A gust of wind ripped his red cloak off his shoulders. His pupils shrank to pinpricks.
The kid who had been on the ground floor a second ago was now standing right in front of him.
"Someone once taught me: when you hit someone, go for the mouth first."
Soren's hand shot out like lightning, clamped onto Papa Midnight's jaw, and slammed the man's head straight down into the platform floor.
BOOM!
The impact was so loud it knocked over several bowls of pig's blood. The fighting below instantly stopped.
Soren kept one hand pressed on the back of Papa Midnight's skull, pouring demonic energy into the man without holding back.
Papa Midnight felt like he was being stared down by some ancient apex predator. He could barely breathe.
"Cough—cough!"
Constantine crawled out of the pile of bodies, bruised and bloody. He straightened his hair, lit a cigarette, and smirked. "Old buddy, looks like your voodoo toys don't do shit when real violence shows up."
Soren ignored Constantine's sarcastic tone. He released his grip and put the friendly smile back on. "So, Papa… ready to cooperate now? Or do I have to kill every single one of them?"
Papa Midnight painfully pushed himself up on the platform. He looked down at his followers—most of them already groaning on the ground.
He was a smart businessman. He knew when he was beaten.
Gritting his teeth, he rasped:
"What exactly… do you want me to do?"